Hi, what’s your name?

The first time I remember it happening was on a Greyhound bus ride from Montreal to Toronto. I was likely coming off a solitary night absorbed in song lyrics and poetry. I was prone to sleep-deprivation during those university years, even more so before a 6am long haul bus ride, where I wouldn’t sleep at all. I looked forward to syncing my rest with the humming of the engine and hypnotic rumble of the road, which always promised the deepest slumber and ended on arrival at my destination.

I stood at the front of the bus scrutinizing the rows. Typically I would scout two seats far in the back near others there to sleep. This time, however, there was only one empty seat. As I sat down, the lady in the adjacent seat looked at me with a crinkly-eyed smile that reminded me of fresh home cooking after a long day out. I rubbed my eyes and squeezed out a half-smile as I leaned towards the aisle and scanned the seats around me again. I turned back to my seat and she leaned closer, this time to ask where I was headed. My family’s in Toronto, I told her, knowing that would not satisfy the probing look on her face.

She had a family too, it turned out, as she reached into her purse and took out a 4x4 photo album of her grandkids and children. The ride started with photos of her traveling with her family to beachfronts. It’s about seven hours by bus between Montreal and Toronto, including the bathroom stop. There was time for photos of the grandkids as toddlers giggling under trees. Photos of them laughing at shared jokes. Photos of her when she was a few years younger, with hints of grey curls coming up at her temples. Photos of her family more recently, still glossy and less pixelated than the previous photos. Somewhere between my laptop and a weekend’s worth of clothes and smoked meat for my parents, I had forgotten to pack my own photo album for show and tell.

I struggled to keep my eyes open as she recounted anecdotes and memories. I had thought I’d be swathed in an enveloping haze of sleep and wake up transported to a far-off city. In retrospect, I realize that if smartphones were mainstream back then, she may have logged into Instagram to leaf through her life with me. This wasn’t like a house party where I could walk away after an introduction and a few clever remarks. Greyhound buses are not built with an escape route in the back prepared for people to ghost amid claustrophobic encounters.

Eventually the bus arrived at the Bay and Dundas terminal in Toronto and we said goodbye. My dad picked me up but the rest is a foggy memory. Probably because I finally found a seat to sleep on.

(Apologies for not writing in so long. I’ve been tied up with moving into a new house and most of my writing time has gone towards my CNF class at U of T. Here’s an exercise I did a few days ago, so you have something to bide your time till I come back)