A Like Letter

Dear Municipal Bus of Porto Alegre,

Have I told you that I've grown to like you of late? It's not quite love, but it's definitely like. I'm sure you didn't notice, but in the beginning you really intimidated me. I knew you'd take me for a ride and I wasn't certain that I'd like that ride. I was especially nervous about where it would leave me. I guess I've still got some control issues going on, you know. I'm not always so good at enjoying the journey because I keep thinking, "If I don't know what it looks like where I'm going, how on earth will I know when I get there?" It's hard to let go and just enjoy the ride.

And I guess that it's it really. We've spent so much time together by this point, at least a couple times a day, that I've grown more accustomed to you. I've been able to let down my guard a little. I actually enjoy standing there on brisk weekday mornings, carrying a heavy bag over my shoulder, waiting for you to arrive, wearing my glasses, of course, so that I can actually see you when you do arrive and flag you down so that you'll stop for me.

Of course I've already got my fare ready, waiting patiently in the side pocket of my bag or in my jeans. I know in advance to hold onto something so I don't fall when the bus driver takes off with a jolt while I'm waiting to pay the clerk located further inside. I know to hold my bag up so I can squeeze through the turnstile without feeling like a puzzle piece that doesn't fit.

Then I must squeeze through people in search of a seat, preferably close to the exit so it'll be quicker to get off later. Sometimes I have to stand and hold on to something and try prevent my body from swaying too much with the rhythm of the bus. If I let go, I'll fall into people and chairs. It feels like I'm pretending to surf. But if I can manage to snag a seat, I will.

Then I just get to watch and be. I don't read. I don't take photos obsessively with my camera. I don't even glance at my wristwatch that much. I'm just there and I realize that you give me this wonderful period of time just to meditate, space out, watch, exist. I look at the different people on the bus and hear them chatting and hear the music coming from teenagers' cell phones, but I'm not really listening. It's all part of the noise of the bus combined with rattles and squeaks, doors opening and doors closing. I watch the streets flow past, the numbers on buildings, words on stores, tagging and graffiti on every available space, people and colors. And I enjoy that everything looks interesting to me. Even if I've watched it through your windows a million times before, there's always something new to see.

Eventually, even if I've never been there before, I begin to realize that my stop is getting close. I begin to prepare and think about getting off. If I've asked the clerk to advise me when I get to a certain location, I start looking towards him (rarely her). He'll make eye contact with me and nod or sometimes give me a thumbs up. And I'll know it's time to get out of my seat, to squeeze through the crowd to the exit. This is really comforting to me.

I like anticipating the stop, waiting for the doors to open slowly. I like that freeing feeling of jumping out onto the pavement of the bus stop and then having to orient myself. I feel like I've just accomplished something, been somewhere, stilled my mind. I also feel good just to be on my feet, walking again.

And so Bus, this is my like letter to you. I still like you even though I wish you were more affordable for all the citizens of your city. I do also wish that one of your drivers, after picking me up from a bus stop in a part of town that I didn't know and seeing that I didn't really know where I was, hadn't tried to pick me up (ummm, not cool). But, I get it, no one's perfect and there's always room for improvement. I can honestly say that you are the first municipal bus that I have ever felt this comfortable with, that I have ever grown to enjoy this much. And for that I say thank you.

Sincerely,
Libélula Azul