America on the bus

I miss trenitalia. Even if the regionale was a bit sporco and the intercity faceva schifo, it was cheap and it enabled me to get to all kinds of places quickly. The NJ transit trains are expensive and I don't even know where they stop, so I took the bus back from NYC instead.

First of all, the port authority on 42nd street is dead creepy. Don't go there if you can help it. It makes the area around the train station in Reggio look positively charming.

Nonetheless, I plant myself in line for the bus back to Bridgewater and try not to touch anything. The Asian woman in front of me turns around.

"These kids are saving a place in line for someone," she says, gesturing at three (Spanish-speaking) children standing in front of her.

I nod politely, failing to see how that affects me.

"Personally, I don't think it's fair," she continues in an irate tone of voice. Oh, great. One of these. She is just getting started, though. "I mean, it's nice enough that we let them into the country to begin with, and then they have to go breaking the rules. I have to wait in line, so why shouldn't she?" she wraps it up by thrusting her chin in the direction of a woman seated on a bench near the line. The woman is visibly pregnant. At a guess, I'd say eight months.

Clearly, the lady in front of me is an idiot. And, anyway, hasn't she heard? America is a melting pot. Or, actually, I think it's supposed to be a tossed salad or something, these days. It was a melting pot when I was a kid, though.

Eventually, we board the bus. I huddle into the seat against the cold. Probably I will have hypothermia by the time we get there - my toes are already numb by the time we reach the Lincoln tunnel. I start listening to the conversation of the guy behind me to distract myself, but this turns out to be a mistake because he is obviously a college student, his girlfriend (to whom he is presumably talking) seems to possess about as much intelligence as a teaspoon, and, after a brief anecdote about how he woke up on someone's couch in a puddle of vomit this weekend (lovely, and definitely the kind of story I would tell my girlfriend, if I were a man), their conversation is centered around some drama involving the room the girlfriend is renting this year. It seems that she was promised one room, but she hasn't signed the lease yet, and now they are trying to put her into another room instead. The boyfriend is urging her to call the landlord to check that she is getting the room she wants, but for some reason she does not agree with this solution.

"But, baby, you're getting over stressed about it. All you have to do, baby, is call the guy. Here. Baby, get a pen. Write this down..." he begins to dictate a potential conversation with the landlord. I don't fully understand why this is necessary (it is not a complex situation) but whatever. Forty-five minutes later, though, they are still on the same topic of conversation, he appears to be arguing himself in circles, the girl is apparently crying, and I am beginning to be annoyed. They both need to get some perspective. There are people starving in China. Or somewhere.

He gets off at Scotch Plains, approximately three seconds before I was planning to turn around, grab the phone and yell "for the love of god, "baby", get a grip and call your damn landlord before I smack your boyfriend here.' I am torn: on one hand, it is bliss not to be party to their inane conversation anymore, but on the other hand, I am (very vaguely) curious about whether or not she would have eventually grown a spine and called the landlord, script in hand. There's another one who's going to do well with real life.

I revel in the silence for approximately three seconds before the Latino kids from before start shrieking joyfully. I love kids. And I love the melting soup/garden salad/whatever food-related image we use for diversity now. And clearly pregnant people are tired and have lots on their mind. But also it would be nice if they taught their children that there are times and places in which it is inappropriate to shriek. Public buses circa 11pm are one of them.

A alcohol-smelling guy gets on in Parsippany. I note that places in America have weird names. (Think about it. Parsippany. I cannot figure out the origin of that.) I wiggle my toes experimentally. They're not blue yet, so that's nice. Next time I will bring socks. Or suck it up and deal with driving in Manhattan. Maybe. I am not a very good driver.

At the next stop, two guys in ridiculously baggy clothes get off (good to know that fad is still going strong). One is listening to his i-pod, ear thingies lodged deep within his ear. I can make out the actual words of the rap song to which he is listening, which is not a good sign for his continued ability to hear properly. I idly picture the little sensory cells in his ear canal and wince.

Eventually, it occurs to me that I am as snobby as the Asian woman from the line. I would say that at least I don't go around voicing my condescension, but here I am. And I even had to look up how to spell 'condescension'. Sigh...