Pretty Woman, apparently.

“I can’t believe this shit happens to you.”  So said my roommate after I regaled her with the story of my recent bus experience. 
 
A few Saturdays ago was one of those superbly fabulous days, the kind we Seattleites live for (and constantly remind ourselves of in order to help fight SAD). Sunny and crisp, you can feel spring and summer around the corner.  Pike Place Market employees were even handing out daffodils downtown, ushering in spring – it was almost an ironic, over-the-top spoof of paradise.  

This particular day : lovely :: Jersey Shore : sheer and utter trash (that I have to watch)

(Did I just reawaken your fear of the Analogy portion of the SATs? And/or your fear of Snooki?)

I had just gotten my hair colored, was wearing new sunglasses (what up, sale bin at the Gap!), and had quite a spring in my step as I headed to the bus. 

I arrived at 3rd and Pike – one of the most notoriously dangerous/shady bus stops in the city, even mid-day – and was promptly confronted by, not only a few drug deals, but by a bare ass, just hanging out of a pair of grey sweats.  It was inappropriate, at best. (I believe the person was homeless, so I won’t belabor the point.  It wasn’t good or funny.)  Undeterred, I moved a few feet away, and waited. 

Route 3 arrived, and five or six people boarded with me.  I had just sat down when, suddenly, a disheveled man looked right at me and, I kid you not, said, “Julia Roberts is on this bus!?”  It was more of a statement than a question, but the question was there nonetheless.  He bee-lined for me, and continued (at which point I could smell the stale vodka and cigarettes). “Oh my gosh! Julia Roberts?!  I can’t believe this.”  He extended his hand to shake; I shook it, and gave him a curious “you’re funny” smile.  Now, I’m not going to deny I looked good. But…I don’t look a thing like Julia Roberts. 

Expect maybe in her Vivian, Pretty Woman phase.  (Because of the hair, not the whole hooker thing.)

I did have aforementioned sunglasses on, but still.  Just when I thought he was  done mistaking me for the highest paid actress in Hollywood* he shocked me with, “Will you sign my chest?” and proceeds to reveal his entire large, hairy stomach and chest.  A good 18 inches from my face.  

By this point, the entire bus was chuckling at the absurdity of it all  (or full on laughing out loud, like the teenaged kid behind me); I politely declined his tempting offer.

He angrily skulked away, and over the next twenty minutes, Mr. Sign My Chest proceeded to have conversations with everyone in the back of the bus.  The best of which was with the young, seemingly straight-laced guy behind me (he was wearing a sport-coat, and not in a hipster way).  Mr. Chest asked him if he had cigarettes or booze (both of which the teenager declined – he was only 18), and then shocked me by complimenting the boy on his hair, saying “It’s very 2011 of you.” What does that even mean? The best snippet was when Mr. Chest started recommending under-21 clubs to the young man. “There is that club…near the EMP…I don’t remember what it’s called  [oh but I do, and it's now closed] but it’s full of hot girls. Not white or black girls, but Asian girls.”

Without skipping a beat, this blazer-clad, seemingly WASPy teenager said, completely straight-faced, “I like Asian girls.”

I nearly lost it. Best. Bus. Ride. Ever.

Later, Mr. Chest exited, but not before he murmured a few more choice words my way, at which point I laughed.  Blazer Boy got off on top of Queen Anne with me, and as we parted ways, he turned around and yelled “Have a great day, Julia!” 

I laughed to myself the whole, beautiful walk home.

*Not a fact.

Musings on the Friendly Skies.

I returned yesterday from a whirlwind week of business travel.  I bounced around from Seattle to South Bend, Indiana, came back briefly (24 hours and a chance to wear a 2’ afro for a few hours), then headed out to Québec City (north of Montreal).  Because my tired brain is still trying to recover, I’m going to give you a list of my observations and experiences from the past week, organized in absolutely no way, shape, or form.

 -          Never change lanes while waiting at security.  It is Irony’s number one job to immediately speed up the line you just stepped out of.

-          Apparently, I looked crazy suspicious on Tuesday.  Stop profiling me!!  Fur coats aren’t historically suspicious looking, are they?  I was selected for a “random search” in Québec, then selected for a “random search” in Chicago 4 hours later.  Later, I was forced to perform a song and dance in an X-ray machine (while standing within surprisingly wide footprints). Seriously though, they make you form your hands into a triangle above your head, à la Jay-Z’s H.O.V.A.  If the security guard wasn’t already pissed at me for stepping outside the aforementioned footprints, I would’ve yelled H to the Izzo!

