Dark bus at midnight.
The driver clears out seats for us,
screams something in Greek, which I don�t speak.
Still, it�s clear what he said. What they always say.
Make room for the Americans.
The men obey. We find our places,
and try to breathe. The air is rich and rank, full of sweat
and laughter. These are working men, laborers, Albanians.
There are no jobs in Albania, so they have come to Greece.
Their families stay in Albania and wait, and hope, and starve.
Now, these men are going home.
Once again I wish my hair was dark,
my clothes dirty,
my skin weatherbeaten and brown.
I look like a tourist. I am a missionary.
I can�t yet tell the difference.
No one can.
On this bus I am more foreign
than these foreigners.
The Greeks pander to Americans
and kick the Albanians.
I would trade skins with these men in a second.
To be loathed for your language
must be better
than to be prized for your money.
(I am still young, and in love with pain.)
The man in front of me winks.
I wink back. (What am I supposed to do?)
He laughs, jokes with the worker
next to him, dressed in old denim and leather.
I don't think they know each other
but both are Albanian,
in this together. It�s enough.
He asks me something in that harsh tongue.
All I can say is I don't understand.
He laughs again, with the man in front of him.
I try to sleep.