A designer handbag

The PA system explains to us –both locals and tourists– that once we arrive at Sant Vicenç de Calders, due to the construction work, we will need to take a bus that will take us to Prat de Llobregat, where we can catch another train or the metro. Just in case, once the train arrives at its destination, I quickly get off and –being a boomer as I am– I ask the girl in the pumpkin-colored uniform: “And isn't there a train that goes directly to Barcelona?”. “Oh, yes, but it takes an hour and a half”, she says. Then, I run towards a vacant lot where the queue to get on the vehicle is forming. I see they are counting us. Diligently, I take the front seat because I get motion sickness.

The driver sets off. He's a middle-aged man, but surprisingly, he blasts heavy music at full volume. On the front windshield of the bus, there are two screens, in case the sun is too strong. The one in front of me is completely down. “Excuse me!”, I say. But he doesn't hear me, as he is busy humming, quite sincerely, the prophetic lyrics ofHighway to Hell. I insist: “Did you hear me?”. Silence. “Hey!””, I finally say. And this time, it seems that the heavy metal music doesn't prevent him from hearing me. Emboldened, I chirped: “Could you raise this curtain?”. He shakes his head from left to right, and not because he wants to bang his non-existent mane. It's to say no. “You can't”.

I try to sit on top of my coat and bag, as if I were in a high chair, to try to look over the screen that's blocking the infernal highway from me. It's no use. Looking at the sky makes me dizzy just the same. I should be looking at the painted line on the asphalt. My family calls me. “Where are you?”. I wish I knew. I start to salivate, and not because I'm about to try a picapoll from Bages. “Well, I know you”, says a traveler next to me. I turn, pale as a sip of soy milk. I try to smile. I pick up my handbag, which I bought in Andorra with some royalties, and I never imagined it would be useful for this.