Riding the Bus: A Homework Assignment

I begin planning my bus trip the night we receive the assignment. I have to work all day Saturday and Sunday and have class Tuesday, so I decide I will take the bus Monday (Jan. 12, 2009) afternoon. The next day, I ask a friend to pick me up so that I do not have to ride the bus back – time is precious – and call the Ride Line to figure out what routes I need to take since I can’t make heads or tails of the maps I’m trying to view online after having to download Adobe Reader in order to even view them. I dial 226-1144 to find out that the Ride Line number has changed, but I will be automatically redirected. Once I reach a customer service agent, I’m told I can take The One and The Seventeen. With a quick cadence in her voice, the agent tells me that I will stand on the such-and-such corner of Third and Main to catch the southbound bus. I tell her I won’t know which corner is the right one so she says I need to stand in Courthouse Square outside of the Montgomery County Courthouse.

It is 2:45 Monday afternoon. I have just parked my car and see The One at the bus stop in front of the Student Union. I grab my schedules and do some quick planning. If I get on The One that leaves at 2:51, I will arrive at Third and Main at 3:17. I’ll have only one minute to connect with The Seventeen, which leaves Courthouse Square at 3:18. With only a one-minute window to change buses, I assume I will miss the connection. It is, after all, the bus. I continue playing out the scenario in my head. When I miss the connection, I’ll have to stand out in the cold downtown until The X5 arrives at 3:40. It’s just above freezing and I’ve forgotten my gloves in a different coat. I decide I will stick to the original plan: catch The One at the Student Union at 3:19 and transfer to The Seventeen at Third and Main.

At 3:05, I grab my things and begin to walk to the Student Union bus stop. I arrive too early, so I keep walking and seek temporary shelter inside the Union. Five minutes later, I emerge again. It’s now 3:10 and I am “on time” to catch the 3:19 bus. Still, I have a few minutes to realize that I am now mildly panicked about not knowing how to take the bus. How do I get a transfer? How will I know that I’ve reached Third & Main? What if I miss my bus at the transfer point? Do I have exact change?

I deposit my $1.50 and I ask the driver how I get a transfer. He seems put off that I am interrupting his personal cellular phone call with such an irritating question. He exhales, annoyed, and says I have to pay an additional 25 cents. I dig into my pocket and deposit the extra coin. The transfer ticket pops out and I grab it. Later, after he has had a chance to forget my face, I approach again.

“Excuse me, sir. I was wondering if you could tell me your driver number and the make, model and year of this bus?” He is not certain what his driver number is. After trying multiple combinations, #XXXX seems right to him. He double-checks what he thinks with something on the dashboard, but I still doubt he’s gotten his driver number right. The bus is a 2001 Flyer, he says. Having apparently put him off again, I decide I will write down the bus number and call the fleet manager’s officer tomorrow to find out what kind of bus it is.

I return to my seat. I fidget with the schedule I have, trying to memorize the order of stops so I will know when I am close to Third and Main. I decide to ask the friendly looking woman next to me if she rides the bus often and can help me figure out what I need to know. She offers to ride past her stop to ensure that I get off at the right point as she “remembers what it was like when she first started riding the bus.” I convince her that, while generous, her offer is not necessary. Instead she tells me that the bus announces the stops prior to getting there and that most of the passengers will be de-busing at Third and Main. She assures me that I do not have to pull the stop-request chord at my transfer point. We return to our relative silence.

Finally, the bus departs the Student Union – two minutes behind schedule, according to my print out. We zoom down Colonel Glenn. The magic voice announces stops that aren’t on the schedule and we stop even more frequently than the voice announces to pick up passengers. The ride is beginning to feel familiar. I have done this before, just not in this city, and it’s beginning to come back to me. The bus is crowded now, standing room only, and we are only halfway to downtown. I hate sitting in seats that don’t face the direction of movement so I wonder why I have picked the seat at the front that faces inward. It smells like cigarette smoke, but the ride is smoother than I anticipated. It is quiet: no cell phones ring, no one has their iPod up too loud, and the only person who speaks is the Asian man who apologizes for accidently bumping into me.

I make it safely to Third and Main and get of the bus. I am not looking forward to standing in the cold, so I decide I will take The Seventeen because it arrives earlier than the express bus, The X5. Besides, I decide if I’m going to do this, I will get the “whole” experience. I stand at Courthouse Square, wishing I hadn’t forgotten gloves and that I’d worn warmer socks. Thankfully, The Seventeen arrives early and I’m able to seek shelter from the wind at 3:01.

I swipe my transfer card and the driver puts it in the trash bag for me. I step to the side and ask if he will tell me his driver number and the make, model and year of the bus we’re on. He tells me his driver number before the other boarding passengers require his attention, so I decide I will have to ask about this bus tomorrow too. The driver pulls away from the curb exactly on time, 4:05.

I take a forward-facing seat between the wheel-base, remembering from school days that I do not get car sick if I sit in this section of a bus, before an inquisitive passenger begins asking questions about why I am making notes on a piece of paper. Despite his interrogation (which lasts almost 30 minutes, until he gets off the bus) about my salary, the war in Iraq, politics and religion, I manage to make note that the clientele riding out to the suburbs from downtown during evening commute hours seems different. On The One heading toward downtown, passengers seem to be mostly blue-collar workers who are headed across town to their homes. On The Seventeen toward the southern suburbs, the passengers seem to be mostly office workers and students fleeing to suburbia.

The Seventeen doesn’t smell like cigarettes, or anything really, and has the potential to be a lovely ride if the driver turns up heat and if it doesn’t take 40 more precious minutes to reach the Target at the mall. I decide to de-bus at Target since I need some black t-shirts, so I run a few errands before walking to the mall proper and then crossing Rte. XXX, on foot, to meet my ride at Barnes and Noble. I am lucky to understand, based on the pattern of green lights, when I should cross and that the driver waiting to turn left actually understands I have the right of way, even though there is no crosswalk.

While I’m waiting for my ride, I grab a latte and reflect upon my adventure. It has taken me 1 hour and 45 minutes to reach a destination I could have reached in my vehicle in 25 minutes. While the assignment was to ride from my house or from campus, I had no true option to ride from my house. The closest bus stop to my house is the Cemetery Gate, which is not what I might call convenient. I’d have to have a car, or at least a bicycle, to get to the bus stop if I were a regular rider.

What bothers me most about the whole trip is that I’ve lived in or visited cities/countries where I’ve made ample use of public transportation and loved it. Some public transit systems really seem to have it figured out: routes run frequently, have multiple transfer points, and transit employees don’t chastise you for asking questions. Generally speaking, though, none of those transit systems were in the United States. In my own country, where I speak the language and know the currency, I should not find public transportation intimidating. But I do. Not necessarily because it’s hard to figure out, but because there seems to me that when I do ride, I become acutely aware of a sort of sub-culture that I do not understand. I feel a bit like an interloper whose ignorance of “transit protocol” – when to talk, how to not make eye contact, timing the pull of the stop-request chord – identifies me as “the one who doesn’t belong.”

In all honesty, I hate commuting. If I had a rational choice, I would use public transportation, but if I have to drive three-quarters of the way to my office to get on a bus, why wouldn’t I just drive the last quarter, especially since I don’t have to pay to park?