The inky purple hue of dawn crept through the window, blurred forms slowly took shape and sprouted color.  From the silence came the familiar, high-pitched cry of a newborn, cutting through the air like a chefs knife.  The couch i was sleeping on was pressed up against the same wall the crying came from, a mere one foot of concrete is all that separated me from the piercing waves of that small but mighty voice.  I listened as his mother cooed softly, calming him and returning to silence.

It was my goal to catch the 09:04 train, but time seems to tick by faster when there’s a baby in town and I knew by 08:00 I was not going to be on that train, so reset my sights upon the 09:37.  Taking my sweet time enjoying my cup of joe, i eventually hopped on the bike and cruised to town, just in time to miss that train as well.  With another 30 minutes to kill, I leaned against a wide cement pillar and let myself become part of the passing flow, watching Sunday morning unfold at the Bern Bahnhof.

  There’s quite the contrast in energy during a hello and a goodbye.  Like the difference between a flashlight with fresh batteries and one about to die. Or how the red light on my old GameBoy Color would glow like fresh blood, then slowly fade to dried rust before blinking out.  

Hellos vibrate high: children running into the open arms of a relative crouching on their heels, a man failing to hide how thrilled he is to see his family, a woman lighting up unapologetically at the sight of their man, or the more subtle embrace of two old lovers, their eyes dancing with joy.  

Goodbyes hum lower: tight embraces that don’t want to let go, like two pieces of Velcro peeling apart slowly, reluctantly. Eyes wet, throats tight, one last glance over the shoulder before they round the corner and disappear.

And then there are the others—those with earbuds jammed in both ears, noses two inches from their phones, nearly colliding with strangers. The humming of tiny suitcase wheels spinning fast. Scarves flying, jackets flapping, bodies in motion racing against time toward platforms. Toddlers sitting on daddies shoulders, wide-eyed, taking it all in from above—his little face lit with wonder.

I could have observed people until my train departed, but then came the unmistakable pressure from deep within the bowels of yet another poo brewing.  Having flushed a solid two of them down the pipes already, this third one took me by surprise.  I was thoroughly bummed, thought i was in the clear, strategically showering AFTER my second poop and had already pinned today being day with a squeaky clean hiney.  Alas, shit happens.  

Luckily, this wasn’t my first rodeo. I knew better than to roll the dice with the Bahnhof bathrooms and knew exactly where a clean, secluded john was.  In a nearby building, the generation house, i plopped myself down in silence on a freshly cleaned bowl boasting the bluish bubbles of none other than toilet cleaner.  I tried my best to let is out gently, with dignity, but this one was a runner, falling mercilessly into the water like a warm can of chicken noddle soup dumped from shoulder height. The water ricocheted straight back onto my freshly cleaned cheeks with what was now undoubtedly poop water.  But i just couldn't stop, it was like my bowels were performing an exorcism, all hands on deck, purging my colon of all malevolent waste with god-like fury.  I let out a groggy moan and slapped both palms against the stall walls like I was riding out an earthquake.  When it was over, I sat there dazed, not knowing what to do with myself. 

Now, I am part of an exclusive group who sometimes feel compelled to share photo evidence of especially impressive aftermath, deemed shareworthy due to girth, color, specks of corn, surface tension breaching whales or simply its amount of curls.  Unfortunately, the hurricane i just produced will never be justified with a photo, rather its one of those, “ya had to have been there” type of masterpieces.  So i calmly wiped my cheeks, took one last good look at the watery battlefield, slightly frowning in satisfaction and flushed er down.   

    Once I got to Thun, I had four minutes to hop off the train, walk to the herd of buses lined up at the bus station and find where bus B55 was idling for Wimmis.  Now picture an American sized parking lot, only smaller and packed claustrophobically with seven lanes of buses labeled A through G. Naturally, bus B55 was not in the B row of buses, it was not in any of the rows of buses, No, it was in a totally different area across the parking lot by itself like some dweeb at the middle school dance.  

Once on board, I settled into my seat. Then came the sound.  The woman behind me was eating a sandwich, to put it gently, for as she chewed, the suction of food between her gums, teeth and braces was piercingly loud, making the roar of the engine seem lille a distant ocean.  Imagine you're lying on a picnic blanket on a warm summer night and there is an orchestra playing way on the other side of the park.  Although the distant is great, you can hear them clear enough to know it’s Debussy’s notorious Clair de lune, except some new aged, punk as bitch hipster of a clown decided it was some artistic move to remake it by throwing in a trumpet and that trumpet is sitting immediately behind you and brass harmonizing into your right ear.  It sent shivers down my spine.  Aside from her chewing, her long acrylic nails clicked and clacked as she fondled her chic starbucks looking ass cups, one of those insulated and textured, plastic ones with the screw top lid and plastic straw sticking out halfway to mars.