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.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)