Nastepna Stacja
Awkwardly loping across Budowlana, pausing at the island between the street lanes, a safe haven from the Polish race car drivers, I hear the ringing of the tram bell. Roughly ten seconds until departure. I have to make this car. It still has space, a rare commodity on these morning cars. I could wait five minutes or so for the next next tram (line three) but in those five minutes, hoards of other scurrying up-stream Poles will squeeze me out of a potential ride, not even leaving room for an anemic twig like myself.
I pick up the pace and at the mercy of a patient conductor I vault myself through the folding red and yellow doors, the cover of my messenger bag being just pinched as they shut behind me. Still largely un-oriented to the tram interior, the cars slide back for the slightest of moments and then aggressively lurches forward and on their way. The other travelers and myself all swing around wildly searching for something to grasp and brace ourselves against the St. Vitus like dance of the 1960’s Konstal 13N. Hands overlap on the yellow bars but quickly separate as to avoid any sense of intimacy, disregarding the obvious fact that personal space is a comfort not afforded here. The few older woman not already seated stumble and harangue their way into seats of those still possessing some semblance of nimbleness.
