Articles
Thursday, 1 December 2005
Bus People
Dorothy Segovia
[Published in HopeDance, Issue 53]
It’s almost 7 am. I’m rushing down the sidewalk with my new pink backpack. I hear a rumble and see a bus flying by. My heart races even though I know it’s the 21 Express. I take the next one. Three weeks ago I came limping into Carpinteria. And quite frankly, if I thought I’d be bussing it while waiting for a new transmission, I’d have been too scared to move.
You know those stories about divorce. Spouse leaves, you thought you’d never survive and here you are two years later, so happy it happened. Yes, it was painful, but you became stronger. More resilient. Well, like most Californians, I married my car. I loved my Mazda. I drove to Santa Barbara from SLO two days a week. I worked in Santa Maria while house-sitting in Los Osos. In 10 months I drove 20,000 fuel-sucking, American solo miles.
When my car demanded a temporary separation, I didn’t think I was going to make it. I knew I could walk around town for necessities like the beach and the local grocery. But my temporary office work was 14 miles away in Santa Barbara. I resigned myself to getting a bus schedule from the library. Actually, I felt embarrassed that I needed a bus schedule.
To tell you the truth, I believed I was better than bus people.
Bus people are those people you see on benches, waiting, looking longingly up the street. Sitting at the stoplight, in Maisy Mazda, I’d feel sorry for them. I’d offer up a prayer for them and then smugly speed away. It wasn’t until I was actually a bus person that I realized that some commuters actually prefer the bus.
When I first called the transit center and told the man I needed to go to Montecito via bus, he was concerned for me. I had a half-hour wait on Old Coast Road. He told me to get off at a stop called Butterfly. He said that at Butterfly, I could wait at the picnic table at the Chevron station.
It’s day nine on this particular bus route. Often, I jump off at Olive Mill and walk for 20 minutes. I window shop and walk through the Friday morning Farmers’ Market. Once I went to Vons. At the hideous bus stop by the freeway onramp, I stood on the bench to get above the diesel exhaust. Sipping coffee, I counted cars with solo drivers, but lost track after 75. It would have been easier to count cars with two or more passengers.
I have moved through the bitter stage of my vehicular separation. I spent this morning waiting for the bus at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. Now I am laughing hysterically at the latest Stephanie Plum novel when my neighbor David yells “Hey, gorgeous” out his car window on his way to work. I know I could ask him for a lift to this bus stop in the morning and eliminate a half-hour wait. But I’d miss too much.
I’d miss Milpa, my friend who rides the bus because it’s more relaxing. I’d miss watching empty fields and the sweet shops of Summerland. But mostly I’d miss my hour of daydreaming. My life feels quieter now. More peaceful. Of course I’m looking forward to my car. But I’m hoping I can call it what it is, a luxury.
So. If you need a new adventure, take the bus for a week. I challenge you. It’s worth the ride.
End