Cold, then Warm.

Cold, in the rain.

It was a few degrees in the evening, my warm breath misting up into the air, and i was shifting my feet quickly across the bridge. I'd just visited the Andy Warhol Museum, and now searched my way back downtown to catch the bus.

I waited, as did everyone else. Tramps, the elderly, the disadvantaged. Rarely the caucasian, unless aged. Students, korean or chinese. Dreadlocks, but they were more cool than scary. Bus driver after bus driver, african american, female, middle-aged, sometimes an old man. I waited.

The drizzle was Freezing, Trickling. Drop by drop. I dug my hands deep into my pockets. Boarded the bus, and couldn't get my hands to unfold. Pulled out the student pass and showed it to the rugged driver edgily. He gave a friendly grunt.

Sat down, wearied and frozen. Cold, whispering silence. Then it cheered up. Lovely small talk with the old lady next to me. Then, as common as anything, people around joined in, chipped in their few words or the occasional question. It was soft, humble and welcoming; the cries of a baby, the falling groceries after a rough turn, the pitter-patter of raindrops on the windows. The goodbyes we said as we got down the bus. Back to our own lives. Did we belong there, or here?

It was cold, then warm.

And probably one of my most memorable moments here in Pittsburgh.