Good Day Sunlight
Outside, the sunshine runs like birds singing, and we walk across the street to the bus stop. The bus stop was once a bright yellow, but over time the paint has faded in the sun and the combination of graffiti and advertisement mark up the yellow pallet till it seems that there is no bright colour left mentioning. We get onto bus 90 without saying a word, hoping that if we keep silent no one will assume that we are Americans. I stare out the window until a senora sits down across from me.
“Molto caldo,” she mutters as she places her designer bag on the empty seat beside her and withdraws a handkerchief from her sleeve. She is a large, blonde woman, with carefully curled hair and tight lips, which, with her gesticulations, makes me think of an ancient, aristocratic porcelain doll. It is hot on the bus and as she dabs herself with a handkerchief she rattles off a string of mutterings in Italian. Her words are directed at M and me, but we keep our gazes directed out the window, as if fascinated by the traffic passing us by. If we reply our nationality will quickly be revealed. We say nothing and pretend to be Italian, obliviously staring out the windows.
“Well come back again another day,” we say to each other, walking down a small side street and away from the commercial chaos, “Perhaps at night when the fountain glows. Now that will be something to see.” Perhaps.