Bus Report #1033

Early mornings at the bus stop with the Frenchman (Paul?) and with Olga.
She can spot a bus from a mile away - her knees may not work anymore but those eyes, sharp.
Paul asks me questions about this country that I am at a loss to answer. Why so many guns? Why so much racism? I wish I could answer him. But I just don't know.

Twice last week, in less than 13 hours, I ran in to people who used to work in my building. J., who I haven't seen in over three years, and A. who I haven't seen in almost four years. A. still lives in my neighborhood and since last week we've taken to saying hi in the mornings as we both cross paths by the donut place.
J. I saw in the Castro. He's always friendly, always seems on the verge of saying something profound, but then he just smiles and ducks his head and wanders off.

In the afternoon I ride Kevin's bus, then catch the 38 driven by a man who reminds me of a children's book character,  the Hemulen from the Tove Jansson books.