The Representatives

After my discharge from a foreign hospital, I was directed to the nearest bus stop, in my slightly crumpled suit leaning on my wooden walking stick, carrying my battered holdall and umbrella, where the Head Nurse had said I could resume my journey on an intercity bus. What she neglected to tell me was whom I might come across, but then, perhaps my myopic eyes were still growing used to such spectacles of humanity.
I come from a very provincial town, where people don't move around – out or in – so that the families that are there date back centuries, which as you might imagine, limited my experience of humankind, and which is how, in some ways, I came to be here: at this bus stop.
Actually, I tell a lie, as that's more of the why and not the how. How is an entirely different and lengthier story, one which involves an illness and an inheritance, both unrelated to me, then a cancelled flight and a twelve hour delay, which is to say I missed all the pre-booked arrangements that the person whose place I'm in had originally and carefully made.
Why it fell to me, in the autumn of my life, is yet another, though far shorter, tale: it was proposition put by him to me. All expenses paid, on the proviso I would send him postcards; he's a collector.
Who is this he and what is he to me? An old, old friend, much older than me for if I'm in autumn, then he's in winter. Both of us are old-timers at any rate, but up until recent problems with his ticker he had far more energy and zest. He put me, quite rightly, to shame, and so, actually, I'm rather a poor stand-in for this planned adventure. Yet, here I am: having unscheduled ventures into the unknown.
Which is all well and good for an courageous type but not for someone who'd rather dream and sit at home; the fact that I agreed is a human kindness and a miracle. Like a prospector, he struck gold on that particular day. And I don't default on promises made, never, especially not when, as with this friend, it was his dearest wish to see me go. He even advised me on what and what not to pack, though I drew the line at him accompanying me in the taxi to the airport, which was certainly fortuitous considering the mind-numbing hours I spent at Heathrow.
Nothing has been as I expected or imagined, which I think of as two very different things, although you, I know, may not agree; nor has it been restful, so far, not even with the five-star hotels and minor hospital stay. The former, which my friend had scrupulously researched, I felt out of place in, and the latter, well, it all happened so quickly. And anyhow, just as I begin to adjust, it's time to leave. To move onto the next stop, though I am now a few days behind, which is why to make up this time I'm about to step aboard a rickety bus that's just turned up in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.
One observation I have made, which waiting for this bus again confirmed, is that queues are universal, though the etiquette in joining one or being part of one may vary. This one, it was clear to me immediately, was like those in England, by order of arrival, and so I took the last spot on the end of the bench, nearest the phone booth and furthest from the timetable, placing my holdall and umbrella securely between my planted feet until such a moment when I needed to rise. All buses, I had been told, that went from this stop were intercity, and so I let my anxieties disperse in the sun for a while.
Until, as I previously said, the bus turned up in a plume of dust, and then gave a long, low sigh as it opened its door to admit us, where, inside, to my surprise, each class of society, as I've never in my life seen together, was represented: a female student, a businessman, a small boy, a mother, a manual worker with his tools, and a housewife with a shopping basket in which nested a live chicken; these, I found myself riding alongside, lost, as ever, in thought yet with still-seeing eyes.
My passage of time as distorted as the weaving of this bus, as if the universe is split in two: one where time runs according to clocks and calendars, and one where time overlaps and bounces me forward and back at random.

Picture credit: The Bus, 1929, Frida Kahlo

The State Raffle

The heavy arched door opened and they all began filing in: the old, the young, shuffling tiredly and bowed with their sticks or wheeling infants in pushchairs, all of whom had waited patiently like their poorer or war-worn ancestors might have done queuing for meat rations or bread.
I've never before witnessed such a scene, (and I never hope to again), for it was a depressing sight. One that lingers in your consciousness long after it has passed; even after I knew what they had huddled in the bitter cold for and that it wasn't what I'd imagined.
It wasn't as I thought a matter of survival, although perhaps it was to them. Perhaps it meant more than I realised now or then.
The crowd weren't, as I would have expected if my hunch had been right, exhibiting any signs of being saved, only relief that the wait was over. There was no excited chatter as birds might give when they're disturbed from their roost, just a silent adjustment of hats, scarves and coats which they each did with a deadpan expression, their faces grey and drawn.
A going-through of motions, grown hardened to, not that it helped to keep out the cold or lessen, what I took to be, a humbling act, performed automatically which left me in no doubt that this gathering happened regularly: people representing all socio-economic groups camped outside the same place, the same stone government building, at the same time, around midday until half-past two when the huge cave-like door creaks open and admits them, shuffling snakelike, in.
Although I can't confirm if it was always the same day, a Wednesday, or in what frequency it occurred, it was clear from the scene before me that it was, if not looked forward to, waited for with numb expectation, almost like a last salvation which was by no means guaranteed for each and every one, so that even the air seemed stale, like it had been inhaled and exhaled too many times by these hopeless people.
The body of this snake writhed as if a large mammal had been swallowed, distorting itself into four distinct lines which shuffled forwards and up the entrance steps like a centipede or caterpillar of the Jurassic age. The only audible sounds sniffs and coughs, an odd cry or low groan, and the scrape of shoes, sticks and wheels on paved street.
Curious, I joined the tail. Here, some young men, late to these proceedings, were being more uproarious: jostling each other and kicking the ground, their heads mostly down and their hands entrenched in their trouser pockets. They weren't like the rest, up ahead, subdued. And I wondered why...were they new to whatever awfulness this was? Or being young, were they not disenfranchised enough to either meekly submit or rebel? These were my musings. I would have liked to engage with them, but not being young nor familiar with their particular type of shiftiness or the general pervading atmosphere, it seemed wiser to resist that urge.
Instead, I leant on my wooden walking stick, doing my best to be unobtrusive and yet keep up with the shifting crowd; a few latecomers had joined us, two more young men and an old woman in a headscarf, so the only real feature, I think, which stood out about me was the dull thump of my stick. The young never take much notice of an old person, although officials do and might; that was my sickening dread, yet I'd seen nobody, for any obvious reason, singled out. Actually, I'd seen nobody who'd entered leave. What were they doing in there? Was it some sort of meeting, one that had moved from outside to in, where items of importance were discussed? Was there another, unseen, exit?
Well, I had to black out didn't I?, then and there; it's a condition I'm prone to when my circulation plummets, and when I came round, properly round, I was on laundered sheets in a community hospital. There was a white-coated state official by my bedside, who I mistook for a doctor, who presented with me a cerise raffle ticket on behalf and with the compliments of the council. The first prize he informed me, with a winsome smile, a day in a state-provided chauffeured limousine.

