The Wheels on the Bus . . .

In the absence of any earth-shattering news from France this week, I've decided to write a rather mundane post about an integral part of my daily life in Lyon. At least once a day, I march up the little hill in front of the Bardel's house to wait for the number 19 bus, which carries me to the center of the city every morning. Being the people-watcher that I am, the number 19 has become to me a fascinating microcosm of Lyon. I have a favorite seat halfway to the back beside one of the exit doors, from which I can clearly watch everyone getting on and off the bus for the 20 minutes that I spend riding from home to the metro.

Some of my favorite people to watch are the French teenagers, who all seem to have mastered a tortured and misunderstood aura. Clothes that drape and hang in such a way as to make the bodies under them look completely emaciated are a la mode for the girls, and I think every last one of the girls I see on the number 19 owns a leather jacket with a coordinating Burberry scarf. Nothing says I'm angry, but still wealthy and aware of class like a nice scarf thrown over a distressed leather coat, which only half conceals the long drapey shirt worn over skinny jeans that disappear into distressed mid-calf boots. The fact that most of them smoke only adds to the entire look; I would swear that some of the girls who sit puffing away at the bus stops can't be more than seventeen years old, but all stare off into the distance and take long drags off of cigarettes before crushing the smoldering filter under their incredibly fashionable boots.

The number 19 also boasts a very large contingency of older women who carry the air of France from years gone by. I rarely see any of them in pants, and though not all walk with the greatest of ease, most wear some sort of dress shoe. One woman who is particularly amusing to me wears an immense amount of makeup and never a smile. She often sits across from the aforementioned teenagers and eyes them with complete disgust, as if she can't believe what her beloved France is becoming. That's what I like to imagine, anyway.

There are a lot of characters that I won't fully explain here. There is the man who dresses very nicely and always stands without holding on to any support while he reads gigantic novels on the moving bus. There is the woman with the high collared blouses and broaches who sits across from me every Sunday on the way to church. There is the man and his friend who speak in sign language. There is the very thin woman with the pointed nose and the brown crocodile bag who gets very agitated when other people brush against her. There is the woman who is incapable of controlling her 3 year old identical twin boys.

There are of course the people who I try to avoid: some don't smell very nice, and one boy in particular really bothers me because he always eats candy on the bus and throws the trash on the ground. I just want to shake him and tell him that he just can't do whatever he pleases with his trash, because it's unpleasant for everyone else to ride on a dirty bus. Since he probably wouldn't understand my accented French, though, I just ignore him and sit far away when I spot him on the 19.

No summary of life on the bus would be complete without a brief description of my favorite driver. The man knows how to have a good time driving the bus. Not to be held back by silly things like strict timetables or the fact that some people have to stand on the bus, he barrels around corners and through the streets of Lyon at top speed, jostling all the passengers around. While most drivers keep the radio on at a very low volume, this particular man has on several occasions turned up the volume to full blast and started to SING loudly to what I assume are his favorite songs. I have noted that the fact that he obviously doesn't speak English doesn't stop him from at least trying to make the same sounds as Colby Caillat. On one memorable evening, he had the soccer game on and was yelling some choice words at what I assume were bad plays by the beloved Lyonnais soccer team.

So that's them: the regulars of the number 19. Hardly anyone speaks to each other, and I wonder sometimes how many years they have all passed riding the same bus line. I wonder if they watch each other and remark changes in appearance or habit. I wonder if they have noticed that I have invaded their small world for a semester. I would tend to think they have, since I sometimes don't get around to putting my makeup on before I have to catch the bus, and I then sit with my makeup bag open in my lap trying to draw an even line under my eyelid on the sometimes very rocky ride to the metro station. Leaving the house before one is fully made up is decidedly atypical in France, and I feel like quite a few people watch me as I use the 20 minutes on the 19 to finish putting myself together.