Bus Stop Encounter

“I’ve been waiting for 40 minutes already.”

“Well, the app says it will be here in three minutes.”

“Might as well wait another three then,” I shrugged.

“What are you reading?”

I handed the woman sitting next to me at the bus station the book I had just picked up from the library, Daily Rituals, and explained to her that it was about different artists and their daily routines in creating their craft.

“Which one stood out to you?”

“Jane Austen because she lives in a busy household with all her family, yet she’s able to write,” I answered. “They have this creaky door she won’t get fixed because it alarms her every time someone enters.”

The three minutes came and went, and the clouds were turning into a soft pink.

“Are you a writer or an artist?”

Pleased to be considered either one of these, I replied, “I’m trying to be a writer. A travel writer.”

Margo, whose name I only learned when we said goodbye, had worked for a travel company for 20 years. When she told me this, I had a feeling it wasn’t chance that we were meeting.

“If someone handed you a ticket, where are the three places you’d go?”

“Colombia, Turkey…and Slovenia. I’ve always been curious about Eastern Europe. How about you?”

“Ethiopia, Easter Island, and Korea,” Margo replied without a moment of hesitation. “I’m going to Korea next year to stay in a temple for a few weeks.”

I had lived in China for eight years and never made the hop over to Korea. I’d also heard plenty about temple stays in Nepal, Thailand and other Asian countries, but never knew it was an option in Korea.

“There are a lot of food shows now that show food in Korean monasteries,” Margo explained to me. Her daughter was moving to Korea for a two year assignment for the US army and they were meeting up there.

Our conversation carried on as we were squeezed further into the vehicle by other folks who had the patience to wait for the bus.

“What do you write about? China? All over the place?”

“I write about everywhere I go. Next I’m going to Colombia to learn Spanish.”

“The reason I’m late tonight is because I’m taking Spanish classes at the adult ed center,” Margo said coolly, as if these coincidences were normal. “And my teacher, she’s from Colombia.”

She pronounced the o’s in Colombia like a native Spanish speaker. “But I don’t know her name because she talks at us and I don’t understand.”

“Immersive…” is all I could mutter because now I was thoroughly convinced meeting Margo was not just a coincidence. It was a sign.

Meanwhile, outside, the clouds turned a hot pink.

“Wow,” I exclaimed. “Look at those clouds. That’s something I missed while living in Beijing. The sky is so big here and the sunsets are beautiful.”

“Well they’re just particles. It happens when there’s smog in the air.”

“We had plenty of smog in Beijing but didn’t have these pink clouds…”

As our bus made its way up Massachusetts Avenue, becoming ever more crowded, Margo told me about one of her favorite travel writers, Paul Theroux. She loved his cynicism and negative attitude, as if he hated everywhere he traveled to. He once wrote about traveling through China and how while journeying through Hong Kong, he’d wished people would stop spitting in public places.

“Oh, people do that, too, in the mainland. But I have never had to wait forty minutes for a bus. They come every…”

She cut me off. “There you go! A travel story! Write about that! About an encounter you had waiting for the bus.”

By the time I reached my stop, the pinks had faded into a deep purple. I walked the rest of the way home with a smile on my face.

I had a story to tell.

I originally scribbled down this conversation with Margo on July 2nd, 2019 as soon as I got in the door, still bubbly from the encounter. Those 40 minutes of waiting for the darned bus in Harvard Square were not in vain!