-          Airport food, in case you didn’t already know, is horrendous. America, we have a problem when the healthiest thing available is a bagged lettuce salad (you know, with the stringy carrots?) at Chili’s.  The Québec airport, however, has a lovely French restaurant in it.  One more reason I’m a Francophile.

-          I apparently dropped acid in Chicago, then camera phoned it.

Oh no, wait, that’s just what happens on the walk between Terminals B and C.  I thought neon tube art went out with hammer pants and one-strap overalls.

-          Flu shots in the airport? Really?

-          The neck pillow is a lifesaver. Yes, they are nerdy and in no way say “I am a chic traveler”; this rings especially true when you forget to remove it while trekking the 87 rows to the back of the plane to use the “bathroom”. (Of course that was me. Twice.)  I see your nerd factor, but raise you 2 hours of delicious slumber.  I received one as a gift last year, and I’ve never been happier (relatively speaking).

 In closing: the Chevy Impala?  Surprisingly nice.

Bus 2, Mary 0.

I did it again. Believe it.

Once more, technology tripped me up. I was diligently answering an email from a client on my phone, and somehow boarded the wrong bus.  After realizing my mistake (and muttering a few choice words under my breath), I frantically pulled the cord.  

“Who just pulled the cord?!”

Ummmm…“Me,” I said from halfway back an extremely crowded bus. Cue red face.

“What stop do you want?” he said.

“The next one.” 

“What is the next stop?” He was onto me.

“…it’s the next one.”   (Duh.)

“Lady. Where do you want to go?”

“…The next stop!” (This was getting old.)

“Well, the next stop is in Northgate. Where do you need to go?”

“I need to get off! Before Aurora! Please!” I said, as I flashed my pearly whites (thanks for the orthodontia, Mom and Pop).  All the while, I know the people around me were thinking Look at his girl. Neophyte with the big-ass gold bag doesn’t know what bus she is on.

“Well, I can let you off at the Hostess Cupcake factory on Dexter, by King5. For a five dollar tip.”

“Sure, okay. Thank you!” I didn’t actually have the money.  And if I did, I probably would have used it to buy an aforementioned Hostess cupcake.

He pulled to a stop, I hopped off (while thanking him profusely), and I swear I heard clapping as I exited the bus.

I laughed to myself as I trudged down Dexter towards Denny. At least I didn’t end up in Northgate, or on Aurora again.  My roommate happened to be driving home, and offered to pick me up. I gratefully hopped in her car and we headed home.

And five minutes later, we ran out of gas.

Big Yellow Taxi.

The cab. The taxi-cab. Our yellow friend in times of need.

Taxis are (relatively) standard, whether you’re in New York City or South Bend, Indiana. A cab is a cab is a cab. All you need is an agile arm to hail or finger to call one, plus some money (they prefer cash). And voila! You’re there. You can pretty much count on a directionally adept driver to get you from Point A to Point B. Right?

Wrong, apparently.

There I am, trying to get to the Husky tailgate by way of a quick stop at a friend’s apartment in Eastlake. I hop in a cab, mention the South end of Eastlake, and expect to be whisked away. Not. So. Much. He asks me how to get there, which I do often appreciate, because I may know a shortcut he/she does not. I mention shooting down Dexter to Mercer and along the south end of the lake.

Blank stare.

“Dexter Avenue? You know, the major North to South arterial that runs along the east side of Queen Anne?” I almost add, “Nearly every 20s something individual lives along or near Dexter during their time in Seattle, I’m sure you’ve driven loads of their drunk asses home at 2am.”

Nothing. Maybe he is new.

“Okay, well just start driving. I’ll point.”

How about I just drive? Chinese fire drill at the stop sign?

We manage to limp down Dexter, all the while I’m learning that Mr. Frontseat has a lead foot, but not on the good pedal.

I say, “Take a left up here on Mercer.”

Frontseat interprets that as “take a left immediately” and turns the wrong way onto a one-way street.

FML. I’m never getting there. Shotgun a beer for me.

About a year later, we make it on to Mercer and proceed up to Eastlake.

I thank him for the ride and pay, laughing to myself at the absurdity of the trip.

