Is there a certain point when the excitement of being in a new place turns into a mundane routine? When once exotic sights, sounds, and smells become familiar and prosaic? When does the magic of traveling settle itself down into simply living abroad?
Each person who has lived abroad or moved to a new place will have their own landmark event. For me, here in Saint Joseph of the Fields, I suppose I started feeling less like a visitor and more like a local when I got my bus pass. Looking back, it was also probably my Charlie Card that marked my transition from suburbanite to true Bostonian.
I've been regularly riding metros since I was in college, first in Washington, D.C., and then in Boston, where I lived most of my adult life. There is something almost other-worldly about a metro train as it comes howling to a halt with just enough solemnity and decorum to remind you of the importance of your destination. But when a one-time adventure becomes a daily commute, the train's faux stateliness chips away, revealing its true vexatious nature. There comes a point when you realize you are no longer being whisked away in an underground chariot to do business in the capitol city. Instead, you find yourself breathing stale air, stuck inside a lightless tunnel during an inexplicable delay, among the hordes of other caged animals.
Commuting on the Boston T every day for about seven years made me realize how dehumanizing city life can sometimes be. It was the same game every day. I knew exactly where to stand at North Quincy Station so that, as soon as the doors swooshed open, I could jump into just the right unseen spot among the wall of bodies. I twisted and turned more than I did at a hot night salsa dancing at Havana Club, in order to get my bag and sometimes a guitar to fit among a moving throng of thick winter coats and grumpy, coffee-deprived faces. I knew how to stand so I could keep my stuff secure and mostly out of people's way, clinging onto a handlebar for dear life . On really good days, I was lucky enough to stand in front of a student who would get off at JFK UMass and leave me their highly-coveted seat. I even managed to use the commute to teach myself the Arabic alphabet on my phone, mostly standing, re-positioning myself at every stop like a Tetris block, twirling around moving bodies, boxing myself into a slightly more tolerable place each time.
The Red Line, with its constant delays, breakdowns, shuttle bus reroutings (the place to observe Bostonians at their worst), even the occasional fire or bomb threat, started to make me wonder if there really is something unlucky about the color red--just like those extra red-shirt guys in Star Trek who always got killed. And yet, on rare occasions, commutes along this line brought about unlikely, yet refreshing connections with other humans. Most of these meaningful interactions wouldn't have happened in the same way outside the tunnels of the train.. Among these was the chance encounter at Downtown Crossing that I had with a student who would later become my husband. (Although, come to think of it, that was on the Orange Line...)
São José's population is surprisingly bigger than that of Boston's, having grown in recent years. (696,000 vs. an estimated 667,000, respectively). Naturally, both cities are vastly different, on many fronts. And São Paulo, about an hour south of us, (with 12 million inhabitants) is a completely different world altogether. The smell and sounds of the bustling São Paulo metro, the handful of times I've ridden it, immediately snap me back into serious city mode--something that isn't my daily reality in the fields where Saint Joseph dwells. São Paulo's metro map, with train lines in multiple hues (including coral, emerald, and lilac) looks like a bunch of colorful straws thrown on the ground--like the game where you have to pick up a jumble of sticks one at a time. I have yet to fully navigate that system, but I know that my past adventures have prepared me for it.
Here in São José, we have no metro, but, instead, a pretty decent bus system. After moving here, it only took me a few minor delays and detours to figure out which buses go where and to learn that I have to point to the road to respectfully signal for the driver to stop. Overall, São José far surpasses other neighboring cities in terms of the quality and regularity of buses. Even so, if I miss a bus, it's usually at least a 20 minute wait for the next one.
