A person’s life can be written in many ways. One of them is via bus lines, which were essential in its history. We Buenos Aires residents have an extraordinary car transportation network that we do not appreciate enough. That’s right: the units are noisy; Some drivers are reckless; Insufficient frequencies; We travel like cattle. But still, we can get from one end of the capital and the suburbs to the other without needing more than one transfer.
Many envy the subway system in major European capitals, but because they never stop to think about our connections, Unusual spider web covers 13,285 square kilometers of AMBA in volatile, intestinal-like ways. A plan should be drawn up and displayed in Malba as a work by Kandinsky. A map of the London Underground (so elegant in its perfectly circular appearance, and so inspiring) would be embarrassing.
When I feel nostalgic, I remember that as a child I would ask my uncle Morocho, a retired truck driver, which bus would take me from our home in Pompeia to a certain point in another neighbourhood. He would always tell me the correct syntax, and sometimes he would call lines with old numbering that was no longer used and had to be translated. GPS was infallible.
I’m excited to think I inherited his superpowers. When someone comes up and asks me what Bondi to drink, I’m absolutely sure. It’s hard for me to say “I don’t know.” It hurts me, actually. I hate when some people take out their mobile phones to settle doubts instantly and I don’t have time to make any mistake.
A friend told me that line 6 no longer exists, as if he had told me that the Basilica of Pompeii or the Bridge of Sinai had collapsed. The No. 6 was the best line through the neighborhood: good frequency, impeccable cars, great destinations. We took the six of us downtown when downtown was still worth it, when it was full of movie theaters and starting to fill up with Pumper Nics.
Number 6 was the line of my first romantic dates, on my school trips, on my trips to the Sports Journalists’ Circle school. I spent my adolescence and early youth in their lofty light blue, white and black units that never left you on your feet.
When I moved to a nearby neighborhood, I never used it again. Aside from the color change of the 1990s (light blue gave way to green with a few touches of red), the number 6 has stuck in my memory as the invincible line, the best in the world, the guarantee.
My friend told me that his route is now operated by 50, which has turned it into a branch that no longer reaches Retiro. An old unit has been restored to its original colors by the Bus, Trolley and Coach Museum. I view it as an act of justice.
If a time machine existed, I would ask to return one Saturday afternoon to Pompeii in 1975, to go on the 6th to see the premiere of… shark With that girl I loved. And we come back together, and we share one seat, Fascinated by each other in a wonderful and fleeting feeling.