OVERSEAS BRIEFING

Author: Kelsey Rinehart

GUADALAJARA - The Office of Off-Campus Study neglects to mention to those headed off to study in Guadalajara that they will be risking their lives twice or thrice daily while abroad. But so it is in Guadalajara, the second largest of Mexico's metropoleis.

Several times a day, I muster my courage, take a deep breath and a monstrous leap of faith, and step onto the bus. Navigating the bus system in this city of more than 5 million people has been one of my more educational and life-threatening activities. Each day I meet the task with equal portions of stoicism, doubt, hopefulness and false security.

I wait patiently, enjoying the bright sun of another balmy, 75-degree day. I step off the curb, extend my arm, point and stare down the bus hurtling towards me.

Yes! I have successfully hailed it. It screeches to a stop and the door clangs open. Before my second foot is off the ground, the door is folding on me and we are lurching away.

Trying to grip the handrail and hold onto books and bags, I totter up the stairs and hand the driver - our courteous "chofer," in Spanish - my discounted ticket and student ID. He stares dubiously at my MiddCard and accelerates suddenly, throwing me into the line of people packed like sardines between the two rows of occupied seats. I mutter "disculpe," plant my feet firmly, grip the rail above my head, and try to ignore the fact that my face is just centimeters from some guy's neck.

We passengers lurch to and fro and slam into each other, equally helpless in the midst of the earthquake on wheels. Unable to maintain my fellow busgoers' disinterested stare and self-contained composure, I stifle a quiet laugh. We screech to a stop again, simultaneously cutting off two cars, running a red light and taking a turn on two wheels.

It doesn't seem physically possible for any more people to occupy the space of the bus, but, lo and behold, we´ve picked up three women hauling armfulls of flowers and two fellows toting guitars. We pack in tighter and the floral aroma permeates the bus, mercifully - if temporarily - masking other smells.

All of a sudden, the two musicians strum a few chords and break into a heartfelt, plaintive, tragically off-pitch ballad. Eventually, I recognize it as a Spanish version of "Last Kiss," the 1964 J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers song, (un)memorably covered by Pearl Jam a few years ago. They sing with such incredible conviction and abandon that I almost want to forgive their utter lack of talent and dump all my pesos into their tattered hats.

I am so touched and amused by the song, I almost miss the popsicle stand next to the university, my signal to disembark. I quickly reach over peoples' heads to ring the bell and squeeze my way past guitars and flowers and disgruntled travelers to the door at the end of the bus.

We heave to a halt once again, the door clangs open, and I jump down to the safety of the curb. I sigh and pause a moment, listening as the noise of the city swallows the strains of "Last Kiss."

I congratulate myself on having survived yet another bus trip, and remind myself that I still have two hours of class to steel myself for the next.