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| I pass this neighborhood every day. I used to make an effort to take in the view of the Neponset River leaving North Quincy. Now I contemplate the mountains and the anthills in this stretch of land. |
Before I started working, I remember one of my first experiences on a morning rush-hour bus. I had recently decided to get myself to yoga classes on my own, because the friend who picked me up was often late. As the bus rolled to a stop and the doors flung themselves open, I looked in dismay at the wall of colorful commuters crammed all the way up to the windshield. Images of angry Bostonians stuffed into a red line car on bitterly cold winter mornings flashed into my mind. I remember sometimes three similarly packed trains passing at North Quincy before I was able to desperately shove myself into a tiny space between arms and legs and gritted teeth that were swearing up a snowstorm. I was sure there was no chance of me, my gym bag, and my yoga mat all getting on that bus.
But, this blue Brazilian bus was a completely different reality. To my astonishment, the people closest to the door smiled and motioned for me to join them, and then twisted themselves into awkward positions that allowed for me to squeeze in. The bus driver, not seeming to care too much about safety issues, closed the doors, which then provided back-up support for a number of folks, including myself. We then rolled away across a bridge overpassing the highway. My fellow commuters and I bent ourselves like gummy toys or maybe like one big elastic mass, bending and flexing into the bridge's sharp curve and bouncing along with its jolting beginning and ending bumps.
Now I know the drill by heart. I also know that about half the bus gets off at the high school three stops away, and I can actually get a seat after. I am now one of those oddly cheerful morning commuters, smiling and making miraculous room for one or two or three more, getting an early start on my yoga stretches.
People are remarkably polite on the buses here, which is quite different from what I was used to. They always say, com licença--"excuse me," or "with permission"--when taking a seat next to me. Young people will often, but not always, give up their seats to older people. People with disabilities get on and off the bus with relative ease. Sometimes when I'm standing, a person sitting near me will offer to hold my bag in their lap. That was a strange offer for me at first. As a rule, I don't trust people, but there's not really anywhere a seated person could go with a heavy bag on their lap. And so, I have occasionally given over brief custody of my school books or gym clothes for a few bus stops.
My biggest culture shock, though, happened just after I had started teaching here. I must have been wearing the chilly face of a hardened Bostonian, bracing myself for a grinding commute, while trying to blend in with the locals. I signaled for the bus to stop, bus pass in hand, climbed on, and, to my utter shock, the bus driver said, "Good afternoon!" I don't remember any such greeting between MBTA officials and commuters ever happening in Boston. I do remember getting yelled at plenty of times, though. I remember moving as fast as possible onto a train or bus so as not to annoy the people behind me. And no Bostonian I knew would ever have the audacity to look a stranger in the eye and greet them--morning, afternoon, or evening. Things are different here. I think I like it.
Public buses here also serve as transportation for secondary school students, and it's always interesting to observe high school kids interacting. It's also always a relief when they get off at their stop and take their noise with them. Even so, I'm much more at ease with the multifaceted cacophony of a crowded bus in São José dos Campos that I was with the real-life American soap operas that played themselves out on the Boston T. I occasionally left one car and got on another just to get away from an uncomfortable situation. Thankfully that hasn't been the case here. Unlike in Boston, I have yet to encounter drunk and rowdy sports fans (they exist for sure, but not on the buses here), a would-be opera singer who can't stop practicing, or a dude claiming to be Jesus early on a Saturday morning. I do have to keep an eye out for theft, but I also have a general sense that my fellow Joseenses are watching out for one another. In Boston, I only felt that same strong sense of community right after the Marathon Bombing in 2013. People took extra steps to reach out and care for their neighbor then.
Culture works its way into every part of life, even transportation. What have you noticed during your commutes in different places? How do you reclaim your commute?
I sometimes sketch or grade papers while I wait for the bus, but on the 30-40 minute bus rides, I avoid reading because the twists and turns make me dizzy. Instead I engage with my surroundings through mindful observation, or I temporarily escape them with the help of my imagination or a podcast. Other than the occasional chatty old person (which is sweet) or groups of raucous teenagers (which are entertaining), I'm almost always left in peace to listen to my podcasts or gaze upwards at the South American foliage as I roll along my way.
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