baBUShka

Somewhere around my Sophomore year of high school, I developed an intense craving for independence. I channeled this yearning by asking my parents if I could ride the bus. When they said no – for very logical reasons as they apply to a fourteen year old who is unusually short and has had little to no independent experience in any setting outside the mall – I used my strong moral code for good. I’d tell them “Adam’s aunt’s in town and is picking us up” (her short stay would prevent them from ever actually meeting) or “we’re just staying at Molly’s.” And promptly thereafter, I’d board the Los Angeles city bus, packed with plenty of people I’m sure my parents would have preferred me not to take company with. My friends with more lenient parents laughed at my rebellion. I’d opt for the bus even if a ride were offered to me. I had experienced oppression my whole life (no red nail polish, no bra, no PG-13 movies) and there was no way in hell I was going to let this injustice persevere.

Once I got my license and a car, my bus riding days were over…or so I thought. In Boston, I ride the T. It’s reliable, runs on a track, and I can usually find a seat. I love the subway and my parents know I’m riding it. But in Rome, subways are far and few between. Since I live in the “Eternal City,” history is layered deep into the ground. Digging gigantic tunnels through these ancient artifacts seems ridiculous, so the subway system here skirts around any and all important destinations. Hence, we have the bus system.

Here are a few ground rules:

1. Bus drivers are no different from anyone else on the road. The sheer size of the vehicle never prevents a driver from running a red light or pushing into a nonexistent lane.

2. Nobody pays for the bus. Ticket booths exist, and there is a 50-euro fine if you are found without a ticket, but Romans always take that risk.

3. There are two kinds of seats. On one side of the bus is a small row of 2 seats. On the other are a few “American seats” as I call them. A.K.A. they’re for fat people. One seat on this side is double the size of two regulars. Two people often sit in the American seat, further perpetuating the lack of personal space characteristic of most Italians.

4. You must always offer your seat to someone older than you.

4a. There are LOTS of old people.

4b. You never sit down.

If there’s one thing I’ve noticed about the buses, it’s that there is an abundance of Italian elderlies that ride it on the daily. Just yesterday, I stood next to a seated Italian man of many years. He held a handkerchief in his hand, which he used to rub fluid from is face every few moments. He mumbled something to me in Italian under his breath. I almost smiled back, until the woman sitting next to him looked displeased by his comment. My guess is “What, you’ve never ridden the bus before?” to which I should have replied, “Excuse me but I’m a veteran of the bus system and you should really wipe that stuff off your face now.” I stayed quiet. When he got up, I took his seat.

Promptly, two Italian women in their 50s, both wearing matching purple jackets boarded the bus. I gave them my American seat. They protested, but I insisted. One of the women, who looks like an exact Italian replica of my Aunt Laurie, asked me something in Italian. “Parle Inglese?” I asked. She did not, but through my broken Italian, her attempted English, and our expressive hand gestures, I realized that she was asking me for directions to Piazza Venetzia. “Doesn’t she realize I’m American?” I was flattered that Italian Aunt Laurie requested my assistance and hence did my best to assure her that she was in fact on the right bus. She said “thank you” and I said “prego.” She smiled, touched my hand, and chattered away to her purple-clad friend.

To my left, I looked down to find a small woman at about waist high. In her gigantic fur coat (she was too cute for me to get upset), she looked up at me with her big eyes and droopy nose. As the outer edges of her eyes angled down, her mouth formed a warm smile, pushing her deep wrinkles up her face. The scarf wrapped around her head sealed the deal. But before I could say “please take me home and teach me how to cook delicious Italian food,” she was gone.

I got off at my stop, and soon arrived at my University, filled with English speaking students who don’t have liquid-y faces, Laurie tendencies, or babushka scarves. You’d think I’d like it better there, but I much prefer the bus. Maybe it’s that when I’m there I feel like a local. Maybe I like old people. Or maybe I’m just a bus rider at heart. Just don’t tell Mom and Dad.