I was on the bus back from my boyfriend's place. It was late at night and I was zoning out when I got on the bus, but I did notice the black and white striped chef pants and white shirt of a man who got on at the same stop. He placed a fragrant stack of take-out boxes in a plastic bag next to him in the front seat of the bus.
I found my own seat further back and continued in my unfocused reverie until noises from the front of the bus began to permeate my consciousness.
"Oh man I like to get those lamb chops, you know, some good lamb chops, and then, mmm, I like to, mmm, stuff 'em with bleu cheese and cover 'em with onions, and then um, I like to sear 'em and bake 'em...." The cook was regaling the bus driver with his epicurian adventures and I got to eavesdrop.
And unlike the prattle of most front-seat-bus-talkers (ahem, Transit Man), the driver liked it: "Mmmm oh my god you making me hungry!" she said. The cook needed no more encouragement to continue on his best-of reel.
"And um, I like to get those collard greens, and cover them all up in butter, and I like to get some scallions..."
"Mmm-hmm!"
"And then I get some potatoes...."
"Mmm, oh yeah!"
I was initially kind of annoyed at the cook - maybe because I thought he was pestering the bus driver until I realized she was enjoying herself. But we reached my stop, I too was totally entranced by the cook's words and reluctantly got off the bus.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Seemingly normal bus driver actions in two parts
1) Last week I was on a bus (standing, of course, since rarely do I get a seat) and I realized we'd been stopped for sort of a long time. I craned my neck toward the front and saw that the bus driver was leaning out his window talking to a man with a little notebook. It is true that there are managers or overseers or whatever you might call them that keep track of buses and talk to the drivers but this, for some reason, seemed different. I wormed my way a little closer to the front to maybe hear what they were saying or see what his notebook said. To the best of my knowledge the bus driver was placing a bet on an upcoming futbol match.
2) Yesterday I was boarding a bus when the driver threw his gears into park and ran off the bus into the nearest kiosko, which is like a mini convenience store. I stood waiting patiently for him to return so I could pay my fare, assuming he was getting a pack of cigarettes since everyone smokes here. He left the bus running, the door open, and the keys in the ignition in the middle of a busy street with a bus full of people. When he bounded back on, he carried only a bottle of water from which he took one sip and then handed back to a woman without looking at her and with whom he seemingly had no connection. She said nothing and, when she got off the bus a few minutes later, didn't even give him a second glance.
2) Yesterday I was boarding a bus when the driver threw his gears into park and ran off the bus into the nearest kiosko, which is like a mini convenience store. I stood waiting patiently for him to return so I could pay my fare, assuming he was getting a pack of cigarettes since everyone smokes here. He left the bus running, the door open, and the keys in the ignition in the middle of a busy street with a bus full of people. When he bounded back on, he carried only a bottle of water from which he took one sip and then handed back to a woman without looking at her and with whom he seemingly had no connection. She said nothing and, when she got off the bus a few minutes later, didn't even give him a second glance.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Good Reads
I was sitting at the window seat just behind the pivoting joint of an articulated bus. A woman sat in one of the middle seats directly in front of me. She was reading A Little History of the World, a book I immediately noticed, because I've recently been reading portions of it between other novels.
A couple stops later, a man with a head cold sat down in the middle seat across from this woman, carrying nothing but a paperback copy of The Stand, by Stephen King. Setting aside the obvious coincidence of a man with a head cold reading a novel about the superflu, what's even stranger was I had also recently been reading the book. In fact, he owned the same edition I currently had in my bag.
I was amused at this point, but still willing to pass it off as nothing more than a mild coincidence. After all, The Stand, like most Stephen King novels, was a huge seller, and it's no surprise that someone might think to reread it amidst all the media hoopla about swine flu. And though "A Little History of the World" is no best-seller, it was recently released in paperback, and was a featured non-fiction item at Elliott Bay Books.
But then a woman sat next to me reading a bilingual copy of Dante's Paradiso, the sequel to his most famous work, Inferno. I've never read Paradiso, but I had been reading portions of Inferno recently, particuarly a bilingual translation with the Italian on the left side and the English on the right.
