As we passed Aloha Street I wondered about the origin of the street name. Perhaps there is some historical tie to the Hawaiian word. Or maybe it seemed a creative alternative to “A” street. I would prefer to think that the city planner assigned to this particular area stopped to think of a name that would inspire sunshine and warmth in the midst of the constant gray drizzle. If this indeed was the case, I applaud him for his efforts. In any case, I closed my eyes and imagined being on the Hawaiian sand with the heat on my skin and the sound of waves in my ears. The bus driver’s erratic braking interrupted this perfect daydream, jolting me back to reality.
Choosing one’s seat on the bus is really quite simple. Firstly, a young, able-bodied person such as myself must avoid the front seats, as they are reserved for the disabled and elderly. Secondly, one must assess whether or not the bus has an accordion-like section between the front and back. If so, one should avoid this particular area unless you relish spinning from side to side with each turn. If you should find yourself so unlucky as to have no seat available to you, I would suggest holding on with both hands. Now I don’t mean to disrespect city transit drivers—they are doing a great public service. However, my bus riding experiences have gleaned the simple fact that these transit workers take a very forthright approach to driving. The city is a no-nonsense kind of place and its drivers must be as such. I have traveled at the mercy of these drivers without harm thus far, but I cannot say that it has been without fear.
I have also come to learn new things about myself as a result of riding the bus, chief among these-- my fear of germs. Taking my own advice, I hold onto the handrails when standing. I find myself, however, consumed by thoughts of all the hands that have held them before me and in turn, where those hands have been. I begin to wonder how often the city buses and trains are cleaned and how thoroughly. And even if this cleaning is a regular occurrence, how many hundreds of people travel in them on a daily basis? The sheer volume of travelers seems to make any sanitation attempt useless. I have also learned (involuntarily) that I appear very unhappy to those around me. On one particular occasion, a man said that I should smile more since I was such a pretty girl. He then proceeded to tell me about his seven daughters and how pretty they were. He explained that he didn’t understand how they were so pretty and smart, and that the eldest was studying subjects in college that he didn’t even understand. I too found it difficult to understand how this man could have such pretty daughters—his round belly and scraggly beard hardly produced a vision of beauty. On a second occasion, a boy of 18 or 19 pointed out that I looked very angry. I cracked an awkward smile and shrugged. He then proceeded to explain how his younger sister, who was a Skinhead, had been jumped by a gang of boys, at which point he was forced to jump in. Consequently, he too was beat up. He asked where I was from, if I did drugs or drank alcohol and then told me another irrelevant story. You may have noticed by now that along with having an “unhappy” countenance, I also express my interest in the lives of complete strangers by sitting silently on the bus.
By this time we had almost reached the underground terminal downtown. Despite my occasional annoyance with other passengers, I began to wonder about them. The body filling each seat represented a unique set of likes and dislikes; fears and joys, a past and a future. Where would they go after getting off the bus? I wondered if they thought about the germs on the handrails, or felt annoyed when strange men told them to smile more. I wondered if they minded taking the bus, or if they had even given it a second thought. I hoped they wouldn’t mind my wondering about them, and I wondered if they might wonder about me too.
