The Trip to Vigo

 The Trip to Vigo



Nine in the morning at the Pontevedra bus station smelled of machine coffee, diesel, and that bittersweet perfume of goodbyes that no one asked for. Marisé carried a worn green canvas backpack slung over one shoulder and a cloth bag with three oranges her mother had packed "in case the trip gets long."

She checked her ticket. Vigo. Ground floor, seat 14B.

The queue advanced with that resigned slowness typical of mid-morning travelers. Ahead of her, a man of about sixty in a maroon corduroy jacket read a newspaper folded in four. Behind her, a young girl kept glancing at her phone with furrowed brow, her thumbs flying across the screen like two busy hummingbirds.

"Next," said the driver without looking up.

Marisé showed her ticket, climbed the two steps at the door, and walked down the narrow aisle looking for her seat. The bus smelled of pine air freshener, aged leather, and that faint whiff of packed humanity that accompanies every trip longer than an hour.

On the row of seats to the right, by the window overlooking the platforms, a man with graying hair was already sitting, broad-shouldered, with large hands resting on his thighs. He wore a poorly ironed light blue shirt and dress pants worn at the knees. When Marisé stopped in front of seat 14B, he looked up, glanced at her for a second with no expression, and then directed his gaze forward with the exact discomfort that a stranger about to share two hours of road with you provokes.

Marisé was about to say something. A "good morning," perhaps, or "do you mind if I sit here?" even though it was her seat and they both knew it. But the man had already turned his body slightly toward the window, his right shoulder set as a silent barrier. A learned, automatic gesture of someone who has been traveling alone for decades and has turned politeness into an art of evasion.

So Marisé said nothing. She put her backpack in the overhead rack, sat down, fastened the seatbelt that no one uses, and took out her phone.

The driver closed the doors with a hydraulic hiss. The bus coughed, roared, and began to move.

The city slowly fell behind, replaced first by industrial warehouses, then by green, humid fields, by stone houses with horreos, by the pearl-gray Galician sky that threatened drizzle without committing.

Marisé took out her bluetooth earbuds, the small white case she always carried in her right jacket pocket. She put them in carefully, adjusted the noise cancellation, and opened the conversation with Dani.

Marisé [09:17]: On the bus. Heading to Vigo.

Dani [09:17]: Already? So early? I thought you were leaving at ten.

Marisé [09:18]: Got the time wrong. I arrived running and almost missed it.

Dani [09:18]: And that happens from tapping away at the blog until all hours?

Marisé [09:18]: Shut up. I published it last night, actually.

Dani [09:19]: That post about clarity? The "liquid love, I cook it myself, I eat it myself... halfway"?

Marisé [09:19]: That one.

Dani [09:19]: So how's it doing? Much traction?

Marisé [09:20]: I haven't looked. I slept terribly. Don't know if it was the beer or the messages.

Dani [09:20]: Messages? From who?

Marisé smiled to herself. To her left, the man in the blue shirt was also reading something on his phone, his thumb sliding slowly, his face lit by the bluish glow of the screen. He hadn't looked at her since she sat down.

Marisé [09:21]: From Iván.

Dani [09:21]: IVÁN? The dinner guy? The one who disappeared for six hours?

Marisé [09:21]: The same.

Dani [09:21]: No way. What did he say?

Marisé [09:22]: Well, last night, around one in the morning, I got an audio message. I was already in bed. I didn't listen to it until this morning while having breakfast.

Dani [09:22]: And? Don't leave me hanging, woman.

Marisé [09:23]: He read the blog. The whole post. And he felt identified. That he was a coward. That ambiguity had always seemed to him the polite way not to hurt anyone, but that really it was the easy way not to get involved.

Dani [09:23]: Good Lord. The guy's suddenly become a psychologist.

Marisé [09:24]: The worst part is he sounded sincere. His voice cracked a little. He said: "Marisé, you're right about everything. I'm one of those who stay on the surface because the deep end is scary. Can we talk?"

Dani [09:24]: And what did you tell him?

Marisé [09:25]: Nothing yet. I wanted to think about it. That's why I'm on this damn bus at nine in the morning, to clear my head.

