Tag Archives: living the life

Take the 7 to travel back in time

Most people hate going to the dentist, but I always look forward to it. Of course, this is probably not a surprise to the people who know me, since my preferences trend outside the mainstream. (My brother Jeremy once said to me, “Carla, your ‘cute’ is everyone else’s ‘daaaaaaaaaaaaang’!”) In this case, though, I have a good reason to like my dentist: She is also my friend.

I’ve known Kelley since I was six years old, back when her father was my dentist and she and I were first-grade classmates. Back in the day, I liked going to her father’s office (now her office) because there was a TV with cable in the waiting room, and I could watch videos. These days, I like going because I get a chance to catch up with my girl. So yesterday, I hopped on the 7 and headed down to Kelley’s clinic.

To my left: the fabulous dentist herself. To my right: another fabulous friend from first grade.

The best thing about the 7 is that there’s always one coming. No need to check a schedule; just head to a stop, and you’re almost guaranteed to be on one within 10 minutes. This level of frequency is infuriating when you’re waiting for another bus–when you might see four 7s (and about 400 36s) before you see yours–so it’s nice to be able to take advantage once in a while. The worst thing about the 7 is the old-school style of coach that usually runs that route. These are the same buses I rode when I was a kid–in fact, I think they were around back when I first met Kelley–and while I’m all for Metro getting our tax dollars’ worth out of the vehicles that are still running, I can’t say I enjoy the ride. In fact when I’m on a 7, I can’t really say anything; those dang things are much too loud for conversation. ;)

Seafair weekend, Bus Chick style

Saturday, 8/5

Metro on parade at Umojafest

• Umoja parade
This year was more of the usual: classic cars, kiddie drill teams, and frats and sororities stepping. One thing that was new to me (perhaps because I rarely sit through an entire parade): Metro participated, providing decorated, articulated, hybrid buses to transport parade officials–at least I think they were parade officials. Whoever they were, they were passing out balloons to the kids.

• Errand at Northgate
I rode the 41 for the first time. So apparently, did everyone else in Seattle; it was one crowded bus.

• Dinner with our (very fabulous) friend Tony
We took the 16 from Northgate to his place, then (gasp!) rode in his car to Dinette. It’s a small car, and there were three of us, if that counts for anything.

Sunday, 8/6

• Church
After the service: trash emptying duties at Good Shepherd’s adopted stop. Hot gum is not a stop adopter’s friend.

• Parental visit
The westbound 27 was crowded with all the people coming from the lake. In the confusion, an older gentleman, who was standing (and probably shouldn’t have been) near the front, somehow managed to start a confrontation with a couple sitting in the reserved area with their two babies. The confrontation resulted in the couple angrily exiting the bus and the old man calling the cops on his cell, alerting them to the dangerous family on the loose downtown. The driver, despite his obvious irritation, followed procedure and pulled over at the next stop, to await the arrival of both the police and a Metro supervisor. The other passengers, less than thrilled about the idea of sitting on a parked bus (and apparently not bound to any particular procedure), began yelling at the older gentleman, calling him names and telling him to sit down and shut up.

Sadly, I can’t tell you how the story ends. I had a water taxi to catch.

• Return from parental visit
On the water taxi ride back downtown, a couple got engaged…sort of.

A few minutes into the ride, a guy named Mike got on the PA system and announced that the six months he had spent with a Miss Brea Youn (I’m guessing at the spelling, of course) had been the best of his life. Would Brea, he wanted to know, be willing to spend the rest of hers with him? A lovely young woman three rows from the captain’s booth (I’ll assume it was Brea) stopped digging in her purse long enough to give Mike (and all of the curious people watching) the “thumbs up” sign. Mike ran over to Brea, hugged her, and then returned to the group of friends he’d been standing with before the announcement. Brea finally found what she had been digging for–her pink Razr phone–and made a call, which she continued for the remainder of the ride. Meanwhile, her intended stayed huddled at the back of the boat with his friends.

Right before we docked, Mike asked Brea to take a picture with him (and, of course, his friends) to commemorate the moment. She obliged, pausing her conversation only long enough to say cheese.