Dear readers, a word to the wise: The next time a cabby stares blankly at you after you mention a veritable interstate of a street, run for your life. Or rather, just run to Point B. It’s faster.

Zip it Up.

My name is Mary, and I am a Zipster. 

Hi Mary. 

Yes, I’ve recently ventured into the world of the Zipcar. For you public transportation neophytes, Zipcar is the smart, eco-friendly alternative to car rental and car ownership. Wheels when you want them.  For a relatively small annual fee, you, too, can become a bona fide, card-carrying Zipster, able to rent one of the thousands of (new and clean) cars available at hundreds of locations around the city.  Reserving is easy, done via web/mobile device, available in half hour increments. Car rental fees range from about $7/hour to $13/hour, depending on the vehicle (for instance Civic vs. Pilot), and cover both gas and insurance.

So really, for someone like me, it’s perfect. I don’t always need a car (after all, I’ve got these two feet, the bus, cabs, and roommates), but would like the ability to easily use one if need be (I’m looking at you, Target at Northgate).

Hmm that’s the second time I’ve mentioned Target at Northgate in this blog…  

But I digress.

In testing out my new membership, I’ve quickly learned the basics, or best practices, when it comes to Zipping.  Basically what NOT to do.

On a recent rainy, Sunday night, I had to be in the U-District for a “meeting” (date). I decided to Zip over, because busing just wasn’t feasible, and I didn’t want to fork over the (probably) $16 cab fare each way.  I swiped my card on the dash (which unlocks the car), settled in, and was off!  Upon arrival, I parked and ran to the theater, leaving little Cynthia behind. Yeah, the cars are all named. It’s so cute.  

Movie over (go see The Tillman Story, it’s excellent), and we decided to go for dinner. I jumped on the iPhone app and tapped “extend reservation” (keep in mind you can’t always extend reservation, as another Zipster might already have it reserved). 

I hit “extend reservation” like 5 times that night (we were having a good time).  

I finally parked Cynthia back in her spot on Queen Anne at 10pm. Grand total for the evening, with tax, was around $42. So I spent $42 on a car that yes, got me from point A to point B, but just sat on University Ave. for 5 hours in the process + $13 I spent on two beers (because ladies, you have to get at least one round).  I could’ve taken a cab for around $30.  

Moral of the story: When Zipping, use the service for errands, short trips, excursions, etc., not just as a means of transport with hours in between.  It’s great for running down to Home Depot (what up, paint dept!), or venturing over to the peninsula. 

Not so much for searching for the love of your life.  I mean, “meeting a client.”

The Bike-Bus Attempt

We here at Public Transport know nearly all of you have had hilarious or otherwise catastrophic transportation experiences.  Our good friend Meghan has made our days and penned a piece about just such an adventure.  Enjoy!

    Earlier this summer, with sunny skies holding domain over our great city, I decided that it was time to dust the rust off my Schwinn, and pair my new bus patronage with the other white meat transport alternative. That’s right, folks, I recently attempted to bring my bike on the bus and have lived to tell the tale.   

   My first impression after watching others was that this activity was easy, seamless, smart. So, on a day with commuting between appointments in Seattle and the Eastside in front of me, I decided to test it out.  And here’s what happened.

   I kicked off my route by riding down Mercer to catch the 16 at Republican/5^th Avenue heading towards North Seattle. Fun fact: this is currently a construction zone, with no bus lane, and a fairly steady stream o’ traffic to boot. As the bus arrived and I headed to attach my bike, I waved to the driver and called out that it was my “first time.” She then proceeded to direct me from inside the bus on best steps, as though by some miracle of fate I would actually hear her over the roaring chainsaws. Nonetheless, I struggled with getting the platform down. I struggled with hoisting my bike onto the platform and into the grooves. And then, if possible, I struggled even more at holding the bike up while I lifted the clamp and stretched it to the bike. Finally, a fellow bus patron came out of the bus and helped me.  Pretty sure the whole event clocked in at about 4 minutes – essentially a lifetime at a bus stop. And did I struggle when removing my bike? Absolutely.

   However, on my second bus ride of the day, I again told the driver what I was up to and about my novice status, and I received a “pound” from him for my efforts on my way out. Success? I’ll take it.

