"I'm riding the bus!"
Where is that from? Is that from The Simpsons, when Mr. Burns goes out into the world on his own? I seem to recall John doing some sort of imitation. I'll have to ask him. John, if you're reading this, where is "I'm riding the bus" from? Anyway, I wrote this yesterday when I was on the bus. I decided not to bring my books with me, because I don't have any reading due that I can get done on the bus (biology CANNOT be done while in a moving vehicle). I don't usually write stuff like this (usually I just rant, or ramble), so I'm not sure where it came from...
I step onto the bus - can you believe that they can fit 120 people onto one of these buses? I flash my U-Pass, but the attendant doesn't really notice. There are no seats, so I grab a pole and absently wonder whose hand has warmed it (a slightly concerning thought, actually). The bus pulls away and 90% of its passengers whip out cell phones, eagerly awaiting voicemails, text messages, maybe even a phone call. There are ringtones waiting to be stuck in my head, except I'm wearing my headphones today.
The bus is moving, and no one makes eye contact, except to apologize for overstepping the square foot of space that has been alotted to them. The bus continues to drive, lurching along. You can watch an entire row of people shift accordingly, in perfect unison. We enter the Greek district, where Atlas will sell you used goods at close-out prices (70% off - no kidding!), Poseidon offers fish and chips (take out or dine in), and little old Greek men gossip like teenage girls, their frantic Greek spilling out of excited mouths. The Starbucks shines brightly - is it the newest of the 6 that I've seen on the street so far?
Lens & Shutter signals a new part of town and the "best deal on trades in the city". Students on a budget enjoy a haircut for $11.75, cheap airfare, and, down a bit, shopping sprees at Dollar Max. The bus joint makes a sound, and I am once again convinced that today will be the day when the bus comes unhinged and half of us are left terrified and stranded. I remember that time in Anaheim when the bus drive pulled a u-turn in an accordian bus. He was a nice guy. This bus driver politely urges new passengers to go as far back as they can. He knows that we just want to go home, and as long as everyone can squish behind that red line, it's alright.
Cheap student apartments flash past our little ecosystem that is the BUS, names like "Marrachi's Villa" alluding to the exotic features (surely the cockroaches hail from somewhere warm and sunny, and therefore merit the $800/month it costs to rent such a humble abode). People walk hand-in-hand, dog-in-hand, cellphone-in-hand, and Broadway becomes the street that has everything. Beauty, health, fashion, medicine, religion, food, and entertainment (mostly from the people on the street, actually). Mesa Luna's beckons with the promise of Salsa Dancing. I saw Stabilo there once, before they dropped the Boss. It's not a bad place, and clean, though the soundguy is a nutter. Xtopher's offers haircuts at a slightly higher student rate, and the baritone voice that comes blaring from the speakers at Opera Sushi is a reminder that my stop is quickly approaching. If I'm close enough, I say a quick thank-you to the bus driver, who probably doesn't deserve most of the attitude that he has to put up with.
I step out of the bus and back into the real world. The people push, rushing to catch buses that are pulling away before their eyes. The smell of McDonald's permeates the entire street as usual. I cross the street, Granville Street, and half watch the men fixing the clock in the tower above "I Love Hats". If I'm lucky, the 351 will be coming along any minute. If I'm not lucky, I've just missed it. The guy with the kitten isn't there today. I pass a man covered by a blanket and wonder. Where's his family? Who stopped calling whom, or did it just happen that they don't speak anymore? Did they try to help him? When is the last time someone told him that they loved him? And why am I too scared to ask him how he's doing or if I can pray for him the next time he watches me walk towards my bus? Is this silly, or reasonable?
No time to think further on the subject, as my shining behemoth pulls up to the stoplight. Now for the fine art of bus-catching. The bulk of the crowd is waiting for the B-Line to Richmond Centre, others still waiting for buses that will carry them to Steveston, Scottsdale, Tsawassen. The luxury highway buses. Schoolgirls flirt with schoolboys outside yet another Starbucks, and that old man who will probably never die heaves his bike deftly onto the rack mounted on the bus heading back to White Rock (Crescent Beach to be more precise). When I'm old, I want to be like him. Except for the man part.
My timing is good, and I land a seat on my own that isn't even in the wheelwell. I am joined by another, and his music is loud, but it has a good cuban beat, and I am amused as this punk in a black toque taps excitedly on his iPod, in time with the strains of muted trumpets. I lose interest and turn my attention back to my music, which has become white noise. I can't believe I'm at track seven already. The bus driver merges, stopped only briefly by the foolish woman who receives a good honking for pulling into the bus lane. And we're off - no one is standing at this time of day, and the regulars settle back into conversation as Suki's passes by. I don't even think Suki's has a student rate on haircuts.
