Texture.

On my most recent return to sunny Tampa I elected to bus it home from the airport.

Featured musical guest Patrick Park played purposefully in the my ears, while a regular ensemble cast of characters moved on and off the otherwise always rolling stage. The hot sun, never pausing to let me forget its presense, made submissives of us all. Relentless as it was, the day was bright, and cheery as it was hot. Pebble in the stream of public of transportation that I am, I took the first bus to pull into the airport. In my mind, moving was moving forward, regardless of direction. There is an awful lot to see when you are not driving, and the city bustled as it hussled, collectively unaware or at least perpetually pre-occupied. I thought it worthy of my time to attempt to make up for this widespread oversight, especially as so little else occupied my time. Besides, I was lost.

The bus I was on got to the end of it's route, so I got off. I asked for help. Help in getting back on track. Help in picking the best route. People were eager to help, to show their street smarts, to anchor my pebble nature, and to bask in one small victory for community against the excessive individuality of warring SUV's. After much discussion, a little bit of showmenship, a pinch of dealing on the side, and just a... just a... a morsel of indignation, a route was devised. My ignorance, only slightly embellished as it was, sure as hell gave 'em something to talk about.

On my way now, moving briskly and bumping along, many people got on, and many people got off. Some that got off said goodbye, some did not. The time to switch buses upon me, I thanked no one in particular for the help and no one in particular said it was no problem, happy to help. I walked with both hands tighly fisting my two bags to the where Bus Driver Two said I must go to catch the next bus. It arrived in no time and I got on with more people than there were seats. I got to stand, it was great.

Patrick Park played louded now, hitting his stride, relishing in his definitive skill as a musician. And all these people, sweaty bodies, heading to work, heading home from work.... these are my people. I haven't lived there lives, or anything close to it. I don't know what troubles they face, or what memories of small victories play on the corners of those lips eager to smile, how happy they are or how sad they are. I don't know much of anything. But I do know that it was a perfectly normal bus ride, nothing unique about it.