The bus took a curve and the sun slipped through the window at an angle. The man next to her narrowed his eyes and shifted slightly in his seat, but said nothing. Not a comment about the weather. Not a complaint about the sun. Nothing.

Marisé tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and kept typing.

Dani [09:26]: And the other one? The every-two-days messages guy? The one you were going to tell that you don't like playing guessing games about whether he exists?

Marisé [09:26]: Oh, that one. He wrote too.

Dani [09:26]: Don't tell me.

Marisé [09:27]: He said: "I saw your post. How brave you are. The same thing happens to me. People get scared if you're clear. It's happened to me too. Shall we talk?"

Dani [09:27]: Unbelievable. The same old trick. "It happens to me too."

Marisé [09:28]: Never mind. I'm not interested in him anymore. But Iván... I don't know. It's weird. Because when he's present, it's good. Really good. He laughs at my bad jokes. He likes the way I talk loudly. He says it reminds him of the sea when it's rough.

Dani [09:28]: How corny. But look, if you like him...

Marisé [09:29]: The problem is me, Dani. That as soon as someone gets close, I want to lay down the rules. The juice cap. Response times. Angry cat photos.

Dani [09:29]: That's not a problem. That's knowing what you want.

Marisé [09:30]: Or is it that I can't stand uncertainty? Because that article, the one by the psychologist, said that people who demand immediate clarity actually have anxiety. That they don't know how to wait. That they confuse intensity with security.

Dani [09:30]: And that article, who paid for it? Some relationship guru selling smoke on the internet?

Marisé let out a silent laugh. The man next to her glanced at her for a second and went back to his phone. She didn't notice. Her eyes were glued to the screen, her fingers flying, her earbuds filtering the rumble of the engine and the road.

Marisé [09:31]: Probably, yeah. But sometimes I think maybe she's right.

Dani [09:31]: Look, Marisé, let me tell you something. You're intense. You're brash. You shout when you get excited. You leave wet towels on the bed. You laugh like a seal. And all of that is fine. Anyone who can't handle it shouldn't get on the train.

Marisé [09:32]: And what if no one gets on?

Dani [09:32]: No one? And what am I? A hologram?

Marisé [09:33]: You're my friend. Not my boyfriend. It's not the same.

Dani [09:33]: Oh, girl. Look, boyfriends come and go. Friends stay. And let me tell you something else: that guy who shows up and puts up with your first round of rules... he's the good one. The one who stays despite the juice cap.

Marisé [09:34]: And what if Iván turns out to be that one?

Dani [09:34]: Then give him a chance. But without fear. And without reading any more articles from Instagram psychologists.

The road had become wider, faster. A sign said "Vigo - 25 km." Marisé looked out the window. The landscape was beautiful: green hills, eucalyptus trees swaying in the wind, the occasional stone barn rusted by dampness. The man next to her was still on his phone. He hadn't looked at the landscape once.

Marisé [09:36]: I'm realizing that since I got on this bus, I haven't spoken to anyone.

Dani [09:36]: What do you mean, no one? You're talking to me.

Marisé [09:36]: I mean in person. The guy next to me has been on his phone for half an hour. He hasn't even said good morning.

Dani [09:37]: And have you said it to him?

Marisé stared at the message. She blinked. Her finger hesitated over the screen.

Marisé [09:37]: Well, no. But he had his face turned away.

Dani [09:37]: Come on, don't mess with me. You, who complain that people don't communicate, who trash-talk people who disappear for six hours, and you can't even say "good morning" to the person next to you.

Marisé [09:38]: Look, it's not the same. A date is one thing, an older man on a bus is another.

Dani [09:38]: And why isn't it the same? They're both people. They're both there. The difference is that you want something from one and not from the other, so you can't even be bothered.

The message hit her like a punch. Marisé looked up from her phone. The man was still there, less than half a meter away, his large hands now resting on his dark phone, his gaze lost on the back of the seat in front. He had deep wrinkles around his eyes, the kind made by sun and laughter. Or sun and sadness, you never know.