I listen to the conversations, not eavesdropping, but unable to ignore the bald man sitting in front of me as he laughs hysterically. The rowdies are at the back, or at the front. The back is the domain of private school kids who are far too used to the commute. The front is inhabited by the work crowd - they're the real talkers. The soap opera unravels once again and I feel the comfort and familiarity. Did you know that her husband's produce section is #1 in the Lower Mainland? Well it makes sense - he's been there for 17 years. And that guy's son had his first date over the weekend - good on him! For 40 minutes a day these people share their lives. It's really... something. I like it. The bus driver adds his two cents on occasion. This one's a funny one, and I wonder if I am allowed to be laughing to myself.
Through the tunnel in a flash (yay counterflow)... the man who always wears that yellow raincoat and carries on full conversations with himself boards. He makes me feel a bit nervous, but the bus driver knows who he is, and he looks out for his passengers. The guy beside me still drums away on his iPod. The pretty grey-haired woman is flipping through her Nora Roberts romance as raincoat man talks about hillbillies, Philedelphia, and chickens digging holes in the backyard. Oh! the grey-haired woman is drinking water, even though the sign at the front says no food or drink. She's just as scandalous as the rest of us!!! He's still talking about chickens...
I look out the window. The man in the car beside us is squeezing a stressball. Seems a bit dangerous, but maybe I don't understand stress. Maybe it would be more dangerous for him to not be squeezing it. At my right, the Serpentine Fen, our little jewel, sparkles and twinkles amidst the rushes and the grass. Explain to the chicken, says raincoat man to the empty seat beside him, where the 500 dollars went, and why his chicken coop is the nicest in town. Apparently it's absolutely posh. Oh yes. Absolutely posh. Crescent Road is there and gone in an instant... I love driving on that road.
People are starting to get off, saying their goodbyes and their thankyous. I hear many more 'thankyous' on this bus than on the B-Line, and I wonder why this is. I watch as the familiar White Rock shops and services pass by - or rather as we pass by. At the Park and Ride, the bus empties to halfway, and I glance over at another Starbucks - White Rock's fourth. We drive up the street and I reach for the yellow cord. One hand is quicker than my own, and as I'm extending my arm towards the window I hear that comforting "ding". I stumble with my backback to the front as the bus comes to a sudden stop. I never was one for balance with a backpack weighing me down. I say my thankyou and get a "take care of yourself" in response. White Rock greets me as I trudge across the overpass towards home.
What's with that, huh? I felt inspired and wrote madly the entire way home. I guess I thought it was time to record some of the things I see on the busride home. As much as I complain, there is so much to see. I'm just too busy reading to notice it most of the time. There are so many things to observe in this world of ours...
I went on the little retreat yesterday and got home a couple hours ago. More on that later... but I am so glad that I went - it was really great.
I step onto the bus - can you believe that they can fit 120 people onto one of these buses? I flash my U-Pass, but the attendant doesn't really notice. There are no seats, so I grab a pole and absently wonder whose hand has warmed it (a slightly concerning thought, actually). The bus pulls away and 90% of its passengers whip out cell phones, eagerly awaiting voicemails, text messages, maybe even a phone call. There are ringtones waiting to be stuck in my head, except I'm wearing my headphones today.
The bus is moving, and no one makes eye contact, except to apologize for overstepping the square foot of space that has been alotted to them. The bus continues to drive, lurching along. You can watch an entire row of people shift accordingly, in perfect unison. We enter the Greek district, where Atlas will sell you used goods at close-out prices (70% off - no kidding!), Poseidon offers fish and chips (take out or dine in), and little old Greek men gossip like teenage girls, their frantic Greek spilling out of excited mouths. The Starbucks shines brightly - is it the newest of the 6 that I've seen on the street so far?
Lens & Shutter signals a new part of town and the "best deal on trades in the city". Students on a budget enjoy a haircut for $11.75, cheap airfare, and, down a bit, shopping sprees at Dollar Max. The bus joint makes a sound, and I am once again convinced that today will be the day when the bus comes unhinged and half of us are left terrified and stranded. I remember that time in Anaheim when the bus drive pulled a u-turn in an accordian bus. He was a nice guy. This bus driver politely urges new passengers to go as far back as they can. He knows that we just want to go home, and as long as everyone can squish behind that red line, it's alright.
Cheap student apartments flash past our little ecosystem that is the BUS, names like "Marrachi's Villa" alluding to the exotic features (surely the cockroaches hail from somewhere warm and sunny, and therefore merit the $800/month it costs to rent such a humble abode). People walk hand-in-hand, dog-in-hand, cellphone-in-hand, and Broadway becomes the street that has everything. Beauty, health, fashion, medicine, religion, food, and entertainment (mostly from the people on the street, actually). Mesa Luna's beckons with the promise of Salsa Dancing. I saw Stabilo there once, before they dropped the Boss. It's not a bad place, and clean, though the soundguy is a nutter. Xtopher's offers haircuts at a slightly higher student rate, and the baritone voice that comes blaring from the speakers at Opera Sushi is a reminder that my stop is quickly approaching. If I'm close enough, I say a quick thank-you to the bus driver, who probably doesn't deserve most of the attitude that he has to put up with.
