There is a sound that cuts through the bird calls and the barking dogs. It drifts high above the other cars, not louder, per say, but more persistent, more familiar as though this sound belongs here more than all the others. It is the sound of the local bus drifting near. It is a reminder that you should be ready, stationed at the pole that marks its brief interlude.
On Joan Maragall, west of the sights and smells of Barcelona, a yellow-framed bus eases up the slope of the street searching for passengers. The buses here are not like anywhere else in the world. They weave through streets barely two car lengths wide. There are cars parked on those streets, some pressed up so high against the sidewalks that pedestrians must turn sideways to get by.
The bars inside are to be held, even when sitting, for these buses are known for taking hair pin curves like their smaller and lighter F1 cousins. On the downhills the back wheels might leave the earth, spinning freely for a second or two gripping fruitlessly at the air. Pebbles spray from the sidewalks of the nearby embankments, clanking down steep ravines rolling towards the clear blue ocean.
If you were to look out the window and over the edge towards the ocean you would see trains slithering by, sparking on rails that hold them in place. The buses of Castelldelfels are tethered only by their will and a desire to reach the designated stops on time.
Sometimes they drift off course, meandering into the track of a different bus with a different name or number. When this happens a passenger will call out loudly to the driver. He or she will call back, and a heated conversation will begin in rapid-fire Catalan. Throughout the bus, passengers gripping the rails or seated with their hands folded neatly in their laps will nod along and murmur, always taking the side of the passenger. In time, the driver will relent and draw the bus back to its appointed route, never apologizing, but always correcting in time for you to make your stop.
When the sun grows heavy and slips from the sky, the dogs cease their barking. The cars fade from the road. The sound of laughter and music rises from households stacked in the hills like steps. Underneath it a separate sound persists long into the dark. It is a familiar sound. Persistent. It reminds you that there will always be a way home.