Bustop Yoga and Creole Pete (The Grey Line Journals)

The seats are perfect height.

I throw my leg up on the backrest for some outer hip extensions and hamstring stretches, with upper body twists and spine extensions for each of them. I'd complete the set with a downward dog and cobra pose, but I don't want my shirt, nor any other part of me other than the bottom of my shoes to ever touch the floor of the top level of a double-decker bus. Man, I feel good. It's even more fun when the bus is moving, it gives the balance element a whole new factor, and it tends to give the midtown hotties and cheerful Mexican construction workers a smile.

On nice days like today, you can even close your eyes and pretend you're drifting down a river standing poised and focussed on a gently gliding raft. The sun is rising over the east side, slowly creeping it's way over each story, topping the midtown climb before it peaks over the Empire State at just about 10:47 this time of year. It's late August, and the summer sweat-pit has been broken, the air is finally moving again and the garbage stench that had been clinging to the moisture and smog-soaked air seems to have finally moved down the coast to the Jersey Shore where it belongs (Sorry, J) and I can feel the crisp autumn freshness that'll be soon be rising up from the falling leaves of the Sycamore trees up and down Allen st. Sycamores.

It's almost enough to drown out the honking cabs and the infuriated swearing of Creole Pete.

See, the two drivers I get most often are Shorty Lou and Creole Pete. Shorty Lou is a nice guy, quiet, doesn't cause a big fuss when it comes to tips, and we have similar schedules. Creole Pete is a solid built guy from Haiti and speaks with a Creole accent. Every time he sees me, he grips me by the shoulder and says "Leevee! Lez go!" He knows I make good tips, and he's a quick driver, so I'm okay with his sometimes forceful approach to getting me on his bus. It also means less time standing around waiting for the dispatchers to get to me. He also yells at all the Euros in French when they don't tip.

The first half goes quickly, concluded with a big Australian pay-off. A whole pack of down-under senior citizens leave the bus with a quick "Thanks mate" and about a Washington apiece. We end up with $9 apiece, which a;int bad for a late-season half-tour. We're left with a pair of two-bit South Asians left up top.

"Fuck eet!" Put dem on de next bus!" Creole Pete declares. I make up some nonsense about the bus going out of service and toss 'em on the bus behind us. As we're pulling out around the Staten Island Ferry, we both have a good laugh at the dispatcher who authorized no such action. "You want to waste your voice on two people?" He asks me, knowing the answer already. And so, as Allen turns into 1st ave, I'm about halfway through my yoga routine when I pass by another bus with five people on the back and a tour guide rambling the exact same spiel he would give if the bus had fifty. And they all turn to observe the bus next to them without a single tourist up top, and a guide sitting serenely in lotus position.

I think it's going to be a good week.