On the 32

Route 32 comes to my neighborhood from Capitol Hill, not far from the Supreme Court and the Library of Congress. It stops right in front of the National Archives where the Declaration of Independence is on display. In morning rush, it’s mostly full of working stiffs, the D.C. version of the office lades and office men. Salary men and salary women are on the metro. But, there is the lady in the black knit suit – the the St. John-kind, not the sweatsuit kind. With big gold jewelry and a rollie briefcase packed with something. Without seeing inside, it might be full of papers, but if it were full of peanut butter crackers, we would be none the wiser. We treat her like it is full of papers. There are mothers with small children, little girls with tight braids and beads, still half asleep, curled on the seat. There are high school students who have shed their sheltering parents, knowing, loudly, calling out teach other at the bus stop. "Getting pregnant is serious, I always use a condom. I like that bag of hers I wonder where she got it." Further down on the 32. Later in the morning, it becomes transport for the halt and the lame. The buses kneel like elephants, giving the elderly and others an easier climb up. Seats fold up and wheelchairs click into place. Walkers and their wielders have enough space to rotate around. Drivers wait until everyone is settled, seated, comfortable; they answer questions, give people the benefit of the doubt, the route’s got to be run anyway and it’s the public’s bus; Yodas of the city street, cab drivers seem like scalpers by comparison. We pass the President at the White House, glide by the World Bank which really isn’t a bank, and then slip into shopping Nirvana, the boutiques and small alleyways of Georgetown, and on to the prestige department stores of Chevy Chase. From the 32 you can take it all in – judiciary, legislature, to executive; business card to credit card; global to micro-local.