We feel virtuous when we go to the airport by public transportation. It’s good for our carbon footprint (and our pocketbook). True, it’s a three-minute walk to our bus to the subway followed by another bus to the airport. But, heck, we’re retired.
And it’s fun.
I imagine stories about other passengers. I imagine the other side of their cell phone conversations or think about where they are in their lives. I used to try to see what they were reading, but it’s harder with Kindles.
On our way to the airport last Friday, I was particularly struck by two bus passengers. A (probably) homeless man sat across from us. His shoulder-length, stringy gray hair was unwashed. His stain-covered red sweatpants drooped. They clashed with his crimson Harvard! sweatshirt. He had a crutch attached to his right arm. He didn’t meet my eyes although I was sitting directly across from him.
To his left, a young woman, probably an au pair, chatted with an adorable three-ish boy (or rather listened to his chatter). Clearly this was a kid who recently discovered how to talk and couldn’t stop. He said “Hi” to everyone who passed, and, of course, to me. I responded “Hi, what’s your name?” We immediately became fast friends. He told me he was going to “school” and when he got off, he said “Bye Judy”.
One passenger who seems to have lost his way in life. Another, with so much in front of him. Hope and despair on a short bus ride to the subway to the airport.