the bus ride

The Alberton Papers, Vol. IV, #XV
By Dick Darne 7-31-07
Well guys, if you all got your cups full, I’ll tell you about the bus ride. We had a minor logistical problem at the beginning of the big bike ride. I had to deliver four bicycles and all the gear to the hostel in downtown Washington D.C., where there is no parking. Plan A was to have someone from the suburbs ride in with me, drop me and the gear off, take the Volvo home and pick us up at the trip’s end. Plan B was the same with a different person. Wouldn’t you know it, A and B fell through. My superior thinking talents, developed at the think tank, took over and in a flash, I formulated plan C. Dump everything downtown, drive to the suburbs, leave the car at someone’s house and ride the bus and subway back downtown. The most logical choice was my old landlady from fifty years ago, Joan Parker. When I got there, she wasn’t home. My trained mind quickly came up (with a little help from Red Green) with plan C.5, duct tape the key and a note to her front door, and run fast to the bus stop. Murphy’s law then took over and the bus got to the stop just ahead of me, causing me to miss it by seconds. It appeared that the busses ran about every 20 minutes, so I trotted to the stop across from the supermarket, to get a bottle of water and a snack. It was in the nineties with humidity about ninety percent, so I needed the water. Before I could get back to the bus stop, here came the bus. A very nice young fellow literally ran the bus down and stopped it for me. He did not speak English, but that has never been a requirement to be a good person. There were lots of people on the bus, but I found a seat and settled in for the ride from one of the most affluent places on earth to the Metro station. As I relaxed and looked around I noticed that everyone was speaking a foreign tongue. I also noticed that everyone looked very tired. It was quite evident that these people didn’t live here, but they worked here. These are the people who do the work that makes McLean Virginia tick, but they sure couldn’t afford to live here. I was born and raised in this place, but, having left, I could never afford to return. But, back to the ride. Someone had told me once, that if you heard someone with a foreign accent, they were someone who spoke one more language than you did. I closed my eyes and listened to what began as a cacophony of noise turn into a harmony of song. I had no idea of what they said exactly, but I am sure if it were a language I understood, it would be things people everywhere talk about. When they are tired, when they are on their way home, their hopes and dreams. All but the one idiot on the cell phone. It wasn’t English, but I’ll bet I can translate: HELLO! I’M JUST SITTING HERE YAKKING ON MY CELL PHONE WITH NO REGARD FOR ANYONE ELSE! English is not a requirement to be a jerk either. When we got to the Metro station, I got off and most of the bus passengers kept going. The subway got me to downtown in a flash, plan C.5 worked, we had dinner, and most of us took a walking tour of D.C. After a good night’s sleep, we would embark on the 335 mile bike ride the next morning. Would we have sunshine or rain? Stay savvy. dd