A bus chick’s nightmare

No doubt due to the recent rash of extremely (and inexplicably) late buses, last night I dreamed I was waiting for the bus.

And waiting.

In the dream, I had convinced one of my bus-averse girlfriends to ride with me, and she had brought a date. (Of course, the woman in the dream did not in any way resemble the girlfriend in question, but somehow, I knew it was her. You know how it goes.) So there we were, standing at a bus stop I didn’t recognize (not even in the dream), waiting for a bus that never came. Lots of other buses came, but they were all strange numbers headed to places I’d never heard of, and none of them were listed on the sign at the stop.

I woke up before the bus we were waiting for showed up. I believe I will be haunted for the rest of my life.

Speaking of bus fouls…

Tonight’s 4 was slower than ever and packed with people, people committing every bus foul known to woman, including:

• Refusing to move to the back, despite the fact that the bus was beyond capacity, and there were at least three empty seats back there.
• Eating smelly meals from styrofoam takeout containers (this is not just a bus foul–it’s against Metro’s rules).
• Turning up headphones, as loud as they would go, not placing them near any actual ears, and then chair dancing all over everyone in the immediate vicinity.
• Engaging in (the ever popular) too-loud personal conversations.

Which reminds me: Thanks for submitting all those great fouls back in May. I used many of them to write “Bus Fouls, Part II,” which hit the streets (literally) on Wednesday.

Bus Fouls, Part II

By CARLA SAULTER

It seems that the Sonics and Storm soon will be leaving us for Oklahoma City (a city that, by the way, does not offer bus service past 7:30–or at all on Sundays). Unfortunately, although we bus-riding Seattleites will no longer be able to watch NBA fouls, we continue to have aisle-side seats to rampant and egregious bus fouls.

Here are some reader-submitted fouls I forgot to mention in April (“Bus Fouls,” April 19):

• Dawdling when it’s time to board. Remember that Spike Lee movie–you know, the one about the Million Man March? When your route comes, it’s time to end the conversation (or bus mack, or argument) and get on the bus. If you decide you’d rather talk than ride, don’t get mad and bang on the side when the driver closes the door in your face.

• Rushing when it’s time to board. The opposite of the dawdling boarder is the overeager boarder. Wait for everyone to get off before you get on.

• Not offering your seat to an elderly or disabled passenger. Whether you’re sitting in the reserved section or not, if you see someone who could use a seat more than you, get up. (A lot of readers complained about this foul, but I rarely witness it. People tend to share their seats on the routes I ride. In fact, I’m not elderly or disabled, and last week, on the 36, a chivalrous young man offered me a seat…on his lap.) And speaking of which…

• Unauthorized touching. Incidental touching (foot-stepping, arm-grazing) is an inevitable (if unpleasant) fact of riding the bus. Taking advantage of crowded conditions to cop a feel is offensive and illegal. If you do this, be prepared to be publicly shamed, or (given the recent report on the aggressiveness of transit cops) even arrested.

• Taking up more than one seat. We all know that this is sometimes unavoidable (if you have a lot of groceries or happen to be larger than the seat), but folks, don’t put your belongings (or your feet) on the chair next to you when other people are standing. And don’t have the nerve to roll your eyes — or worse, refuse — if someone asks you to move over.

• Cell-phone talking. A lot of riders don’t like this, but I’m on the fence. If it is a quiet conversation, it’s really no more bothersome than a quiet conversation between two riders. If it’s loud or too personal, then it fits into the “sharing too much of your business” foul from April’s column. Besides, I’d rather see people get on the bus to talk than to endanger my safety by doing so in their cars.

Who knows? Maybe if we learn to play nice on the buses, the owners of our professional sports teams will learn to play nice in the stadiums we’ve already built.

I forgot to include one of the worst fouls (submitted by Freida): “When the bus is standing room only, parking yourself right by the front door so that the rest of us have to squeeze past you to get to the back.”

