Bus 67

Perhaps there was a strike somewhere, or perhaps it was the normal Sunday schedule. Bus number 67 was full that September afternoon. In the front row sat a lovely couple of the generation and upbringing who, you could just tell, always dressed properly for going out. Both in tan overcoats, he wore a fedora and plaid scarf. She, a wool knit beret, black gloves and proper brown ankle boots. They sat contentedly, chatting quietly, apparently immune to the fatigue and alienation that afflicts bus passengers around the world.

We climbed aboard the 67 at the Nation stop, fighting through our bags and carry-ons to swipe our tourist transit passes on the ticket scanners. The couple looked up at us with simultaneous bright smiles. He started to get up and point to his seat, but we shook our heads, no, thank-you. I threw our carry-ons onto a small rack. They couple shuffled closer against the window trying to make room for one of us.

The phrase book would be a waste, so with body language, hand signals and a few mispronounced words we tried to explain that we wanted to stand. We chose to take the bus, not the faster metro, so we could see everything, not miss a moment, a street scene or, if lucky, an encounter.

Their smiles brightened and warmed. They spoke to us and occasionally pointed out the window. We did not understand.

Later we talked about the lovely elderly couple and invented stories about where they were going. Visiting grandchildren? Were a few sweets in her handbag? They would not be going shopping as most stores closed Sundays. To or from church?

My inventions grew more elaborate. They were visiting his widowed elder sister in the 13th. His wife would make tea and clean the apartment while he'd attempt again to convince her to move somewhere she'd not be alone. “But I am alone, cher frère,” the sister always replied.

They got off the 67 just before Place d'Italie. He scampered down the stairs first, then offered his arm to help her down. We turned to look through the window. We watched, hoping to wave goodbye. A folded umbrella was in one arm; his love in the other. His chest was out, his chin was up. His step was light as he led her from the curb into the Autumn afternoon. This is how to take your girl out on a Sunday afternoon. This is how I've always taken my girl out.