So there I was - suddenly surrounded by three books I had been at least partially connected to within the past week. And before that morning, they had seemed like disparate works to me, but as each passenger showed up in order, I started to see an overarching connection between them. There was the development of the world from pre-history to modernity; the speculative novel about humanity's near demise and ultimate redemption, and Dante's poetic vision of an ideal afterlife. Was the bus trying to send me some important message about the universe?
Maybe not. Just as I was stepping off the bus, the Flaming Lips were playing on my headphones: "Oh, oh, oh, finding the answer. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. Finding there ain't no answer to find."
A couple stops later, a man with a head cold sat down in the middle seat across from this woman, carrying nothing but a paperback copy of The Stand, by Stephen King. Setting aside the obvious coincidence of a man with a head cold reading a novel about the superflu, what's even stranger was I had also recently been reading the book. In fact, he owned the same edition I currently had in my bag.
I was amused at this point, but still willing to pass it off as nothing more than a mild coincidence. After all, The Stand, like most Stephen King novels, was a huge seller, and it's no surprise that someone might think to reread it amidst all the media hoopla about swine flu. And though "A Little History of the World" is no best-seller, it was recently released in paperback, and was a featured non-fiction item at Elliott Bay Books.
But then a woman sat next to me reading a bilingual copy of Dante's Paradiso, the sequel to his most famous work, Inferno. I've never read Paradiso, but I had been reading portions of Inferno recently, particuarly a bilingual translation with the Italian on the left side and the English on the right.
So there I was - suddenly surrounded by three books I had been at least partially connected to within the past week. And before that morning, they had seemed like disparate works to me, but as each passenger showed up in order, I started to see an overarching connection between them. There was the development of the world from pre-history to modernity; the speculative novel about humanity's near demise and ultimate redemption, and Dante's poetic vision of an ideal afterlife. Was the bus trying to send me some important message about the universe?
Maybe not. Just as I was stepping off the bus, the Flaming Lips were playing on my headphones: "Oh, oh, oh, finding the answer. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. Finding there ain't no answer to find."
Friday, October 16, 2009
Priorities
Wednesday night was a very important futbol game for Argentina against Uruguay. The winner of the game advanced to the 2010 World Cup while the loser has to fight for a spot in a play-off against Costa Rica. Uruguay and Argentina have both won the World Cup twice, and Argentina has qualified for the last 10 consecutive World Cups (Uruguay failed to qualify in 2006).
The importance of the game was complicated by the fact that their very controversial coach Diego Maradona is either loved or hated by Argentineans. As such, some people were actually rooting AGAINST Argentina in the hopes that it would cost him his job once and for all.
So, it was a Big Game.
Businesses without televisions closed early. People left the office early. Bars with televisions were crammed to the max. And, bus drivers were in a hurry to finish their routes.
I stood and waited, patiently, as not one but TWO busses, mostly empty, swooped past me and the 10 other people that gathered during my wait. One bus driver had to stop to let someone off, but to prevent any of the rest of us from getting on, he pulled up a half block from the stop. Silly me, I ran to catch it thinking it was his mistake. He would not open the door for me and zoomed off. I screamed an obscenity at his tail pipe, much to the delight of two teenage boys passing by.
"What do you expect?" one of them asked me. "His priority is futbol!"
The third bus driver must not have cared much either way, because he eased his overflowing bus to a stop and the 10 of us crammed on. The old lady I had been talking to and was then squashed into my armpit until I got off 10 minutes later smiled and said to me, "See? Some of us care more about money than futbol."
Argentina won 1-0. The game was much less interesting than my effort to get to the bar to watch it.
The importance of the game was complicated by the fact that their very controversial coach Diego Maradona is either loved or hated by Argentineans. As such, some people were actually rooting AGAINST Argentina in the hopes that it would cost him his job once and for all.
So, it was a Big Game.
Businesses without televisions closed early. People left the office early. Bars with televisions were crammed to the max. And, bus drivers were in a hurry to finish their routes.
I stood and waited, patiently, as not one but TWO busses, mostly empty, swooped past me and the 10 other people that gathered during my wait. One bus driver had to stop to let someone off, but to prevent any of the rest of us from getting on, he pulled up a half block from the stop. Silly me, I ran to catch it thinking it was his mistake. He would not open the door for me and zoomed off. I screamed an obscenity at his tail pipe, much to the delight of two teenage boys passing by.
