The ride to yoga takes about an hour. It's less than 30 minutes to my downtown stop, and then another 15 or less to the end of that street. The problem is, the bus stop is home to many different lines. Often, it's so crowded, that the bus I want just passes by (there's no room to pull over and get passengers). This conveniently saves the driver a few cherished minutes. It sends me into a slight panic, but I always seem to arrive at 6:45 (class begins at 7).
The Canal Tres (Channel Three) bus that I ride to school is the same bus I take downtown before my transfer. I have gotten accustomed to its route and consequently the drivers. I don't know upon seeing them how they drive, but within the first ten seconds of the drive I remember quite clearly.
Some drivers (actually most) are in a big hurry when they get to the stop (any stop). The careless ones make sure only that the last passenger's foot is off the ground before continuing the drive. Some of them seemed determined to send their passengers to the ER for dislocated heads.
So, Tuesday night, the driver was one of those in a hurry. I board the bus armed with my iPod clipped to my pants, yoga clothes on, a beach towel, and a 1.5 liter cold and sweaty bottle of water (think tall and skinny-kind of awkward). I can tell he's going to try to knock me down. How intent he was, though, I had no idea. I hand him my 10 pesos and try to balance as we lurch forward, waiting for my change. I'm also scouting out the seating situation. I'm going to have to make it 2/3 of the way to the back before there is a seat. I can do this. I get my change and start the walk. I pass two rows when we apparently reach the next bus stop. He slammed on his brakes so hard, that I was flung all the way to the dashboard! It's not quite a bad as it sounds, since there's a bench-like area on the dash. And I felt it coming. The problem with momentum, though (as Dr. J taught me at VAMPY) is that there is just nothing you can do about it!
I laughed it off, made faces at the other passengers, and found a seat. Before he took off for the next stop. I don't know why they choose to go so fast when they're going to have to stop in 30 more yards. But that's their job, not mine.
Alas, I arrive, in one piece to yoga. I'm pumped and ready (and in a cute outfit- I only have two cute ones with me). I walk into the garden area and the door to the studio is still locked. I join the lady who is on the bench and we engage in conversation about the door's being locked and what to expect in class. This is her first class. After about two minutes of exchange and at least one "¿Mande?" she asks where I'm from. I tell her the US, but she's already begun her next sentence. "Argentina? Are you from Argentina? I have friends from there and you sound like them." She must've been off her rocker. I've never been to Argentina, nor have I studied under a teacher from there. I guess my accent was decent (you'll notice I don't use the word good) enough to be legit, just not from Mexico. I'll still take it.
On another note, I got a ride home from someone who may or may not be a drug dealer. He had a LOT of money. And Maribel says not to trust them. I did not feel in harm at all, and he offered a ride anytime I needed one. I'll keep you posted.
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