Rudy and I took a train ride.
Full of busy travelers.
Heading south.
To San Diego.
And, well, unfortunately without any options, we sat in separate seats.
On opposite sides of the train.
Our legs were scrunched.
Shoulders tight.
And, for me, there was no view in sight.
Only tall seat-backs and a curtained window.
Eventually, though, our destination arrived.
Lines of harried riders plugged up the doorway.
Moving oh-so slowly.
Making their way out and away from the stationary car.
Scattering in various directions.
Us?
Well, we strolled towards the bay.
To the boat docks.
Admiring cruise, navel, and pirate ships.
Rudy and I walked.
Walked.
Walked.
And talked.
Talked.
Talked.
Even as we made our way back to the train station.
In anticipation of our clackity-clack ride back home.
We followed the rules.
We stood in line.
About half-way down.
For 20 long minutes.
Only to be told.
We picked the wrong line.
The business line.
Instead of coach.
“Huh?” we questioned.
“Wrong line,” Ms. Not-So-Polite said, with attitude, I might add.
“May we simply move over, horizontally, to the correct line?” Rudy asked.
“Nope, no-way, no-how,” Ms. Doesn’t-Give-a-Crap admonished.
“I don’t mind,” the guy next to us said. “No problem. No problem, at all.”
“I don’t think so!” Ms. Needs-To-Revamp-her-Manners bellowed.
“Move it! To the back of the line!” she added.
Whoa, we thought, feeling the heaviness of her negativity.
“Whatever,” we said, in unison.
And with attitude, I might add.
Yet, as difficult as it was to let it go, we walked.
To the very end of the very long line.
The line we should have been in all along.
And sat.
And complained.
About the injustice of people.
The rudeness they hold dear.
Until we laughed.
And thought how ironic.
That us, Rudy and I, ended up, literally, last, in line.
“Good guys really do finish last,” I sighed.
“Maybe not,” Rudy commented, as we sat down in the most spacious seats, next to the biggest window, with the best view. surrounded by a calming group of northbound riders.
BonaFideAffairs 