Last Friday it rained hard. It was one of those storms that came on suddenly, preceded by a fanfare of thunder and lightening. Catherine was out of town. I had walked to Dupont, partly to get some exercise, partly to return a movie at Blockbuster. Fortunately, the downpour waited until I got inside. (Ironic side note: the movie I was returning was 'The Weather Man.') I browsed the movies for a while to kill some time, but the rain was still coming down hard when I left. So I made a dash to the circle to take the bus back to Metro Center. I had an umbrella with me, but it made little difference with the slanting rain. I was pretty well soaked from the waist down.

If my timing for the walk was bad, my timing at the bus stop was perfect. I could see the bus as I was coming from the opposite side of the circle and thought I might miss it at first. Luckily, it was stopped at a red light, which gave me time enough to make it to the stop before it got there.

I like riding the bus on a weekend night, especially the 42. You almost always wind up talking to somebody. If you ride the bus during the day, with commuters, you tend to find people locked in their own worlds, listening to iPods, reading newspapers. On Friday night, you meet people not afraid to chat. And that's good, even if it's sometimes a little strange at first.

I found a seat on the bus. There was a woman in the seat across from me counting change from a plastic cup. She had at least $10 in small change and she was stacking it into piles in the seat next to her. And more importantly for her, she had a hotel key. She was proud of this and showed it off to me and the others near her. She was sleeping indoors that night and she was happy about that. She started talking about her kids, how she didn't see them much anymore, how they had grown up and made their own lives. She hoped they would have a 'better life.' She talked about goodness and how it isn't so easy to find anymore. Her voice was raspy and it lingered on each vowel. After she made a statement, her jaw would jut to the left as she waited for a response from me, which was usually some sort of affirmation of the sentiment she had expressed. What could I add? We talked about how the rain was long overdue. We shared a mutual excitement over the recent Terps Women's B-ball victory. Then she got off the bus one stop before mine.

As I exited the bus, I nodded to the driver. 'Have a good one,' he said. It was a standard farewell you make to people. Nothing special. But his tone - it somehow made me feel connected to this moment. To this city. This street. This bus. To this driver who had gotten me from point A to point B. To this language we shared and air we breathed.

"You do the same," I said. And meant it.

Outside, the rain had let up, but the sidewalk was still wet. I crossed the street and headed north on 11th.

It's really easy to be connected, in the Wired sense, to people across great distances. And at the same time, it's really easy to let ourselves become disconnected from the people standing a couple of feet away from us. Yeah, being connected, in the human sense, is a bit harder to do. And sometimes it takes a bus ride in the rain and a conversation with a stranger to remind us what that feels like.

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