This is simply a long story about a short ride.
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| Ok, one picture. Just to set the stage :) |
The bus is an interesting place.
A subculture all in its own, a frozen space in time transporting its passengers to their desired location (or within a few blocks from it). Everyone strangers. People leave without saying goodbye and come on without saying hello. Most passengers sit and stare, at what I am not sure. Some look out the window, not at the streets or the people because they have seen that all before. Rather I think they are looking back into the past or at what the future may hold for them. Or perhaps they are looking no where at all, delighting in the peaceful serenity of colorful moving objects passing by.
Others sleep. How they know when to cease the siesta and get off at their stop I have yet to figure out. Nearly every one is silent, ears absorbing the excess noise from the city streets around them. The only thing circulating is the air that manages to slide in through the window that has been pushed just a few inches open.
When all the seats are taken (which is most of the time), passengers resort to leaning against the side wall opposite the midway door. It is incredible to watch the power of body and personal space take effect. Granted one´s "personal bubble" in Argentina is half the size allotted in the States, but none the less still exists in all its wonder. Last week I was in a bus at quarter to 9am (rush hour) and it appeared that at each stop people got on and no one got off. We were, to put it figuratively packed like sardines in a crushed tin box, except vertical of course. Everyone as close as possible to those around them without touching.
I looked around and took note of the milliliters of space between each dangling arm, held tightly against ones bag pressed tightly against their body. Somehow all with at least a finger on the nearest bar or hanging handle manged to stay upright as the bus driver danced in and out of the lanes, stopping and going and honking in patterns unrecognizable by even the greatest mathematician. When necessary, people leaned against the ego of the person standing closest to them.
Then I think of all the people surrounding me. While I am narrating observations and ironicities in my head, I wonder what everyone else is thinking of. Or if this is their opportunity to meditate for the day. A bumper of time between the demands of work and family. A time to breathe and think, or not think.
While I realize I am the host of the show and the star of my life, all of these people are the lead actors of their own world. Overwhelmed for a moment at the thought of all that is connected to each of us within this 40 foot long rolling world, I feel humbled. Each with our own set of goals and dreams, hopes and fears. Are they making the journey home? Are they leaving home? Do they know where they are going?
Every one paid the uno veinte o uno veinte cinco pesos to catch a ride. Every one with a final destination in mind, waiting until their stop arises so they may push the red button that reads timbre. Once the bus has made a complete stop, the doors swing inward and they walk out, all the while other passengers join us to begin their journey.
While we are all strangers, we are all traveling together. And sometimes, on rare occasions, I feel an unspoken connection to the person I´m traveling beside. We have never met, and most likely will never meet again, but for those 5 or 10 minutes I am conscious of their existence as they are mine. Careful to respect their space, not bump into them too hard and scooching a little closer if the extra inches between us is needed to make room for new passengers.
I do with this experience that which I do with many mundane encounters. Blow it up to epic proportions and apply to the grand topic of life. As many have told me before (and may be thinking right now) "I make a big deal out of little things." Really I have just come to see the little things as a way of understanding the big things.
Human nature is fascinating. I have come to realize more and more that the little things we do are programmed deep within our core and are unwavering; regardless of culture, language, style, geographic location and so on.
It is because of this that an elderly woman passed me some monedas when my pockets grew empty and my ticket was left unfully purchased for. I tried to give her the change and she politely resisted, gifting me with 15 centavos (roughly four pennies). Only later on the ride did she tell me her name was Elizabeth (the same as my grandmother) but everyone called her Betty (the same as my grandmother) and invited me to come to her home for a cup of tea one day (looks like I have found mi abuelita argentina). She had shoes of size four and a smile that inspired me to make one of my own.
It is because of this nature we all share that I felt connected to the gentleman who let everyone go on the bus before him, and then climbed aboard himself and only to advertise some lotions he had for sale. And while I could not understand everything he said, these lotions appeared to solve any wound one may have and more. When I scanned the contents of the bus I noticed that only mi Abuelita Betty and I were looking at him. Everyone else finding more comfort or entertainment elsewhere. As the salesman saw no one was interested in his cinco peso lotion, he dropped his head with a look of familiar disappointment. Looking at him look at himself I thought of what courage and strength it takes to speak to a group of people. I find deep admiration for those who rise up in front of others to share what they want to say, despite the size of the audience and theme of monologue.
Before he got off at the next stop he made the sign of the cross against his body. This took me back to the first time I was on a bus and everyone began making the holy symbol. I looked around as my heart rate increased, worried that everyone got word we were going to crash, or that someone had died or that the world was actually ending. Then I saw the church.
The bus is life. I go on and get off everyday and everyday I enter and leave a different person. Based off my experience and focus at the moment I react to my current life in a different, but always Kyria like way. There is a never wavering foundation that I stand upon created by generations of people before me and I hold the freedom to express my house any way I choose. There are tools I hold that have been passed down to me and there are blueprints of ideas gone wrong and plans gone right that are at my disposal as well. All my life, I will be building this house in the best way I see fit. But should I want to, I can tear it all down again. Or settle for a simple remodeling. While I hold the freedom to build a new structure, the foundation remains the same.
(Am I using the old foundation + house analogy because my father is a contractor? Or because of my history studying "The Father"?)
If only the bus had a radio, a surplus of gentleman salesmen or a supply of never ending grandmas, then and only then in my constant distraction, would I be able to step on and step off without thinking a second about it.
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