I stepped on the bus and left my whole life behind. Showed my student i.d. card and dropped a dollar twenty-five into the change box. Proceeded down the aisle past the factory workers and kids heading to the mall, towards my favourite spot at the back of the bus: always (when available) the seat closest to the window, last row. Whether I chose the right or the left side didn’t matter at all, it was rather dependent upon availability and occasionally determined by which way the sun was shining and of course whether that suited my mood. I liked sitting in that little tucked-in corner, the final statement on a row of about three or four two-seaters lining one side — a long single row of seats facing diagonally across on the other. There was always a spot to put my feet up; this small comfort made up for the rattle and clang of the windows that shook in their frame. I don’t know whether the roads were much bumpier then, nevertheless even the smoothest of drivers couldn’t help the high-decibel clamour that accompanied every ride.

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