I step out of the bus and back into the real world. The people push, rushing to catch buses that are pulling away before their eyes. The smell of McDonald's permeates the entire street as usual. I cross the street, Granville Street, and half watch the men fixing the clock in the tower above "I Love Hats". If I'm lucky, the 351 will be coming along any minute. If I'm not lucky, I've just missed it. The guy with the kitten isn't there today. I pass a man covered by a blanket and wonder. Where's his family? Who stopped calling whom, or did it just happen that they don't speak anymore? Did they try to help him? When is the last time someone told him that they loved him? And why am I too scared to ask him how he's doing or if I can pray for him the next time he watches me walk towards my bus? Is this silly, or reasonable?
No time to think further on the subject, as my shining behemoth pulls up to the stoplight. Now for the fine art of bus-catching. The bulk of the crowd is waiting for the B-Line to Richmond Centre, others still waiting for buses that will carry them to Steveston, Scottsdale, Tsawassen. The luxury highway buses. Schoolgirls flirt with schoolboys outside yet another Starbucks, and that old man who will probably never die heaves his bike deftly onto the rack mounted on the bus heading back to White Rock (Crescent Beach to be more precise). When I'm old, I want to be like him. Except for the man part.
My timing is good, and I land a seat on my own that isn't even in the wheelwell. I am joined by another, and his music is loud, but it has a good cuban beat, and I am amused as this punk in a black toque taps excitedly on his iPod, in time with the strains of muted trumpets. I lose interest and turn my attention back to my music, which has become white noise. I can't believe I'm at track seven already. The bus driver merges, stopped only briefly by the foolish woman who receives a good honking for pulling into the bus lane. And we're off - no one is standing at this time of day, and the regulars settle back into conversation as Suki's passes by. I don't even think Suki's has a student rate on haircuts.
I listen to the conversations, not eavesdropping, but unable to ignore the bald man sitting in front of me as he laughs hysterically. The rowdies are at the back, or at the front. The back is the domain of private school kids who are far too used to the commute. The front is inhabited by the work crowd - they're the real talkers. The soap opera unravels once again and I feel the comfort and familiarity. Did you know that her husband's produce section is #1 in the Lower Mainland? Well it makes sense - he's been there for 17 years. And that guy's son had his first date over the weekend - good on him! For 40 minutes a day these people share their lives. It's really... something. I like it. The bus driver adds his two cents on occasion. This one's a funny one, and I wonder if I am allowed to be laughing to myself.
Through the tunnel in a flash (yay counterflow)... the man who always wears that yellow raincoat and carries on full conversations with himself boards. He makes me feel a bit nervous, but the bus driver knows who he is, and he looks out for his passengers. The guy beside me still drums away on his iPod. The pretty grey-haired woman is flipping through her Nora Roberts romance as raincoat man talks about hillbillies, Philedelphia, and chickens digging holes in the backyard. Oh! the grey-haired woman is drinking water, even though the sign at the front says no food or drink. She's just as scandalous as the rest of us!!! He's still talking about chickens...
I look out the window. The man in the car beside us is squeezing a stressball. Seems a bit dangerous, but maybe I don't understand stress. Maybe it would be more dangerous for him to not be squeezing it. At my right, the Serpentine Fen, our little jewel, sparkles and twinkles amidst the rushes and the grass. Explain to the chicken, says raincoat man to the empty seat beside him, where the 500 dollars went, and why his chicken coop is the nicest in town. Apparently it's absolutely posh. Oh yes. Absolutely posh. Crescent Road is there and gone in an instant... I love driving on that road.
People are starting to get off, saying their goodbyes and their thankyous. I hear many more 'thankyous' on this bus than on the B-Line, and I wonder why this is. I watch as the familiar White Rock shops and services pass by - or rather as we pass by. At the Park and Ride, the bus empties to halfway, and I glance over at another Starbucks - White Rock's fourth. We drive up the street and I reach for the yellow cord. One hand is quicker than my own, and as I'm extending my arm towards the window I hear that comforting "ding". I stumble with my backback to the front as the bus comes to a sudden stop. I never was one for balance with a backpack weighing me down. I say my thankyou and get a "take care of yourself" in response. White Rock greets me as I trudge across the overpass towards home.
What's with that, huh? I felt inspired and wrote madly the entire way home. I guess I thought it was time to record some of the things I see on the busride home. As much as I complain, there is so much to see. I'm just too busy reading to notice it most of the time. There are so many things to observe in this world of ours...
I went on the little retreat yesterday and got home a couple hours ago. More on that later... but I am so glad that I went - it was really great.
posted by Sara at
4:01 p.m.
1 Comments:
This blog reminds me of Suzanne Vega's Tom's Diner. I like it. It is a mini view into other people's world, and I like this poetic rambling. It is very descriptive and encapsulates daily life very well.
I guess you can write a book about what you hear on the bus, given enough time.
By
Mike, at 4:20 p.m.
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