"What do you expect?" one of them asked me. "His priority is futbol!"
The third bus driver must not have cared much either way, because he eased his overflowing bus to a stop and the 10 of us crammed on. The old lady I had been talking to and was then squashed into my armpit until I got off 10 minutes later smiled and said to me, "See? Some of us care more about money than futbol."
Argentina won 1-0. The game was much less interesting than my effort to get to the bar to watch it.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
I wasn't even ON the bus!
One of the most surprising things that ever happened to me involving a bus occurred when I was on foot. I was walking from my place near SPU to PCC, and I was on the Fremont bridge.
A bus that was heading south opened its door without stopping, and the driver made eye contact with me. He opened his mouth in a smiling grimace. He was all toothiness and toothlessness, and out of his mouth came a sound crossed between "HAA!" and "URG!"
Once he'd passed me, the door closed and the bus kept on hurtling south.
A bus that was heading south opened its door without stopping, and the driver made eye contact with me. He opened his mouth in a smiling grimace. He was all toothiness and toothlessness, and out of his mouth came a sound crossed between "HAA!" and "URG!"
Once he'd passed me, the door closed and the bus kept on hurtling south.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Spotted on the 44
Two male college students, extremely high and giggling loudly and uncontrollably on the 44. Memories....
Is it really good luck?
I had just washed my hair, and had spent the time to blow dry it (a rarity for me). I left the house feeling pretty good about myself; high heeled boots, hair swinging in the wind as I walked to the bus stop. I was waiting right on Nickerson, playing on my phone, when I felt something heavy, like a pine cone, hit me on the crown of the head. I looked up to see if a squirrel was pelting me, but I saw nothing but a crow on the power line above, a foot or so to the left of me. I touched my head a couple of times and found nothing there, but I also didn't see any pine cones around me either. When I touched my head a third time, I realized that the impact I'd felt was caused by a huge mound of solid bird poo. That damned crow must've made a half-assed effort to throw me off by scooting over a foot.
I cleaned up as best I could with the canvas tote bag I was bringing my boyfriend, scooping the poo out of my hair. By the time the bus came, I'd been giggling to myself for about 10 minutes and texting people with "a bird just took a dump on my head!" People responded way, way faster to the bird poo text than to a standard "what are you up to?" text. "i hear its good luck!" and "oh no!" and "looks like youll be bringing something extra over to nathans" (my sister).
The texts kept pouring in as I got onto the 17; it was rush hour so I couldn't seclude myself in my own seat. I sat next to a nice-looking middle aged woman. By this time, I was in a state of barely-concealed hysterics. For being so crowded, the bus was near silent, so when I started shaking and crying with the laughter I was trying to hold in, I have to think my seatmate noticed. I laughed all the way down Market Street, up 24th Street, and right into Nathan's apartment. He promptly made me take a shower, and that was that.
I cleaned up as best I could with the canvas tote bag I was bringing my boyfriend, scooping the poo out of my hair. By the time the bus came, I'd been giggling to myself for about 10 minutes and texting people with "a bird just took a dump on my head!" People responded way, way faster to the bird poo text than to a standard "what are you up to?" text. "i hear its good luck!" and "oh no!" and "looks like youll be bringing something extra over to nathans" (my sister).
The texts kept pouring in as I got onto the 17; it was rush hour so I couldn't seclude myself in my own seat. I sat next to a nice-looking middle aged woman. By this time, I was in a state of barely-concealed hysterics. For being so crowded, the bus was near silent, so when I started shaking and crying with the laughter I was trying to hold in, I have to think my seatmate noticed. I laughed all the way down Market Street, up 24th Street, and right into Nathan's apartment. He promptly made me take a shower, and that was that.
Monday, October 5, 2009
"Going" the distance in Peru
I'm back in the southern hemisphere for several months and hope to have some good stories for you as a result. To celebrate my return I thought I'd share a "gross at the time but pretty funny looking back" story from a bus ride in Peru.