Guess that means I’ll have to write part III…

Someday my bus will come

Remember when you were a little kid, and you were waiting for a parent to pick you up from some event, like a skating party or something, and your parent was really late, and you sat and watched your friends (with responsible parents) leave one by one, until finally it was just you and a (slightly annoyed) chaperone (“Are you sure you told them 8:00, dear?”), and you convinced yourself that your folks had either died or decided they were tired of you and run off to Jamaica with the rest of your siblings?

If so, you know how I felt tonight, as I sat at Montlake and waited and waited (and waited) for the 48 to show. I waited almost 30 minutes for a bus that (theoretically, at least) comes every 15. While I waited, I watched several buses pass, including a couple of 43s (not unusual: the 43 is one of those buses you always see too many of–unless, that is, you are waiting for one), a 540, two 271s, several coaches headed to East Base, and the Snuffleupagus of routes, the 25, before my bus finally arrived.

Truth be told, I feel that “last one left at the skating party” sense of panic and abandonment every time the bus I am waiting for is more than five minutes late. I pace. I check the schedule. I pace some more. I squint to see farther down the street. I check the schedule again. Then, I see large headlights in the distance, and my heart soars. It’s coming…here it comes…nope! A Brinks truck. Ryerson. A school bus. Yet another 36. I consider calling Metro. Maybe there was a crazed gunman. Or an explosion. Or an 87-car pile-up.

And then, finally, it arrives, packed full of all the people who were waiting at the stops before mine. I am relieved. I am elated. I am indignant. It’s all I can do not to storm up the steps, poke my lip out and demand of the driver, “Where have you been?”

A different kind of bus pass

This morning, Busnerd called me at 6:45. He was on his way to Shilshole Marina (27+17+46) for a sailing adventure with his coworkers and wanted to bring his video camera. Unfortunately, he had left the camera at my place after our trip to the mountain a couple of weeks ago, and there wasn’t time for him to pick it up before he had to catch the 27.

Lucky for us, the 27 stops in front of my house, a few blocks west of Busnerd’s stop. He called me when he got on, and I grabbed the camera and headed outside. When the bus got to my stop, he was waiting at the front, at the seat closest to the door. He leaned out, and I made a successful handoff (must have been that season I ran track in 7th grade).

OK, so it wasn’t quite as involved as the bus luh episode when the driver’s S.O. brought him dinner, but we should get extra points for creativity. And for not kissing.

More carrots and sticks

This time, I’ll start with the stick:

The victim and the vigilante

In the middle of the night on Thursday/Friday, one of my younger brothers happened to look out his kitchen window in time to catch two people breaking into the car of my other younger brother (they’re roommates). He (the first little brother) ran them off and then stayed up for hours to wait for the police and fill out the report. This is fourth car break-in/theft they’ve had to deal with in three years. And no, their cars aren’t that nice.

Now, the carrot (and you thought it was that picture of my adorable little brothers):

Funky buses and early party exits aside, I will always prefer buses to cars because of the sense of community I feel when I ride. My June 28th Real Change column, also known as a day in the life of a bus chick:

A Shared Ride

By CARLA SAULTER

Saturday, 1:25 p.m., southbound #36.

The bus is crowded already, only halfway down Third. I am lucky to find a seat facing forward–one of the last. The shy six-year old riding with her grandfather and three younger siblings is not so lucky. She stands, holding the pole nearest the front, while the rest sit in the sideways seats, speaking a language I guess to be Vietnamese. The little girl clutches the pole tighter when the bus lurches. This happens frequently, sometimes several times per block. (The driver, you see, is still working out his relationship to the trolley brakes.) I consider offering my seat, but I am far away, and they are sticking together.

A tall, thin man wearing a denim shirt and a Mariners cap gets on a few blocks after me. His body is erect and strong, but the steel gray hair and weathered skin betray his advanced age. He stands across the aisle from the little girl, holding on to the opposite pole, until two teenage boys offer their seats. Both the girl and the old man look suspicious, the old man no doubt weighing his pride against his desire to rest, the little girl perhaps remembering her lessons about strangers. After a bit of coaxing, the old man smiles and takes the seat. The little girl continues to cling to the pole.

