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It’s early morning, a wintry, cold Saturday. The driver gets up with a cold. In the building everyone is still sleeping. He turns on the radio, has hurriedly breakfast with a coffee and some biscuits. Feeling a bit cold, he hums a popular melody making up words in English, though. Soon it will be Christmas. He leaves home without waking up anyone and walks to his old car, driving to the bus depot. His day shift is from 6 a.m to 3 p.m. on bus 8. He starts his day while the town around is still asleep and streetlights are on. Fifteen minutes pass but nobody gets on the bus. He likes watching around and beyond the windows of the flats which slowly open, thinking that the same passengers he regularly meets every day have their own lives in their homes. At the bus stop in Via Verdi, an elderly lady, dressed like a duchess, with a heavy eye shadow and green boots on, gets on bus 8, happily sits on the highest seat and shortly after gets off near a large building. He knows that at the place every day some volunteers play cards, watch movies or write poems with people whose families are away. The lady stands up long before her stop and walks to the exit doors, smiling and waiting to reach her house. The bus-driver thinks of her as a young and beautiful lady in her youth, maybe also rich as her pace and attire suggest a glorious family past. After two bus stops, the vehicle slowly gets more crowded: workers’ time and a bit later students’ time: they will definitely occupy the whole space. Among them there is a girl. She isn’t very tall, thin, with bulky black hair, looking like a helmet on her head, and blue thick-framed glasses. She always looks happy, a bit naive, carrying in her hands some books which don’t fit into her schoolbag, nearly as big as her. She occasionally takes a look. He is delighted to drive her to school every morning and considers himself as a second-class parent and tutor, which makes him even happier. After the host of the students and their high-pitched voices, everything is quiet again: only three passengers left. One is a short man, bald, in a black raincoat and a newspaper under his arm. He never takes a seat. Then there is an old man who spends two hours on the bus, two regular rides every morning. Sometimes they engage in a conversation on the local Mayor, the new market or the price of fish. The third passenger is a foreigner, dark-skinned with long black hair set with a headband, shining and lively grey eyes - he seems very polite when he says "Good morning", getting on the bus. He always carries a big bag with him, the driver knows what it is; it is a drum, he has often seen similar bags containing drums, played in the streets by nice-looking buskers on the pavements, sitting next to a box to collect some small change. Everyday his passenger gets off in front of the conservatory, where there are always boys and girls waiting for him. And here is the fruit and vegetable market stop. Giovanni is over there. He is a bit ill, as they say; he always carries a plastic bag around, this bag is full of other plastic bags, paper ones, white, green, as it happens. Every day they are different. When he gets on the bus, he greets everyone; he knows many people and soon after he starts talking to the driver. Often he invites him to take part in some new event, and in childlike manners the driver nods without knowing where, when or what, but that does not matter. Giovanni always seems happy to know that he will meet a friend that evening, "I'll introduce you to Don Filippo" he says every time. The last hour is always the longest. At last it is 3 p.m, his colleague is ready to take the night shift, the long-awaited moment. The driver gets off near the car park to drive in his old car.