Just about everyone who has traveled a long distance by bus in South America, particularly through the northern countries (Chile and Argentina tend to have really nice long-distance buses), has a good story to tell. Notorious tales of long delays or cancellations, crowded and filthy buses, highway blockages, terrorist demands for money, white folk kidnappings and so on pervade blogs of people travelling through this part of the world. Mine falls under the "crowded and filthy" category.
My friends Robyn and Matt met me in Puno, Peru last July. After a few days there we took a bus from Puno to Cusco which, if I recall, was about a 7 hour ride. It was a two-level and we got 3 of the 4 front-most seats on the top level (my favorite spot to sit). A nice, quiet local boy sat next to me and the seats behind Robyn and Matt were empty until we stopped an hour later in a nowhere town to pick up the rest of our travellers, at which time a family of four occupied the two empty seats. I hate to propogate a stereotype but these were very poor people who likely lived in a makeshift shack on someone else's land where they were paid next to nothing to work. Their clothes and faces were filthy and we were trying to be culturally sensitive while not gagging on the smell.
The three of us became quiet, focusing inward, focusing on the scenery, focusing on the epic yet touristy 4-day hike to Machu Picchu in front of us; in effect, focusing on whatever we could to keep our minds off of our nasal passages. This lasted about two hours until, all of a sudden, there came a prominent hissing sound. The kind of hiss that water makes when it comes rushing out of a spout. The kind of hiss that little boys revel in when they learn how to pee standing up.
Robyn bolted upright, too terrified to turn around to investigate if the sound was, in fact, what she feared. She also lifted her feet and her bag off the floor. Matt was less timid and I had a better view from the side, so we both strained our necks to investigate as discreetly as possible. There was the family's little boy - perhaps 6 or 7 - standing in the aisle, pants down, peeing into an empty coke bottle. (Robyn would later express relief that he at least used a bottle and hadn't gone right onto the floor.) He finished his business and handed the bottle to his mother, who set it on the floor. Note that the bottle was glass and therefore had no top to secure. To my knowledge it did not spill but I have no idea if she left it or packed it out with her.
We continued to Cusco without further incident, but I think the same thought occured to all 3 of us at the same time and left us scratching our heads somewhat incredulously: There was a bathroom on the bus.
Just about everyone who has traveled a long distance by bus in South America, particularly through the northern countries (Chile and Argentina tend to have really nice long-distance buses), has a good story to tell. Notorious tales of long delays or cancellations, crowded and filthy buses, highway blockages, terrorist demands for money, white folk kidnappings and so on pervade blogs of people travelling through this part of the world. Mine falls under the "crowded and filthy" category.
My friends Robyn and Matt met me in Puno, Peru last July. After a few days there we took a bus from Puno to Cusco which, if I recall, was about a 7 hour ride. It was a two-level and we got 3 of the 4 front-most seats on the top level (my favorite spot to sit). A nice, quiet local boy sat next to me and the seats behind Robyn and Matt were empty until we stopped an hour later in a nowhere town to pick up the rest of our travellers, at which time a family of four occupied the two empty seats. I hate to propogate a stereotype but these were very poor people who likely lived in a makeshift shack on someone else's land where they were paid next to nothing to work. Their clothes and faces were filthy and we were trying to be culturally sensitive while not gagging on the smell.
The three of us became quiet, focusing inward, focusing on the scenery, focusing on the epic yet touristy 4-day hike to Machu Picchu in front of us; in effect, focusing on whatever we could to keep our minds off of our nasal passages. This lasted about two hours until, all of a sudden, there came a prominent hissing sound. The kind of hiss that water makes when it comes rushing out of a spout. The kind of hiss that little boys revel in when they learn how to pee standing up.
Robyn bolted upright, too terrified to turn around to investigate if the sound was, in fact, what she feared. She also lifted her feet and her bag off the floor. Matt was less timid and I had a better view from the side, so we both strained our necks to investigate as discreetly as possible. There was the family's little boy - perhaps 6 or 7 - standing in the aisle, pants down, peeing into an empty coke bottle. (Robyn would later express relief that he at least used a bottle and hadn't gone right onto the floor.) He finished his business and handed the bottle to his mother, who set it on the floor. Note that the bottle was glass and therefore had no top to secure. To my knowledge it did not spill but I have no idea if she left it or packed it out with her.
