I love public transportation. I dream of a society in which personal automobiles are obsolete and everyone commutes via train, bus, or plane. That being said, mass transit certainly has a few downsides. In downtown Thessaloniki, the main pitfall of the bus system is overcrowding. If you plan to ride the bus anytime before 22:00 (10:00pm), expect some significant physical contact with strangers. It would be wasteful to use a heating system in the buses because body heat provides all the warmth a passenger could ever need and then some.
Last week, I took a bus downtown to sort out some passport issues. On my way home, I entered a standing-room-only bus; it was tightly packed but breathable. As we made our way through the city, more riders entered and the already limited personal space was rapidly disappearing. As fate would have it, I happened to be standing next to a Greek nun. As the bus became more and more crowded, she and I got closer and closer until we were chest to forehead (she was about 5'1'') with nowhere to go. I am still unsure who felt more violated as we bumped along the bus route, but I feel certain that she has never had such intimate experience with a man, she might be pregnant, and I like to think that my impact has inspired her to leave the nunnery to pursue more carnal encounters with men folk.
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Those of you who have consistently read the blog will remember Shimosh, the undersized Sifnosian laundry fiend. Since I last spoke of Shimosh, he has undergone a transformation of sorts. One Friday, I saw Shimosh lugging a suitcase away from the dormitory. My world was turned upside down. Shimosh had never left school for the weekend, even when we had a five-day vacation. As far as I know, he had never set foot off campus since the beginning of the school year. I inquired about his plans, and he explained that he was going to spend the weekend with his roommate’s family. Fighting back tears, I wished him well on his trip. I didn’t know how to react. A weekend at AFS without Shimosh was unfathomable. Out of habit, I found myself wandering down to the laundry room even though nobody requested for the door to be unlocked.
On Monday morning, I saw Shimosh strolling across campus…I must emphasize that he was strolling, not shuffling in his usual manner. Also, his look was totally different. Instead of sporting his usual conservative jacket and tight slacks, he was confidently rocking the full Canadian tuxedo: a jean jacket and blue jeans. The most extreme aspect of his new look was his hairstyle; my beloved Shimosh was parading around campus with a painstakingly-sculped mohawk. Something happened on that weekend trip that I will probably never comprehend, but when Shimosh returned he was no longer the pesky, adolescent Greek Islander—he was Mr. Cool. Since then, he has been spending time in the weight room, his mohawk has grown spikier, and I even saw him talking to a girl. I’ve even heard that his voice has evolved from its squeaky, wavering frequency into a deep bellow that would put Barry White to shame. I can neither confirm nor deny these claims because Shimosh is now too cool to talk to me, the lowly International Teaching Fellow. I miss the old Shimosh, but I am glad that he has found confidence. When I grow up, I hope to be just like him.
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