Space

One of the standard cultural lessons in every Spanish textbook I've ever bought is that Latin Americans and people from the United States, in general, have pretty different ideas of personal space. It's sort of true.

I'm not a touchy feely person in the first place, so the daily morning cheek kiss and hug took me a bit to get used to. Now I really like it. Maybe it doesn't sound like a big deal, but there's a difference between waving across the room at someone and actually coming over, getting close enough to touch, and taking the time to personally greet them and ask how they're doing.

However, I will never get used to the close proximity on the buses. They're FULL of people, which makes sense, but I don't like and will never like "rubbing bums with strangers," as my roommate once put it. Nobody likes it and everyone tries to give as much space as possible, but there's only so much you can do.

Since my house is toward the end of the part of the bus route where people get on the bus, my traditional entry pattern is:

1. Squeeze past the assistant who is calling out the destination of the bus in loud, singsong tones
2. Pass the bus driver who is keeping one eye on the road and one hand on the steering wheel, while using their partners to make sure no one enters the bus without paying their quetzal
3. Squeeze past the businesspeople, women with baskets, students, elderly people and mommys with babies to find a place to stand where I'm not touching too many people, look like I know how buses work, and have a sturdy place for each hand to hang on to in preparation for the ride ahead.
4. Hang on for dear life while paying attention in case I need to contort my body in some way to allow departing passengers to get past.
5. Hope the bus driver isn't driving over the edge of the road or into a dog, because I wouldn't have a clue. I can't see anything but the back of the guy next to me I'm trying not to bump into.

All in all not that much fun - one of the reasons I was really excited when a seat opened up in the first row Friday. Not only would I not have to surf my way into work, I could also we where we were going. I plopped down in glee.

Bad idea.

I had a firsthand view of the driver and his assistant. The driver, who had already reached the age where he started to shrink and shrivel, peered straight ahead. His assistant, about 20 years old, wore a baseball hat and a worried look on his face as his driver meandered along, switchiing lanes or taking up two without changing expression or checking his mirrors. The assistant performed his second most important task, (aside from making up songs about where the bus is goig to scream out at people as we passed) telling his driver what's in the right lane and when he can change lanes or make turns.

Maybe our driver and asisstant were father and son having a fight. Maybe he was hard of hearing. Maybe the driver was trying to get back at the assistant for playing some sort of practical joke on him. Whatever it was, their communication was bad. The driver swerved over into the right lane when the assistant was telling him to stop. We almost hit so many cars, no joke. The assistant yelled at him, and the driver set his face into a slightly more stonelike expression and drove on.

We almost drove off the road.

We almost hit a red car three or four times.

I was terrified.

I prefer being squished in the back of the bus, "rubbing bums" and being blissfully ignorant of my surroundings and the grave danger I am in. Needless to say, I was tremendously relieved to hop off at the bus station to make a change.

Until I sat down and found my mortal enemy smeared on my seat: Mustard.