In the seats closest to the driver (who is still struggling with the brakes) are two women — one in short shorts that (perhaps for the first time this year) expose her ghost-white legs, the other covered from head (a big, floppy, canvas hat) to toe (socks and laced shoes) despite the 80-degree heat.

At Yesler, a preteen boy followed by an entourage of adults carrying Gap shopping bags races down the aisle on his roller tennis shoes. He barely misses a barrel-chested man clutching two hot-pink, two-pound hand weights, which he has been curling periodically since I got on. In the International District, a withered old woman manages to climb aboard without the aid of the lift, despite the broomstick — weighted on either end with a garbage bag stuffed with empty aluminum cans — that rests on her frail shoulders.

And the shopping bags, hand weights, and aluminum cans are just the beginning. My fellow riders, who fill every seat and then some, carry languages, memories, hometowns. Loved ones. Losses. Anger. Aches, pains, and diseases. New shoes, romance novels, Bibles, gossip magazines. Prescriptions. Spare change. Telephones. Bedrolls. Clean underwear.

And many, many stories. Stories that are now connected as a result of a single, shared ride.

A bus rider’s full moon

I am a very, very big fan of hot weather. So, as you might imagine, I have been thrilled with our recent (and unexpected–it’s June, after all) Seattle-style heat wave. When it’s nice like this, I tend to walk more often–partly because I want to be outside as much as I can, and partly because the buses get a little weird when the temperature climbs above 80. Folks get on half-dressed, exposing parts of their bodies the rest of us were never meant to see. (Depending on the individuals in question, this can sometimes make the bus another kind of hot.) Irritation escalates to anger in the space of seconds. Passengers will stand in the middle of the aisle (blocking traffic and causing more irritation/anger) rather than sit next to another sweaty body–that is, unless the bus driver has turned on the air conditioning full blast, making the bus cold enough to activate my Raynaud’s. And of course, bus-wide discussions are all about the weather (not necessarily weird but certainly less interesting than the usual topics).

What kind of weird/crazy/different stuff do you see on buses when it’s hot outside?

A taxident

Fellow bus chicks,

If you are planning to take the Elliott Bay Water Taxi on a windy evening, remember not to wear open-toed mules with three-inch heels–not even if you are going to visit your fashion-plate mother, who will no doubt raise her eyebrows at your sensible bus-chick shoes. Not even if, after you return from visiting your fashion-plate mother, you plan to attend a house party at a fancy downtown condo. You see, you will have to board the ferry/taxi from a floating dock, a floating wooden dock made from unevenly spaced planks. Sometimes, three-inch heels get caught in the spaces between planks. And you see, in the future (cute shoes or no), you’ll need your ankles to get around.

Sanctimonious? Maybe. Suffocated? Definitely.

Yesterday, Adam and I raced for the cure in honor of my mom and everyone else we know who has dealt with a terminal illness. Afterwards, we raced for the 27. We were breathing heavily by the time we got on–a big mistake on this particular 27. You see, another of the (tiny handful of) drawbacks of a bus-dependent lifestyle is the occasional encounter with an unpleasant odor. (I’ll spare you the examples.) Sometimes, the odor can be escaped with a discreet move to another seat. At other times, it permeates the entire vehicle, creating what bus riders across our fair city not-so-affectionately refer to as a “funky bus.” When teen-aged girls, who are at once new to this phenomenon, hypersensitive to smells, and inclined to seek attention, encounter a funky bus, they tend to complain, loudly and for the duration of the ride. Experienced bus chicks learn to sit near an open window, bury their faces in their sleeves, and mentally travel to a happier place.

The foul (and thankfully, short) ride was a minor inconvenience in an otherwise great day, which included: the race (Did I mention that Sound Transit was one of the sponsors?), the Juneteenth parade (Flexcar participated!), a foot-ferry ride, and two graduation celebrations–one of which involved a very big cake, and the other of which involved drinks at the W. The last 27 left downtown at 12:25, right about the time the W celebration was winding down. Thankfully, that ride was funk free.