Another bus ride

awaits

as I make my way to the bus stop
with an apple in my hand and 
pieces of it in my mouth.

The bus arrives
and the bus driver speaks to me 
in English.
I respond to him in Cypriot.
He takes a second to decide whether
he thinks I'm Cypriot
or just a foreigner who 
has learned the language well.
'One fifty please',
the last thing he said.
The bus starts moving and I sit.

I sit between Romanian, Bulgarian
and Russian workers.
Amongst us are some English
tourists
and you can tell who's on holiday
and who's not.

A Russian lady 
is on the phone
in Cypriot
complaining about the long working 
hours.
I feel empathy.
Taking a bus ride that takes an hour,
for the distance of fifteen minutes,
isn't something extremely pleasant if you're on your way to work 
every day.

I consider getting a motorbike.
Then again,
I haven't driven one before.
I consider getting a car.
Then again,
I haven't got the funds for it.

This starts frustrating me
but I'm in a good mood.
I am a worker
just like the other workers.
I will take the bus to work
because at the moment it's my only 
means of transportation.

30 minutes to go.