By Romy Lara
I exit the studio, sighing at the sight of the sun quietly hiding behind the trees and buildings. Turn to the right and keep walking. Cars are passing by, people in black suits get out from the nearest buildings; none of them care about their surroundings. I lift up my head and notice in big steel-letters the name of the company that owns that peculiar orange building in the corner of the street. It's the first time I see it. The sky is painted blue with some dabs of gray, just as if somehow the color of the concrete street had been absorbed by the clouds.
Behind me there's a couple discussing something about a house. She doesn't sound happy. And he's just getting mad. She shouts and speeds up, him trying to catch up with her, but it's futile. She is a very good runner despite her heels. The man glances at me. I toy with the white cable of my earphones and pretend I didn't hear anything. I pass him. He just stands there. I wonder what would he do now. But I have no time to sit and stare.
When I arrive at the main avenue, dust and earth hurt my eyes, making it hard for me to see clearly. I almost miss the passageway that goes underground to cross the street, but I manage to get in and let all the smokes and smells of little restaurants hit me. Everyone has to be very careful with the statue that claims herself to be a part of the wall, grabbing it firmly with one hand. Her look is sad, always sad; not even the fresh flowers she got today could cheer her up.
I wait for the bus to come. The sound of the drills at the construction site next to me is annoying. They have been working for six months now. Did they find gold? Or is paving a sidewalk really that hard? I get in the bus, clenching the tube while the driver speeds and manages to give me my change. I stumble through the tiny hall until I drop my body at the farthest seat, near the back door. The bus is filled with awful music. But I think it must be a rule. Bus drivers must have a code or requisit concerning musical genres, because they all play the same distasteful music.
I get the window seat, so I comfort myself on watching life and cars pass by while we travel carelessly. Suddenly I become a spectator to the outer world, that life that happens on the sidewalk.
Two men in dusty jumpsuits and old caps are carrying a little wagon with rocks and shovels down the stairs of a bridge. An old lady in front of them is gazing at them nervously, afraid some accident might happen.
Next, three skinny women with TinkerBell style dresses are waiting on a corner. Their smiles are just as fake as the colour of their hair. I can only see one of them taking out a box of cigarrettes before we pass them.
Four guys running. Two cops behind.
A male biker with a pink helmet.
A lady dressed in black hugging someone, a tissue in her hand.
The man that is sitting next to me starts falling asleep. Ten minutes later he unconsciously drops his head on my shoulder and I freeze at the contact. His lotion is strong. He carries an orange backpack that looks pretty heavy. We go over an ugly hole in the street and he gets startled, unaware that he was sleeping on me.
Through the window I can see the buildings, all kinds of workshops, skinny trees, big columns of concrete that hold the second floor of the avenue. Wild plants defy the laws of nature and spring to life through the cracks on the walls of the tunnels.
One hour later, I get out of the bus, jumping from it to the pavement. It's a nice day. The wind is running through the leaves and messing with my hair. Clouds in shapes of ships and towers start menacing with rain. But I want rain, and all of a sudden I begin to see the tiny drops falling from the sky. I smile widely. The man that keeps the laundry shop stares at me, thinking I'm crazy for smiling at the rain that now wets my hair. It's not so heavy.
I manage to arrive at my house on time, before the real thunder falls. Inside is quiet. I'm the first one to arrive. My family won't be late. I put my bag and my jacket on the couch and stare at the blue and yellow wall, and I just realize how interesting my trip was on my way home.
"Details," my granny would say "it's all about catching those little details of life that makes it worthliving, even in the most boring routines." And I agree.