Tonight, my friend Coby is performing at Conor Byrne in Ballard. (He’s opening for Ali Marcus, who’s celebrating the release of her most recent CD.) Coby’s show starts at 8, and the first song in his set is going to be about–I’ll give you moment to take a guess–the bus!
And he was already my favorite rock star–OK, except for Prince.
Tonight, on my 48 home from Montlake, there was a middle-aged man in the seat slightly behind me and to my right. He was on the phone with a loved one, telling the person in a strained voice not to worry, that he would make it home.
After he hung up, he began moaning softly, then loudly, and when I turned back to look at him, there were tears streaming down his face. He opened a can of something to drink (from my angle, I couldn’t see what it was) and continued to moan and cry.
The bus was rather empty, it being after 8:00 PM on a Friday, and I was one of only a few passengers near enough to this man to know anything was wrong. I turned again, trying to catch his eye, wondering if I should ask if he needed help.
But then, the bus arrived at my stop.
I got off.
To get to my office from the bus stop (or to the bus stop from my office), I have to walk a decent distance. By the correct path (which involves using the actual sidewalks the city of Redmond provides for pedestrians), it’s probably close to three quarters of a mile. But I don’t take the correct path. Like all the other 545 riders who work in my building, I take a shortcut through an empty lot that is partially paved–and partially not. This works great–except in winter, when it gets dark at 4:30, and the street-lightless evening walk requires the same headlamp I bring on my annual camping excursion to Tahoma. And except when it’s been raining a lot, and the “partially not” part turns to a sea of mud intent upon destroying the carefully maintained (and oft-repaired) shoes of any bus chick with the temerity to enter. Still, I carry the flashlights and endure the ruined shoes and stained pantlegs, all in the name of saving those few minutes that the shortcut provides.
Or at least I did.
Today, I headed home from work earlier than usual (to get back to the West Side in time for Rebecca Walker’s talk) and found myself dodging the mud puddles in the empty lot at an unfamiliar time. A time, apparently, when the actual inhabitants of the lot–geese!–enjoy their evening constitutional.
I might have mentioned my general, rather minor fear of birds. I probably haven’t mentioned a very specific terror of geese. This fear began in early childhood, when the geese at my grandpa’s farm chased and bit me any time I dared to walk past the pond. The fear is greater now than it was then. Perhaps it’s because my imagination has distorted the memory. I’m guessing it’s because a fellow bus rider recently told me that he was knocked off his feet by an angry, dive-bombing goose during a morning crossing of the shortcut lot in question.
Tomorrow, I’ll be taking the long way.
Transit Now improvements or no, if you need to get downtown from SeaTac after 7:30 PM on a Sunday, you won’t be riding the 194. Prepare instead, my friends, to creep downtown on its ugly steproute, a bus that someone, somewhere, must enjoy riding.
Last year, Bus Nerd and I spent Super Bowl Sunday in Detroit with our friends, Tosha and Keith. (The fact that they watched the game at Ford Field and we watched it at a bar across the street from the stadium is a minor detail.) This year, we spent the day at Tosha and Keith’s house in Kirkland.
It was worth the six-bus round trip (there: 4 + 255 + 254, back: 254 + 255 + 48)–even the transfer at Montlake on the way home–just to see Prince do his thing. (It doesn’t get better than “Purple Rain” in the rain.) The icing on the cake: victory for the Colts. Despite my mild distaste for Peyton Manning, and despite the fact that we were watching at the home of a Chicago native, I was pulling for Tony Dungy’s boys.
Then again, when your friends feed you fried fish, potato salad, chicken wings, and brownies with ice cream, does it really matter who wins the game?
8 AM: Hot chocolate and Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday Dr. King” on repeat.
Noon: 8 (that bus that just happens to run on Martin Luther King Junior Way), southbound, to Franklin for the march.
2 PM: 8, northbound, to Seattle Center for the CD Forum‘s staged reading of Dr. King’s 1964 Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech.
3:15 PM: Monorail to Westlake, for the first time in at least 15 years. (It sure seemed a lot cooler back in the day.)
3:45 PM: 27 home.
6 PM: 27 back downtown for birfday dinner.
9:40 PM: 14 (plus a short walk) home.
10:30 PM: CAKE!
* * * * * * * *
Last night, I hopped on the 17 and headed to Ballard, a neighborhood I have visited more frequently in the past six months than in the previous six years. This time, it was to model a ball gown (seriously) at the Ballard Art Walk. (Modeling is not my strong suit–or, to be honest, my idea of a good time–but I have a friend in fashion school, and she had an assignment. But I digress.) Embarrassing pseudo-runway experiences aside, I’m developing quite a fondness for the place.
And what’s not to love? Though it’s not especially easy to get to from where I live, Ballard is served by lots of buses. It’s also pretty walkable (by Seattle standards, anyway), which probably explains why there are fun events like art walks. After yesterday’s, Bus Nerd and I headed to the (very rider-friendly) stop at Ballard &; Market, checked the schedules of the three buses (17, 18, 44) we could take to a transfer point home, and then headed to an Indian restaurant for dinner. We finished right in time for the 17, so we didn’t get to take advantage of any of the many benches and shelters at the stop. We did, however, witness an instance of bus (stop) luh. (Sometimes, even when it’s 30 degrees outside, you hate to see that bus comin’.) If I hadn’t been carrying a shopping bag full of makeup, shoes, and hair appliances, I would have snapped a picture. But, again, I digress.
Ballard is the home of Sustainable Ballard, an organization working to make the neighborhood the first carbon-neutral community in the country. And though they haven’t quite made it yet, lots and lots of Ballardites (Ballardians?) are pledging to drive less. My pledge: to hang out in this bus-chick-friendly part of our fair city (not wearing a ball gown) even more often in 2007.
The newest item discovered in the trash at Good Shepherd’s adopted stop: a lovely, seemingly unused, track of synthetic hair.
Did I mention it’s across the street from a beauty supply?
Since last Wednesday, I haven’t gotten out much. Aside from the trip to the Seahawks game (which I agreed to attend after a fair bit of cajoling) and a few other necessary excursions, I’ve been home, avoiding work, social engagements, and most errands.
Today, I can’t think of a single place I’d like to go, but as I watch the 48s and 27s and 8s and 4s pass by my living room window, I wish I was on one of them. I want to sit near strangers–the stranger, the better, in fact. I want to be distracted from the book I’ve been trying to read since November by folks talking to each other, or on their phones, or to themselves. I want to roll my eyes at that guy who opens three windows and then and yells at the driver to turn up the heat. I want to be surrounded by crying babies, exchanged phone numbers, stupid jokes, inconveniently placed grocery bags, passionate sports arguments, and ambitious knitting projects. I want to be offered an expired transfer for 50 cents, a pair of hand warmers for three dollars, a Rolex watch for twenty-five. I want to be the one who tells the newbie rider where to catch the bus to Southcenter.
All of my routes are running today, despite the snow. I think it’s about time to take a ride.
My brothers and I are returning from a cathartic evening of bonding at the Seahawks/Cowboys game. (Jeremy, ever in the mix, happens to know a Seagal. He also knew half the people sitting next to us in the crowd. But I digress.) The 14 is standing-room only–packed with Seahawk fans and regular riders–but oddly morose, given the outcome of the game.
Jeremy, to everyone else on the bus: “What about them Seeeeeeeeahawks?!”
At least half of the other riders: “Hawks, baby! Sea-HAWKS!”
A lone voice in the crowd: “Better not be no Cowboys on this bus.”