We continued to Cusco without further incident, but I think the same thought occured to all 3 of us at the same time and left us scratching our heads somewhat incredulously: There was a bathroom on the bus.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The Seven, HWDs and The Establishment
This was originally posted on Desomnia in Drull, however I felt that it should also find it's way over here...
So I'm riding the Seven home last night. It was just a standard bus ride at first. I was sitting in the back lounge area, because it was the only comfortable seat available. Those of you with long legs may have realized by now that only half of the seats are comfortable. So I've got my headphones on minding my own business when this teenage guy starts running his mouth. At first I don't even bother to listen and just continue listening to Parklife. However I notice that this was quickly becoming volatile and should probably keep an ear open just in case. It wasn't even two minutes before this kid announces, "It's the fucking establishment! Like this honky white devil here!" (points at me) "He's a part of the ESTABLISHMENT!!!" I couldn't help but laugh to myself. I mean seriously? People say that kind of thing? When did tolerance become a one way street? So the kid is all fired up and an older Hispanic man chimes in, "Go to Mexico." They then have a back and forth, the kid with broken ebonics and the man in broken spanglish. I wasn't able to follow the words they produced but some how they came to an agreement and a few stops later when the man was exiting the bus they actually exchanged an embrace. What a strange thing the Seven is. These are the kinds of encounters that the Seattle Times refers to as "a colorful part of daily life".
So I'm riding the Seven home last night. It was just a standard bus ride at first. I was sitting in the back lounge area, because it was the only comfortable seat available. Those of you with long legs may have realized by now that only half of the seats are comfortable. So I've got my headphones on minding my own business when this teenage guy starts running his mouth. At first I don't even bother to listen and just continue listening to Parklife. However I notice that this was quickly becoming volatile and should probably keep an ear open just in case. It wasn't even two minutes before this kid announces, "It's the fucking establishment! Like this honky white devil here!" (points at me) "He's a part of the ESTABLISHMENT!!!" I couldn't help but laugh to myself. I mean seriously? People say that kind of thing? When did tolerance become a one way street? So the kid is all fired up and an older Hispanic man chimes in, "Go to Mexico." They then have a back and forth, the kid with broken ebonics and the man in broken spanglish. I wasn't able to follow the words they produced but some how they came to an agreement and a few stops later when the man was exiting the bus they actually exchanged an embrace. What a strange thing the Seven is. These are the kinds of encounters that the Seattle Times refers to as "a colorful part of daily life".
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Why the Buenos Aires subway is better than its buses
Bus drivers in Argentina (in all of South America, really) are notoriously aggressive. This is because they compete for fares, often causing races to the bus stop to pick up the most passengers possible. This also means that a bus is never, ever full. Even if a bus driver can't close the front door because people are hanging out of it, he will still slam to a halt at the next stop and scream, "haga espacio!" (make room!) until a few more people can edge on. This was the bus reality I had come to know and, if not love, at least appreciate for its absurdity.
Imagine my surprise, then, when one day I got on a half-full bus, slid into the frontmost seat, and braced myself for the characteristic head-banging halts I was in for on the 30-minute ride to my friend's house. However, this was not to be my fate that day.
I noticed right away that there was something different about this driver. He was... pleasant. From the moment I got on to the moment I got off, he was humming. At first it made me smile and I thought it was rather sweet, until I realized that he repeated the same six notes over and over. And over. Imagine the opening chords from the Fugees song Killing me Softly: Da-da-da-da-da-da (without the strong dada at the end). He repeated it constantly, the only variant being an open-mouthed note and a closed-mouth hum.
I was able to forgive the repetitive humming - it was my fault I sat in the front, after all - because I was so amazed by his super-smooth stops. He eased into each one, gave passengers ample time to board, and then eased back into his rightful lane. No honking. No lead foot. And a smile for each new fare. He reminded me of Metro drivers in Seattle, and I mentally praised him and capable drivers the world over.
About halfway through my ride, he inched from a stop to a red light not 10 feet away. A woman came running from the block ahead, shopping bags and arms flailing. Despite a driver's impulse to collect as many fares as possible, he is also fickle and will not open a door to a late-comer unless he damn well feels like it, for which reason this "please dear god stop for me" method hardly ever works.
