It’s a couple of weeks now that I have a new friend: the janitor of the Bergamo bus station. Those little men who wear a bizarre uniform and spend their day reading high literature like various low levels tabloids, yellow journalism on its worst expression and other masterpieces while sitting on a chair behind a green plastic table set only with a little box for coins. We see each other pretty much every morning, so that instead of asking me for the fifty cents I need to use the bathroom, he looks at me, smiles and cut it short with a “Just go!” and a gesture of his hand indicating the bathrooms.
Is this a privilege?
I still have to decide whether or not it is a privilege to have free entrance to the toilets of a bus station, for now I feel quite a jerk. I can probably afford this luxury after that morning when I walked straight to the bathroom door without giving the poor janitor a glance. I remember babbling something like “Give them later!” (referred to the coins). For a month now it seems that my intestines have stopped working at all, I think I have the curse of public transport. For those who don’t know it, it’s a specific curse that makes you feel good when you’re at the bus stop waiting for buses, trains or whatever, but as soon as you get on the bus, it causes a sort of detonation in your belly, forcing you all the way with cold sweats and, once the commute is over, the classic penguin walk to the nearest bathroom.
And that’s exactly how I met the janitor. I have to admit that those specific toilets (not with free entrance) are quite decent: cleanliness is acceptable and you can always find the toilet paper. Not bad for being in a bus station. Hoping that sooner or later this funny curse will leave, I will see the positive side of it, because true friendships, to be such, must last over time.