I sat on the cold, hard bench in the concrete crypt of the underground bus station, feeling at peace despite the scent of piss rising from the man slouched in the wheelchair to my left. I was leaving Paris, and a vision of the catacombs below the City of Love flashed across my mind, reflecting my mood from only moments before. A different man, who had disembarked the docked bus in front of me, felt the need to approach and say to me, “I hope you know that you are very beautiful”, and, despite this not being the most flattering compliment to receive, in my opinion, he left me sitting on that bench with the corners of my lips turned upward. 

The bus that I had been waiting so long for finally pulled up to the curb, and after dumping its load of passengers out and onto the sidewalk, where the screech of bus brakes and the smell of petrol clouded all around, me and everyone else swarm the obviously exhausted bus driver and the open luggage doors that invited us to unburden ourselves and board already. People fought to get in front of one another and fought for that poor man's attention, and while I desperately wanted his attention as well, I resigned myself to wait patiently, a small thought that perhaps this would draw him towards me first. This did not happen. The people around me pushed their passports and tickets towards the driver, waving them in his face while he continually denied them boarding because the name on the passport didn't exactly match the ticket, or because the number of bags shoved towards him wasn't paid for. We were all crushing together, both trying to get closer to him and to still, somehow, give him enough space to indicate respect; He seemed to speak French, Spanish, and Portuguese, yet most of the people here spoke in what sounded to my ears like Arabic, or maybe other languages that I don’t have much familiarity with. 

Eventually, the man turned towards me and took my passport from my outstretched hand. He briefly looked at my photo and then at my face. “What a beautiful American passport,” he comments. “Thank you!” I smile and let the corners of my eyes crinkle unnaturally. Taking it back, I give him my bag and board the bus unchallenged. The taste of tobacco lingers, sour, on the back of my tongue as I take my long-awaited seat: my home for the next 24 hours.