But our driver was different. He waved at her and opened the doors. Until she was two feet away she was a shoo-in to board the bus. And then... he slammed the doors shut. We waited at the red light still, the woman standing in disbelief outside the closed bus door, too shocked even to bang against the glass and demand that he let her on. He stared straight ahead, humming softly to himself, until the light turned green and he smoothly accelerated on, the woman choking on bus fumes and screaming profanities.
I was the only one on the bus who seemed at all surprised.
Imagine my surprise, then, when one day I got on a half-full bus, slid into the frontmost seat, and braced myself for the characteristic head-banging halts I was in for on the 30-minute ride to my friend's house. However, this was not to be my fate that day.
I noticed right away that there was something different about this driver. He was... pleasant. From the moment I got on to the moment I got off, he was humming. At first it made me smile and I thought it was rather sweet, until I realized that he repeated the same six notes over and over. And over. Imagine the opening chords from the Fugees song Killing me Softly: Da-da-da-da-da-da (without the strong dada at the end). He repeated it constantly, the only variant being an open-mouthed note and a closed-mouth hum.
I was able to forgive the repetitive humming - it was my fault I sat in the front, after all - because I was so amazed by his super-smooth stops. He eased into each one, gave passengers ample time to board, and then eased back into his rightful lane. No honking. No lead foot. And a smile for each new fare. He reminded me of Metro drivers in Seattle, and I mentally praised him and capable drivers the world over.
About halfway through my ride, he inched from a stop to a red light not 10 feet away. A woman came running from the block ahead, shopping bags and arms flailing. Despite a driver's impulse to collect as many fares as possible, he is also fickle and will not open a door to a late-comer unless he damn well feels like it, for which reason this "please dear god stop for me" method hardly ever works.
But our driver was different. He waved at her and opened the doors. Until she was two feet away she was a shoo-in to board the bus. And then... he slammed the doors shut. We waited at the red light still, the woman standing in disbelief outside the closed bus door, too shocked even to bang against the glass and demand that he let her on. He stared straight ahead, humming softly to himself, until the light turned green and he smoothly accelerated on, the woman choking on bus fumes and screaming profanities.
I was the only one on the bus who seemed at all surprised.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Harrowing
My guy and I were coming back from a late-ish night in Georgetown spent celebrating a couple of birthdays. We'd gratefully accepted a ride from a friend to downtown, and were busing the rest of the way to Ballard.
We waited for the bus across from the Pioneer Room, women traipsing and limping by in small outfits and heels as best they could. Shiny black cars rolled by slow, scouting ladies or just making a scene, and then would burn out as they turned the corners, perhaps to display their horsepower.
When the 18 finally came, we piled on with just a few other people. I was relating a story to my guy, in bus-appropriate volume. Yes, I may have used some expletives but I'd used them quietly and with discretion. A lull in my story turned my focus forward, just in time to notice a look the man in the seat in front of us was giving me.
He was an ordinary man, wearing a black or navy fleece with embroidery of one of Microsoft's product logos on it. Fairly fit, average hit, darker gray hair, thin on the top. Nothing that would indicate he had more than a normal amount of hate in his body, enough to muster a look like he was giving me.
Still, he looked at me in such a way that cooled my inside 10 degrees and made it difficult to swallow. And it wasn't a steady look that I could get acclimated to. He would suddenly turn his head, bird-like, without moving the rest of his body, at random intervals, with hateful intensity in his eyes. He spoke only once to me - over the seat, I saw only beady eyes and the top part of a long, lean, hooked nose - asking me to keep quiet as though I'd been holding drum practice in the apartment above him for years.
When he wasn't looking at me, he was intently studying a brochure, most likely from the EMP, on different genres of modern music. His irritation was so tangible I began to question my ability to gauge my own speaking volume and general offensiveness. By this time, my guy had his keys clenched in his fist, the ends coming out between each finger, ready for an attack.
When the man decided to leave the bus, on a semi-abandoned part of Interbay, I felt relief. I saw him through the window and all inverted theories about his and my sanities left me. He was a person whose misery was climaxing at that very moment, and I was just another insult to him.
