Number 9…Number 9…Number 9…Number 9

I’ve conquered bus number 9.  Which means a whole new world has been opened to me.  I’ve been winding through the cobbled maze of streets that make up downtown and have been moving as part of a fast paced mob made up of incredibly fashionable people with their black leggings and smart sweaters, their cell phones in hand with cute trinkets trailing off of them.  We occasionally move to the side to let the man in the expensive car through.  It seems he hasn’t been tipped off to the fact that the road has been overrun by people and reclaimed as pedestrian walk ways.  I look up at 8 story buildings, surrounding my left, right, behind, in front with bright neon flashing lights in characters that I can only barely decipher, loud music blaring from every store, so a new 4 second song is introduced with every 6 steps I take.  Gems of stores are hidden in shady looking alley ways (turn left at the Lacoste store…the only store in town with real cheese, if you’re willing to pay for it…) and to know what every floor to every building housed would be an unfathomable feat.  People are selling all sorts of things on the sides: dancing stuffed animals, octopus, shoes, shoes, lots of shoes.
And I have my so very helpful and friendly co-workers to thank, showing me the workings of the number 9 red bus.  “Don’t worry, just push your way on.”  I’m lucky to get a seat, luckier to get on at all.  Fortunately for me, the number 9 bus has a sign at the front that shows the next stop in English.  Unfortunately for me, the number 9 bus seems to be the busiest bus of all, so I’m hard pressed to ever see the sign at the front, blocked by the mass of people in the aisle ways.  My ears are keen to my neighborhood name, “Shinga”, though.  And when I hear a hint of shinga over the loud speakers, I perk up and am ready to bolt when I need to.
Public transportation is so humbling.