i went inside myself
Published at 09-09-2010 from smallredwhale | 1877 Hits | 1 comments
It was raining the night we arrived in Barcelona. The seven-hour bus-ride from Madrid had been rather uncomfortable and the smell of the bus’ interior, along with the heat, now had me nauseous. We pulled under a wavy metal awning and squeezed tightly between two other large busses. Our front tires must have hit a curb near the end of the entry because the whole vehicle jolted forward quickly, awaking all sleeping passengers and spilling a few nearby drinks. I to this day, haven’t decided on weather this “bump” was planned or not, the driver had seemed rather fed up with life and everything.
“Are we at a rest-stop?” a voice next to me inquired sleepily.
“No,” I said, without turning my head towards her.
“I’m so tired, I’m not sure that I can even stand.”
“Well, everyone else can get off first that way you can come back to life.”
I returned my finger back to its position on the window and continued drawing small circles in the condensation.
As the bus hissed and its doors swung outward all the passengers stood in unison. And although I wanted to be off the bus very badly, I wasn’t about to join in the crowded single file line. I watched as people awkwardly grabbed for their smaller bags on the overhead racks and wiggled unnaturally around each other to put their jackets on.
“What time is it?”
“About eight-fifteen.” I didn’t even check my watch.
I was certain we were the only Americans on the bus as I twisted my body and began scouring the interior. I remember making a particular point of examining the gentleman directly behind me. He was an African man in his thirties standing and waiting to join the line going out. He had on tight jeans and very new looking running shoes (the latter piece of information was extraordinarily difficult to obtain without being very obvious). He had been on his cell phone for a good majority of the seven hours we were on the bus. I remember giving him a purposeful scowl when our eyes met in attempts to correct his “bus-riding etiquette”. It didn’t seem to work at all because he began to just look down at the floor and tap his new shoes.
Finally, the last of the line passed us; two older Spanish men, both wearing similarly colored sweaters.
“Let’s go,” I demanded, and slowly she began to unravel her small body while rubbing her eyes. “Come on we need to grab your other piece of luggage.”
“Ok, ok,” she moaned and slowly and began to stretch her arms toward the ceiling while yawning. She moved into the isle and I quickly joined her and grabbed both of our small bags from the overhead rack and began walking quickly towards the exit. I was just about to say “gracias” to the driver, but abruptly decided against it when I noticed he had a cigarette already in his mouth and his arms folded tightly in apparent frustration at our “pace”.
Outside, the air was moist and despite the rain, there were motorcycles, scooters and bicycles busy on the nearby streets. All the passengers were now hovering around the outside compartment. The driver came down the steps and outside while lighting his cigarette. His face was grey and worn and his blue hat sat crooked on his head, as if he didn’t care to straighten it, or let it sit that way in subtle protest of his occupation. The eager passengers parted and he made his way to the compartment and opened it; then he retreated to a nearby bench to finish his cigarette.
The passengers all moved quickly around the now open hole in the bottom of the bus and hustled off in different directions once they had their luggage. When the last of them had retrieved their bags, I moved in for her suitcase. It had been pushed into a far corner, so I had to brace my hand on the outside of the bus and lean into the hole. I got a few fingers on it. The suitcase was very heavy for our weeklong trip, so I had to drag it to the nearby edge in order to lift it.
“What the hell did you pack in here, Dostoyevsky novels?”
“No just clothes. I can’t wear the same t-shirt, jeans, and shoes day after day like you,” she replied.
“Are we at a rest-stop?” a voice next to me inquired sleepily.
“No,” I said, without turning my head towards her.
“I’m so tired, I’m not sure that I can even stand.”
“Well, everyone else can get off first that way you can come back to life.”
I returned my finger back to its position on the window and continued drawing small circles in the condensation.
As the bus hissed and its doors swung outward all the passengers stood in unison. And although I wanted to be off the bus very badly, I wasn’t about to join in the crowded single file line. I watched as people awkwardly grabbed for their smaller bags on the overhead racks and wiggled unnaturally around each other to put their jackets on.
“What time is it?”
“About eight-fifteen.” I didn’t even check my watch.
I was certain we were the only Americans on the bus as I twisted my body and began scouring the interior. I remember making a particular point of examining the gentleman directly behind me. He was an African man in his thirties standing and waiting to join the line going out. He had on tight jeans and very new looking running shoes (the latter piece of information was extraordinarily difficult to obtain without being very obvious). He had been on his cell phone for a good majority of the seven hours we were on the bus. I remember giving him a purposeful scowl when our eyes met in attempts to correct his “bus-riding etiquette”. It didn’t seem to work at all because he began to just look down at the floor and tap his new shoes.
Finally, the last of the line passed us; two older Spanish men, both wearing similarly colored sweaters.
“Let’s go,” I demanded, and slowly she began to unravel her small body while rubbing her eyes. “Come on we need to grab your other piece of luggage.”
“Ok, ok,” she moaned and slowly and began to stretch her arms toward the ceiling while yawning. She moved into the isle and I quickly joined her and grabbed both of our small bags from the overhead rack and began walking quickly towards the exit. I was just about to say “gracias” to the driver, but abruptly decided against it when I noticed he had a cigarette already in his mouth and his arms folded tightly in apparent frustration at our “pace”.
Outside, the air was moist and despite the rain, there were motorcycles, scooters and bicycles busy on the nearby streets. All the passengers were now hovering around the outside compartment. The driver came down the steps and outside while lighting his cigarette. His face was grey and worn and his blue hat sat crooked on his head, as if he didn’t care to straighten it, or let it sit that way in subtle protest of his occupation. The eager passengers parted and he made his way to the compartment and opened it; then he retreated to a nearby bench to finish his cigarette.
The passengers all moved quickly around the now open hole in the bottom of the bus and hustled off in different directions once they had their luggage. When the last of them had retrieved their bags, I moved in for her suitcase. It had been pushed into a far corner, so I had to brace my hand on the outside of the bus and lean into the hole. I got a few fingers on it. The suitcase was very heavy for our weeklong trip, so I had to drag it to the nearby edge in order to lift it.
“What the hell did you pack in here, Dostoyevsky novels?”
“No just clothes. I can’t wear the same t-shirt, jeans, and shoes day after day like you,” she replied.
gadfly
09-07-2007 from Ilana I enjoyed reading this, what happens next?
