The bus stations of San Antonio in Texas remain the beatest places in the USA with their solemn appearances, grimy walls, hot interiors and its melange of interesting characters. In a society run over by cars, only the very poor assemble here. But these are also the places where every stranger talks to every other stranger, unsheathed from the latex of civilization, and even the quietest introvert finds something to share from deep within her closet. Everyone lights up as snot-nosed Filipino kids jauntily play around their mother like a swarm of ducklings around the queen mother’s super strut. The Hispanic lady sitting next to me talks on length about her good old days when she could walk all the way instead of waiting for the bus till her heart got weaker. The driver of another bus takes his break along with us and claims that my t-shirt is in his honor; as evidence, he shows me his identity document with the name Zapata on it. Noisy mixed race kids take their turns to caress the pregnant belly of a stranger woman whom her husband befriends by offering gum. At one corner, a night rider, dressed like Gene Simmons without the paint, attempts a serious conversation at length with a bank’s customer service on loudspeaker mode, amusing us all around. The only formally dressed person is a young Mormon on duty, smiling at everyone in the name of the lord. We all got time in our hands. Our patient eyes say it all; we are in a different world from the fast cars around us chasing the exits to expressways. The bus may come anytime as it pleases, but we are in the company of friends. Where else can you see the humanity of a big tattooed white arm offering his bucket of roasted nuts to a stranger black lady who looks like the primeval grandmother of all?