We waited for the bus across from the Pioneer Room, women traipsing and limping by in small outfits and heels as best they could. Shiny black cars rolled by slow, scouting ladies or just making a scene, and then would burn out as they turned the corners, perhaps to display their horsepower.
When the 18 finally came, we piled on with just a few other people. I was relating a story to my guy, in bus-appropriate volume. Yes, I may have used some expletives but I'd used them quietly and with discretion. A lull in my story turned my focus forward, just in time to notice a look the man in the seat in front of us was giving me.
He was an ordinary man, wearing a black or navy fleece with embroidery of one of Microsoft's product logos on it. Fairly fit, average hit, darker gray hair, thin on the top. Nothing that would indicate he had more than a normal amount of hate in his body, enough to muster a look like he was giving me.
Still, he looked at me in such a way that cooled my inside 10 degrees and made it difficult to swallow. And it wasn't a steady look that I could get acclimated to. He would suddenly turn his head, bird-like, without moving the rest of his body, at random intervals, with hateful intensity in his eyes. He spoke only once to me - over the seat, I saw only beady eyes and the top part of a long, lean, hooked nose - asking me to keep quiet as though I'd been holding drum practice in the apartment above him for years.
When he wasn't looking at me, he was intently studying a brochure, most likely from the EMP, on different genres of modern music. His irritation was so tangible I began to question my ability to gauge my own speaking volume and general offensiveness. By this time, my guy had his keys clenched in his fist, the ends coming out between each finger, ready for an attack.
When the man decided to leave the bus, on a semi-abandoned part of Interbay, I felt relief. I saw him through the window and all inverted theories about his and my sanities left me. He was a person whose misery was climaxing at that very moment, and I was just another insult to him.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Follow-up to the Irish bus driver
In 2003 my roommate from Spain and I did a tour of the "British Isles" though I found out later I was using the wrong label for our trip through England, Ireland, and Scotland. We took a bus tour on a rainy morning to the cliffs of Moher, stopping at various stone ruins and natural caves along the way.
It poured and poured all day until the instant we pulled up to the cliffs. Suddenly, the sun broke out and for the next 30 minutes we had sunshine (with unfortunately still-slippery rocks my roommate slipped and sprained her ankle on) for our time at the famous and fabulous cliffs. Our bus driver assured us, "God is smiling down upon us today, smiling down."
He was a funny little man, surely someone's grandpa who had been driving this bus for 40 years and would continue to do so until he dropped dead. He had the kind of formless mouth common in old people, with a wet tongue and wet lips that you could hear in his speech.
On the way back from the cliffs we stopped in a small town and ate pub food with Guinness as a primary ingredient. I had Guinness stew. So did the bus driver. He sat alone at the bar, eating slowly; surely he knew all the regulars, having passed through once a day for several decades, but other than a few friendly nods he kept to himself until we got back on the bus. We arrived in Galway three hours late, causing most of us to miss an evening bus back to Dublin, but our driver was nonplussed. "Surely the day was worth taking a later bus, there is a later bus to take."
A few years later I was comparing Ireland stories with a friend who had lived there for some months. We discovered that we'd both taken trips to the cliffs of Moher from the tiny town of Galway. "I had the funniest bus driver," he told me. "I did, too!" I responded. "He repeated everything he said. "Mine did, too!" I exclaimed. We eyed each other, hoping the answer to his next question was yes. "Was his name Desmond?" "NO WAY!!" We laughed and laughed at the happy coincidence. Then he asked me, "Did he call them wee-wee breaks on your tour?"
I couldn't remember, but I like to think that he did.
It poured and poured all day until the instant we pulled up to the cliffs. Suddenly, the sun broke out and for the next 30 minutes we had sunshine (with unfortunately still-slippery rocks my roommate slipped and sprained her ankle on) for our time at the famous and fabulous cliffs. Our bus driver assured us, "God is smiling down upon us today, smiling down."
He was a funny little man, surely someone's grandpa who had been driving this bus for 40 years and would continue to do so until he dropped dead. He had the kind of formless mouth common in old people, with a wet tongue and wet lips that you could hear in his speech.