Picture credit: The State Lottery Office, 1882, Vincent Van Gogh

The Trials of Chair Travel

Once I got beyond the mania what I wanted came and so, here I am sitting in glorious sun. In February? Well, the chances of that are slim in a British Winter but in Spain the sun shines almost every day, at least that's what My Fair Lady has had me believe: The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plane, but what percentage of that phrase is true or false isn't in my powers to say for I'm not, at present, in the country of Tapas. I haven't travelled that way, to Spain, or in that way, by boat or plane, for a good few years, and it wouldn't be sensible to judge Spain's weather on past experiences. 
When I was last there, the Euro wasn't born or even in the making, though it's also quite possible that I've blanked things or have chosen to remember them differently, which is all the more likely in this instance because I have a acrimonious relationship with this currency. Frankly, Europe was and is less appealing without the variety of coins and notes. Yes, it could be confusing but at least you knew you were in another country! What about language? you ask. Well, yes, the mother tongue is a give-away but it's not the same as scrutinising the sides of a crisp note or shiny coin.
And now, mentally, I find myself in a winding, cobbled street when I started out just leisurely sitting in the sun on a deckchair. And I still haven't told you where I am, exactly. Or even confirmed that I'm not, in fact, in February. No, this is August. The one gone and not the one coming, and no, I haven't become a time traveller, or at least not in the sense it usually means.
To be more precise, my mind has, with practice and time, acquired the ability to travel, but my physical body hasn't caught on. It's always been a bit slow in the being active department, but then you don't need a body when the mind can take you, all of you, spiritually anywhere, and the beauty of it is that just like that, I can be back in the deckchair; not always, however, the same one.
I've lost my spot. Again! This isn't where my bottom was comfortably sat; I should have marked it with a towel like those surrounding me would be if they weren't already filled with the bulk of people, most with their faces turned to the sun, and all, I might add, with their bodies clothed. Fully. The men in business suits as if they were about to go to the office or into an important meeting; the women, also classically turned-out with many different blouses (which in England we would call a Thatcherism), and in heels or flats with the addition of a coloured scarf or wide-brimmed sun hat, and so, in my current attire, I stick out like a sore thumb, for while I'm respectfully dressed there's more pale flesh on show. Not a lot, just a few inches, and yet enough to cause foreheads to crinkle and eyebrows to raise: my forearms are bare and my head is uncovered, revealing its coppery shades, which has, I confess, again made me someone to avoid, and which is why I'm sent to the naughty chair, although, of course, being without a bath-size towel is a significant factor. And yes, apparently, it does have to be bath-sized. Hand-size has another purpose entirely.
A bath towel would be a simple item to remember if I was going swimming, but there's no chemically-treated pool, polluted ocean or river in which to take a dip or practise my frog-stroke in; all there is for miles around, in whatever direction you face, is waving genetically-modified corn. My forgetfulness, then, is not deliberate, it's just not a habit I'm used to employing in an agricultural landscape. I have read, anecdotally however, that this towel trick works wonders if placed underneath you like a bed-sheet or cushion; there is one business man who habitually places a folded towel, just so, beneath his balding head, whose smirk I've caught when, to my obvious surprise, I've switched seats on my return, and so, I think there might be some marginal truth in this legend.
It is a bit disconcerting, to say the least, to find yourself back in the room, so to speak, facing west when originally like everyone else you were facing south-east, in a chair that's seen better days and at some distance away from your compatriots.

Picture credit: People in the Sun, 1963, Edward Hopper