Sometimes, The Universe Waits for You at a Bus Stop

There are moments in life that feel too small to matter at the time, like an unexpected rain shower or a leftover pastelito you didn’t think would still be good. But sometimes, the seemingly small moments stick with you. They bookmark your memory, whispering their lesson long after the pages of your life turn. That's what happened to me on an ordinary Tuesday when a stranger taught me something about love—right there on a plastic bench at a Hialeah bus stop.

It started with me sulking—because of course it did. I had just gone through a breakup with someone I thought I’d spend at least one good Netflix holiday rom-com marathon with. Instead, we ended with an argument over who got to keep the plant we bought together to “represent our growing relationship.” Spoiler alert: relationships can wilt faster than pothos when you forget to water them with effort. I let her have the sad little plant.

So, there I was, wallowing in my singlehood, my Cuban cafecito clutching hands trembling just slightly from caffeine and misplaced pride. That’s when I met him, the bus stop stranger: an older man with a straw fedora that looked like it belonged in a salsa album cover. He plopped down on the bench beside me, his cologne carrying a faint, familiar warmth—something between freshly baked bread and nostalgia.

“Mal de amores?” he asked. Bad love? Just two words, but they cut through the fog of my pity party like a machete at a sugarcane festival.

Act I: The Eccentric Wisdom of Bus Stop Yoda

I wasn’t sure what gave me away—the circles under my eyes, my slumped posture, or the trail of passive-aggressive texts my ex and I were probably still sending out into the ether. All I managed was a halfhearted “Maybe,” because who wants to admit heartbreak to a stranger wearing linen pants?

He laughed—one of those deep, chesty laughs that sound like a percussionist hitting the perfect rhythm. “Ah, amor. It’s like flan. Sweet when it’s good, but when it’s bad? It falls apart when you need it most.”

I blinked at him, unsure whether I was supposed to respond or simply marvel at the way he managed to sneak life advice into a dessert metaphor. But this man was on a roll. He rested back, adjusted his hat, and began regaling me with tales of his loves lost and found. He told me about his first crush back in Matanzas, the miscommunications that ended his first marriage, and how he met his current wife while arguing with her over the last mango at Publix. Their meet-cute sounded like something Gloria Estefan should’ve written a song about.

What made his advice land wasn’t how profound it was; it was how real it felt. “Chico,” he said, pointing at me with one expertly trimmed nail, “it’s not about falling in love. Falling is easy. It’s what you learn to stand up for that counts.”

That hit me. My ex and I? We were professional emotional stumblers but terrible at building anything steady to stand on. The man didn’t give me a checklist or a lecture; he just painted an image of love that felt vibrant, tangible, messy—and worth it.

Act II: The Rose-Colored Clarity of Cafetero Philosophy

As he kept talking, I realized he wasn’t trying to fix my life (thankfully, because I was a mess only therapy—and maybe time—could untangle). Instead, he was showing me how love is more like a domino game than a Disney movie. Half patience, half strategy, and just a little bit of flair.

Here’s what I got from his cafecito philosophy:

  • Don’t chase. Instead, pause and reflect. He told me, “When a domino fall happens, you don’t rush to set up again. You pause. You study the table. Love works the same way.” He explained that rushing into the next thing without understanding what crumbled last time only guarantees the same outcome again.

  • Value effort over perfection. “Over the years, I’ve learned even mangoes have bruises—and those are the sweetest parts,” he added with a grin. His point? Stop searching for perfection. The best relationships happen when you focus on consistency instead of fixating on one “flawless” version of love.

  • Play to Dance, Not to Win. Lastly, he said, “In salsa, all you need is rhythm and a partner willing to keep moving, no matter how many steps you miss.” The metaphor wasn’t lost on me. Some people see love as competition, a constant need to outdo or out-love the other. But he reminded me that true connection comes when you’re both in it to enjoy the dance—not trying to prove who leads better.

Around this time, his bus arrived. Before he hopped up and waved goodbye, he said, “Remember, mujer or hombre, we’re all just trying to find someone who will wait for us at the stop when life feels late.”

Act III: Love Is Found Everywhere (Even at the Bus Stop)

That man disappeared onto the Route 29 bus, and I never saw him again. But his words have stayed with me—perhaps because they felt as honest as cafecito at 3 p.m. on a Sunday. Love? It’s not grand gestures or checkboxes on a list. It’s what you build in the cracks and pauses, in the missed dance steps and shared mangoes.

Since that day, I’ve tried to take his wisdom into every relationship—not just romantically, but with family, friends, and even with myself. I don’t think he saw himself as some wise philosopher or relationship guru. He was just a man with stories to tell, willing to share a bench and some hard-earned lessons with an over-caffeinated, heart-sore stranger.

Conclusion: Take It One Bus Stop at a Time

So, here’s what I’ll tell you: the next time life leaves you sitting on a literal or figurative bench, chin in hand, remember this—wisdom can come from anywhere. Sometimes, it’s in a self-help book; other times, it’s in the playful yet poignant words of a stranger who smells like Hialeah and memories.

Who knew letting go of my ex’s pothos could teach me to stand taller? Who knew a bus stop chat could remind me to love with rhythm, patience, and just a hint of salsa flair? Life isn’t always going to give you clear directions or a map. But if you pay attention, sometimes, it’ll send you a stranger who points you toward the next stop.

Take their advice. Share your pastelito. And for the love of guava, keep your rhythm.