Morning of Sleet
Despite the terrible weather in New York, public schools remain open. I didn't mind. I was looking forward to doing the follow-up lesson from yesterday, especially after I got such wonderful feedback from my CT and my field specialist.
Unfortunately, the neighborhood I live in seems to think that none of its residents ever leave the area (which is true, to a certain extent). So the bus doesn't stop by the route near by house and instead terminates halfway. Knowing this from the many traumatizing experiences of hiking in knee-deep snow as a student, I dressed appropriately and trekked the seven blocks against the whipping sleet and ice to where the bus would come.
At 5:30 AM, about 10 minutes into my journey, I joined a troupe of fellow snow-trekkers. Along the way, we shared details of our short but brutal walk and laughed about the fact that, by tomorrow, all this would seem like a dream. We finally managed to get to the stop and huddled together under the plexi-glass bus shelter. 30 minutes went by, and there was no bus. That wasn't odd; we expected that. We passed the time by sharing where we were headed and whether we were students, workers, or anything else. It was a good, sociable time.
At 6:44, the bus arrived. We rejoiced; some raised their arms and some clapped each other on the back and shoulder with good cheer. Quickly, we scurried on the bus; students were let in first, to get first dibs on seats, then the elderly. Then we the workers climbed in. It was warm, and the windows were completely fogged up -- so were my glasses. We arranged ourselves inside, some standing and others sitting. The bus closed its doors and the driver shifted to continue driving.
The bus jerked forward an inch, but moved no more. The sound of tires grinding endlessly against wet slush sounded mockingly in our ears.
We were stuck.
Oh well, I thought, having foreseen such a possibility. I pulled out a sandwich and a thermos of hot coffee from my bag. At least I'm warm.
Unfortunately, the neighborhood I live in seems to think that none of its residents ever leave the area (which is true, to a certain extent). So the bus doesn't stop by the route near by house and instead terminates halfway. Knowing this from the many traumatizing experiences of hiking in knee-deep snow as a student, I dressed appropriately and trekked the seven blocks against the whipping sleet and ice to where the bus would come.
At 5:30 AM, about 10 minutes into my journey, I joined a troupe of fellow snow-trekkers. Along the way, we shared details of our short but brutal walk and laughed about the fact that, by tomorrow, all this would seem like a dream. We finally managed to get to the stop and huddled together under the plexi-glass bus shelter. 30 minutes went by, and there was no bus. That wasn't odd; we expected that. We passed the time by sharing where we were headed and whether we were students, workers, or anything else. It was a good, sociable time.
At 6:44, the bus arrived. We rejoiced; some raised their arms and some clapped each other on the back and shoulder with good cheer. Quickly, we scurried on the bus; students were let in first, to get first dibs on seats, then the elderly. Then we the workers climbed in. It was warm, and the windows were completely fogged up -- so were my glasses. We arranged ourselves inside, some standing and others sitting. The bus closed its doors and the driver shifted to continue driving.
The bus jerked forward an inch, but moved no more. The sound of tires grinding endlessly against wet slush sounded mockingly in our ears.
We were stuck.
Oh well, I thought, having foreseen such a possibility. I pulled out a sandwich and a thermos of hot coffee from my bag. At least I'm warm.