Day Hundred Eleven

Another bus ride

awaits

as I make my way to the bus stop

with an apple in my hand and

pieces of it in my mouth.

The bus arrives

and the bus driver speaks to me 

in English.

I respond to him in Cypriot.

He takes a second to decide 

whether

he thinks I'm Cypriot

or just a foreigner who 

has learned the language well.

'One fifty please';

was the last thing he said.

The bus starts moving and I sit.

I sit between Romanian, Bulgarian and Russian workers. 

Amongst us are some English tourists

and you can tell 

who's on holiday 

and who's not.

A Russian lady

is on the phone

complaining 
in Cypriot
about the long working hours.

I feel empathy.

Taking a bus ride that takes an hour,

for the distance of fifteen minutes,

isn't something extremely pleasant

if you're on your way to work

every day.

I consider getting a motorbike.

Then again,

I haven't driven one before.

I consider getting a car.

Then again,

I haven't got the funds for it.

This starts frustrating me

but I'm in a good mood.

I am a worker

just like the other workers.

I will take the bus to work

because at the moment it's my only

means of transportation.

30 minutes to go.