On the way back from the cliffs we stopped in a small town and ate pub food with Guinness as a primary ingredient. I had Guinness stew. So did the bus driver. He sat alone at the bar, eating slowly; surely he knew all the regulars, having passed through once a day for several decades, but other than a few friendly nods he kept to himself until we got back on the bus. We arrived in Galway three hours late, causing most of us to miss an evening bus back to Dublin, but our driver was nonplussed. "Surely the day was worth taking a later bus, there is a later bus to take."
A few years later I was comparing Ireland stories with a friend who had lived there for some months. We discovered that we'd both taken trips to the cliffs of Moher from the tiny town of Galway. "I had the funniest bus driver," he told me. "I did, too!" I responded. "He repeated everything he said. "Mine did, too!" I exclaimed. We eyed each other, hoping the answer to his next question was yes. "Was his name Desmond?" "NO WAY!!" We laughed and laughed at the happy coincidence. Then he asked me, "Did he call them wee-wee breaks on your tour?"
I couldn't remember, but I like to think that he did.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Wee-Wee Break
This was on a bus tour around the gorgeous Ring of Kerry in the southwest corner of Ireland in 2004.
The bus driver was tiny and frail. In another country, his license probably would have been revoked at least a hundred years ago. Before departing, he gave us a preview of the trip over the intercom, repeating everything in the following manner. "And then we will see the Cliffs of Moher. The Cliffs of Moher is what we will see." He did this for the duration of the trip.
Before we took off he told us in his flat, grumpy Irish accent, "At 11:30 we will stop for our first wee-wee break." There were a few snickers on board, and he waited until they died down to continue. "You may laugh at your wee-wee break now," he said humorlessly, "but you all probably drank a few drinks last night, or a couple cups of coffee this morning and I assure you, you'll be damn thankful for your wee-wee break when the time comes."
The bus driver was tiny and frail. In another country, his license probably would have been revoked at least a hundred years ago. Before departing, he gave us a preview of the trip over the intercom, repeating everything in the following manner. "And then we will see the Cliffs of Moher. The Cliffs of Moher is what we will see." He did this for the duration of the trip.
Before we took off he told us in his flat, grumpy Irish accent, "At 11:30 we will stop for our first wee-wee break." There were a few snickers on board, and he waited until they died down to continue. "You may laugh at your wee-wee break now," he said humorlessly, "but you all probably drank a few drinks last night, or a couple cups of coffee this morning and I assure you, you'll be damn thankful for your wee-wee break when the time comes."
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Bus Win*
I was on the phone with my mother, on my way out of my condo for the first time in 24 hours on account of being sick. Perhaps I wasn't quite ready to leave my illness coccoon, because I misplaced my bus pass within three minutes of finding it. My mother was waxing sentimental about how similar my cousin and I looked, and how sweet it was that my cousin had the same large ribcage as I did (something my cousin had shared when she'd been in Seattle trying on wedding dresses.) Finally, with one minute before the bus came, I told my mom I needed to call her back.
I finally found my pass in the pocket of my sweater, which I was wearing underneath my poofy down jacket. Sick and weak, I ran from my place to the bus stop, thinking I didn't have a chance in hell. I saw the bus two blocks away, then one, from my vantage point on the hill I was running down. Then, only a parking lot and an intersection away, I saw it reach my stop. I kept running, banging on the crosswalk button. The bus started peeling away just as the sign changed. I waved my arms, but the bus was already pulling out. Then, it stopped! I rounded the bus' corner and the kindest-looking white-haired bus driver said "Hey! Saw you back there! Glad ya made it!" When was the last time that happened to anyone??
*Perhaps not the most interesting bus story, but, it's time to get this blog going again! Allez!
I finally found my pass in the pocket of my sweater, which I was wearing underneath my poofy down jacket. Sick and weak, I ran from my place to the bus stop, thinking I didn't have a chance in hell. I saw the bus two blocks away, then one, from my vantage point on the hill I was running down. Then, only a parking lot and an intersection away, I saw it reach my stop. I kept running, banging on the crosswalk button. The bus started peeling away just as the sign changed. I waved my arms, but the bus was already pulling out. Then, it stopped! I rounded the bus' corner and the kindest-looking white-haired bus driver said "Hey! Saw you back there! Glad ya made it!" When was the last time that happened to anyone??
*Perhaps not the most interesting bus story, but, it's time to get this blog going again! Allez!
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