Everyone is always so reserved at the bus stop.
Thursday night, for whatever reason, all the eastbound buses into Denver were delayed, so the queue at the Market Street Station was huge, snaking around the metal dividers. It could have filled three buses. Yet everyone just stood there patiently.  Occasionally, someone would make a raspberry-esque sound or heave a sigh.
I spurred a few chats with the woman ahead of me – she was wearing spike heels, and I was thinking of how her feet must feel.  I had been wearing my spike-heel, over-the-knee boots a few days earlier and noticed that, after walking for a while, my feet were killing me, and yet my face never gave it away.  So I broached the subject with her and she expressed extreme solidarity with the sentiment. We then speculated on how, seeing as how you have oodles of acupressure points in your feet that effect your entire body, this kind of foot pain might impact so many parts of us of without us being conscious of it, or relating the two. (I guess the moral of the story is don’t wear spike heels. Tell that to today’s fashion designers. And besides, they make you feel kind of sexy. And taller.)
When the bus finally arrived, everyone waited their turn and boarded in an orderly fashion, until all the seats were filled. And the bus departed.
I recall ex-Pat telling me tales of his trips to China, and among them was his first experience boarding a bus or a train. Everyone was milling around when the train arrived.  And when the doors opened, it became a free-for-all, a scene like something out a small-town downtown after their team has just won the NCAA championship title:  people pushing, shoving, elbowing, toe-stomping.  Little old grannies, using market bags as weapons were the worst, he said.  And once the seats were taken, the cramming continued until the standees were packed in like sardines and the seatees were subjected to up-close views of clothed body parts that no one wants to see, and nose-in physical aromas that no one wants to smell.
And heaven help the people getting off the bus. As he recounted it, I suspect some of them were forced against their will to make the return trip, simply due to the unforgiving press of boarding passengers.

Someday, I will have to experience this for myself. Perhaps in Nepal, or India. Or yes, maybe China on my own, Who knows?

It makes my idea of instigating a 10-second dance party at the morning bus stop (when I am in a good mood) seem rather tame. But I think to my fellow passengers, a 10-second dance party would be unthinkable.

So maybe next week, if I am in an exceptionally good mood, I’ll shake things up a bit.  There’s just no need for such propriety.