Now that I am trying to remember her, the elderly lady who must be below five feet tall because I look down at her in my memory, I only recall her in shades of yellow. It is possible that she has a very wrinkled face, eyes pouched so tightly in bags of skin that I cannot surmise their color, a shock of white hair cut at geometric angles. Her clothes might be plain, or I am just bad at recalling outfits. Either way, she appears in sepia.

She stands in front of the peeling white and blue wall tagged with the black inscriptions: “El Choco 411” and “Yaris 413.” I want to document my time waiting for and riding the guagua: Number 27 from Palatino in Cerro to Avenida de los Presidentes in Vedado. I like the guagua culture. How people cooperate, don’t get irritable over lack of space, and operate on an honor system. How I have never seen a bus map or schedule, and sometimes I don’t see signs, but somehow everyone knows where to catch the bus, when it will come, and where it will go.

She waits, just to the left of these tags, under the shadow cast by the awning of the parada. An aesthetically pleasing photograph forms in my imagination. Gathering my nerves, I approach this very serious looking woman. I try to explain in Spanish, “I’m a student from the United States. I’m doing a project for school about the guagua. Can I take a picture of you?” Not a very convincing argument. She squints at me, than quarter smiles and shrugs. “You don’t want me to?” I ask. She shrugs again. Shakes her head. I stammer, “I’m sorry,” then wander away from her line of sight to the other side of the bus stop.

Discouraged, I contemplate not asking other people for their photographs. I feel slightly criminal as I snap shots of the bus stop from afar, of people’s backs, justifying my actions by reminding myself that I would never take a picture close-up or of someone’s face without their permission.

“¿Que es el último?” call out three different people as they arrive in succession over the course of a few minutes. “¿Veinte-siete?” responds the chorus. When each arrival nods, someone raises his or her hand. They acknowledge each other, then lean, or settle into conversation, or lower slowly to a bench. I move to sit across from a group of three: Two men and a woman. I try again to ask for a photograph. This time I add the disclaimer that I know it’s strange but I think the bus is interesting and they have a bus stop sign behind them. They translate my muddled Spanish to each other, then look at me blankly. The woman with the straightened hair and smooth brown cheeks confirms that I want a picture of her. She breaks out into laughter, shakes her head at me. No. I apologize, banish myself to another bench. Procure myself a place in line after the last woman who asked. Raise my hand when the next person asks. Clutch my 5 centavos CUC (the closest equivalent to 40 centavos moneda nacional, but still worth more than one entire peso cubano. Even my pennies are privileged). Try to listen in on the snippets of conversation around me, but the Spanish is too quiet, or too far, or too fast.

The 27 arrives, and because it’s Sunday, there is not a huge crowd scrambling to climb onto the bus or squeezing into an already limited space. I stand behind the woman with the headscarf and wait my turn to press my coin into the driver’s firm hand.

I plan to take pictures on the guagua. I sit in the back, thinking I will continue to photograph from afar. I hope to capture the interactions of friendly strangers talking about baseball, or the way a couple doesn’t mind being forced up against each other, or a child sitting on her mother’s lap, or the raucous laughter of uniformed students on their way back from school. But another old lady sits next to me, and I feel ashamed. I can’t take secret pictures with her watching.

If we were in the front of the bus, she might be sitting and I might be standing, arms outstretched to grab hold of the bar overhead. She might offer to hold my bag in her lap for me, like other old women do for the younger ones who give up their seats. Then maybe we could talk, and maybe I could take her picture. Instead, I am afraid to bother her, and I take a few blurry photos of views out the window before the vibrations of the motor rock me to sleep. Remember, it’s Sunday, and there’s not much going on anyway. When I wake up, another woman is sitting next to me and I have to squeeze past her, allowing her to hold my elbow and help me along, “Con permiso,” past a few men laughing and shouting, “¡Permiso!” until I am stumbling out onto the curb, taking a parting shot at the guagua with my camera as it roars away, turning and heading the twenty five blocks back to the Residencia.