The Wheels On The Bus

For most of the spring I had to take the oil company bus to work every day. It’s a good thing I am a morning person.

I have developed quite a rapport with other commuters. Anyone who makes the mistake of sitting in ‘my’ seat faces the ‘wrath’ of the entire bus.

There are the ladies that sit behind me, who are constantly bickering about whose brother I should be betrothed to. There is the cravat wearing old man, who greets me with a smile as soon as he steps into the bus. There is the woman who gets mad when the man with questionable hygiene sits next to me. There are my neighbour’s relatives who walk home from the bus stop with me.

Of course there are still moments of cultural discord.
- The constant reminders that I am going to ruin my eyes if I continue to read as we bounce over the pock-marked asphalt. To which I reply: Then I better read as much as I can before I go blind.
- The good-natured jibes about how I need to get married immediately. My retort: “I have time” - is usually met with good-natured laughter, and the subject is dropped until the next day.
- The disapproving looks on the days my skirt doesn’t quite cover my knees. But there is also the skirt that the ladies swear is an ancient Azerbaijani pattern. (I don’t have the heart to tell them I bought it at TJMaxx.)

But I have recently been re-christened with an Azerbaijani-friendly version of my name - apparently off some Turkish soap opera.
So I am going to consider my commute a cultural integration success. Just don’t ask me to spell my new name. Or threaten to take my books away.