She could say something. Right now. "How's your trip?" "Nice morning for going to Vigo." "Excuse me, is it eleven yet?" Anything.

But then her phone vibrated.

Dani [09:40]: Are you still there or did you get lost in thought?

Marisé [09:40]: I'm here. I looked at the guy next to me.

Dani [09:40]: And? Did you say anything to him?

Marisé [09:41]: No. He looked away.

Dani [09:41]: Of course, because people look away now. And then we write blog posts saying "clarity scares people off" and "liquid love." Clarity doesn't scare people off, Marisé. What scares people off is that we're all staring at our phones while the person next to us is dying for someone to say "good morning."

Marisé [09:42]: And what if he doesn't want anyone to say anything? What if he's just minding his own business?

Dani [09:42]: Right. And Iván is also "minding his own business" when he doesn't answer for six hours. And you drive yourself crazy. We're all the same: we want clarity from others and offer silence in return.

The bus slowed down. "Vigo - Next stop," announced a metallic voice. The man in the blue shirt began gathering his things: a small brown backpack, a carefully folded wool coat, a foldable cane that had been propped between the seat and the window.

Marisé watched him move with parsimony, with that calm of someone who has performed this gesture a thousand times. And she felt an impulse. She opened her mouth.

"Can I help you with your coat?"

The words came out softer than she expected. The man turned his head. His eyes were a tired blue, like the sky after a storm.

"Pardon me?"

"Your coat," Marisé repeated, louder. "Can I hold it while you get your cane?"

The man looked at her for a moment. Then he offered a small smile, barely a twitch at the corner of his lips.

"That's not necessary, miss. Thank you. I've been traveling alone for many years."

He took his cane, his backpack, his coat. He stood up with difficulty, leaning on the back of the seat in front. Marisé moved to let him pass.

"Have a good day," she said.

"Likewise. And take care of yourself. These trips get long if you don't talk to anyone," he replied, and got off the bus with short, steady steps.

The door closed. The bus roared again. Marisé stared at the empty seat, then at her phone, then at the empty seat again.

Marisé [09:48]: He got off.

Dani [09:48]: Who?

Marisé [09:48]: The guy next to me. The older man. He even said goodbye to me.

Dani [09:48]: See? They don't bite.

Marisé [09:49]: I was too late. We only talked when he was getting off.

Dani [09:49]: Well, something is something. Next time, do it from the start. The trip is long and life is short, and phones are stealing even our goodbyes.

The bus headed into Vigo. Marisé put her earbuds away in their case, turned off the screen, put her phone in her pocket. She stretched, yawned, ran a hand through her dark hair. Her mother's oranges were still in the bag, untouched.

The final brake. The hiss of the doors opening.

Marisé grabbed her backpack, stood up, and walked toward the exit. At the door, just before getting off, she turned around. The bus was almost empty. In the back row, a girl was still on her phone. In the front, a middle-aged man spoke quietly on his phone. No one looked at her. No one returned her gaze.

She went down the steps, stepped onto the asphalt of Vigo, and the bus closed its doors behind her. As it pulled away, Marisé felt something close inside her as well. An opportunity. A "good morning" that didn't arrive in time. A conversation that never existed.

She took out her phone. Dani had already written.

Dani [09:55]: Did you arrive?

Marisé [09:55]: Yes. I'm in Vigo now.

Dani [09:55]: So? How was the trip?

Marisé looked up. The station was full of people moving in every direction, each with their phone in hand, their earbuds in, their private world on their backs. No one looked at her. No one saw her.

She put her phone away without answering.

She took the bag of oranges, adjusted her backpack on her shoulder, and walked toward the exit. As she passed, a woman almost collided with her because she didn't look up from her screen.

"Sorry," Marisé said.

The woman didn't hear her. She was wearing earbuds.

Later, somewhere in the city, at the entrance of his building, the man —a retired Spanish language professor— opened the door, walked to the elevator, and in front of it, folded his cane completely. He thought that, after all, the trip hadn't been so bad. Someone had offered him help. Someone had said "have a good day." A long conversation on the bus, if you think about it. And that, in these times when everyone walks with their eyes glued to a screen, is already a miracle.