As a frequent traveler, I often have to opt for public modes of transportation to get me from point A to point B—my little cousins dance recital in upstate NY, home for my brother’s graduation, or to Atlantic City to the beach for a day with the girls. And each and every time without fail I get a seat next to the crazy, batty co-passenger who engages me in some way or another.

In the very moment I am writing this, I am on a bus to Manhattan for a co-op interview. I thought I had the train car style bus seat to myself until moments before we pulled away.

Margaret is extremely thin with a thick, leathery tanned face—her many years of sun worship indicated by the deep lines in her skin. She has silvery long blonde hair pulled back in a chignon and multiple gaudy turquoise rings on her bony fingers. She nervously clutches her worn out denim shirt around her as she shows me the world weather report (“HA-HA! OH MY! It’s going to be 98 degrees in Budapest tomorrow! Can you believe that?”) and digs out the prints she bought at the Philadelphia Art Museum from one of her many canvas totes. It is obvious to me early on that she has a youthful soul—despite being in her mid 60’s.

She tells me about her thoughts on living in NYC and that her favorite thing in the world is the Metropolitan Museum, but that the city can burn you out. When I tell her my name her response is one I have not yet received—“How beautifully elegant and earthy.” –complete with flagrant hand gestures that remind me of an orchestra conductor.

The time is passing along so quickly with Margaret and a small part of me wishes this bus were going somewhere further than Manhattan so I can enjoy her a bit more.

I find, unfortunately, over and over again, that my generation is not interested in this simple pleasure of mine. I’m not quite sure if its “uncool” to bond with strangers, or if I’m just weird. Maybe the fact that my four grandparents were my primary childhood playmates has something to do with it.

This little bus jaunt has me thinking—Would everyone be a bit nicer? Open minded? Cordial? –If they let their guard down in times like these?  (“Pretend you’re sleeping, she’ll leave you alone eventually. That’s what I do. It’s the only way to deal with the crazies.” Is the response I get when I text a friend back home about Margaret.) Or does all of this make me naïve?

Either way, for now I’m going to show her the wonders of my Blackberry while she lets me prop my feet on her seat and we’ll both bask in the silent naiveté of it all.

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