   All that said, I’ll leave you with my top tips to keep in mind before you ride:

1. Pick a less intensive starting point for the first try, such as a transit hub or bus-lane sided stop. No one wants to hold up traffic.
2. Research how other riders attach their bikes, and ask them questions about things to keep in mind, ie. wardrobe, sheer strength, order of actions.
3. Start loading the bike right away.
4. Free your hands – set your helmet, backpack, etc. aside – and be prepared to focus all of your hand/motor skills on the bike.
5. Task your strongest hand with lifting and latching the clamp, and your weaker hand to holding the bike up. This is key.

   Albeit slightly stressful the first time, I would absolutely recommend that those looking to combine commute/fitness or simply make the most efficient green route possible try out the combo. Cheers to keeping the rubber side down while riding the metro!

Dewy, and not in the hot way.

Just so you know, we’ve crash-landed on Fall. Which means, what? you ask. Among other things, like Husky football (do you like how I did that, Megan?), HATS!, and pumpkins, Fall includes the following scenario.

Picture it: you’re late for the morning bus (duh) and make a run for it. You just make it, sit down and catch your breath. Suddenly, you realize the very jacket you put on to combat the cool rain is a turncoat (yeah, that happened), and you are now sweating profusely in an already foggy bus.* Once the forehead gets “dewy” (and not in the hot way), you’re a goner. And the more you think about it, the worse it gets!

My best advice to you, Public Transporters: wear a thin raincoat that can be easily removed for the ride into town. And maybe stash a container of loose powder in your purse. I’m talking to you, gentlemen.

*This same situation occurs for college students the world ‘round, when, after running to class, the Backpack becomes a source of unbridled heat gain. Next thing you know, you’re sitting in Pysch 101 looking like you just got off Splash Mountain.

Mugshots and prison garb.

A while ago, my friend Eric and I headed down to South Seattle to attend an event near Columbia City.  Naturally, we hopped on the Link Light Rail. I say “naturally” because we are both car-less.  (Although he happens to have a scooter, which: JEALOUS.)  After the event, and upon returning to the light rail station, we ran onto the platform and slipped onto a North bound train just before it left the station.  

  If you’ve ridden the light rail, you’ll know that tickets must be purchased prior to boarding; there isn’t any opportunity to purchase on board.  As we caught our breath (and I pondered working out more), Eric nonchalantly mentioned that the last time he rode the train without paying the fare, he received a $125 ticket. 

WHAT?!  One hundred and twenty five dollars? For not paying for a two dollar and fifty cent ticket?  (Now I know how the city is “affording” this thing.)

I was still recovering from the shock of this news when the train rolled into the Beacon Hill station.  It’s a strange, underground-tube station, painted entirely blue and complete with creepy glass “windows” that look at screens showing amoeba like images moving around.  Whatever.  As the doors opened, Eric popped his head out and with no sense of urgency whatsoever said to me, “Get ready.” 

Ready for what!? Last time I checked, Area 51 was not our final destination. Suddenly, he gave me the international hand signal for COME ON and I quickly exited the train.  We were immediately confronted by a Seattle Police Officer, asking for our tickets.  I stared at him, dumbfounded (I would be a horrible criminal).  As Eric gently dragged me away (from the cop AND an inevitable life behind bars with no parole) he quickly said over his shoulder, “She has our Orca cards.”  The officer advanced towards to me again; I waited to hear my Miranda Rights, imagined my mug shot and began lamenting the fact that I look bad in orange. 

Just then, I reached back and began to pull my Orca card from its precious holster (butt pocket of jeans); I flashed the top half of the card, along with the top half of another, flipped-around card.  Mr. SPD eyeballed me, backed down, and backpedaled onto the train just as the doors closed.

 But what said officer didn’t know was that what he thought was a second Orca card was, in fact, my office access card.  Might as well have been my Blockbuster card. HE WAS DUPED.  

  We trotted upstairs, where Eric bought a ticket and I “tap[ped] my Orca card here” (to remove the fare from my account) and returned to the platform to wait for the next train into the city.  I saw the city skyline growing as we rumbled North, and I couldn’t help but bask in the wicked glow of having evaded the system.  We dodged a bullet.  We fought the law.   We could have ended up at Ryker’s.  Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.

Just when you think you know it all…

You end up on the side of Highway 99.

Let me back up. I consider myself somewhat of a Metro expert. An authority. A…connoisseur, if you will. I can, with relative ease, get myself and others to pretty much any location in the greater Seattle area via public transportation. (This is not to say that I don’t accept ride offers from friends. Because I DO.) Having ridden the bus nearly everyday for four years, I’ve become quite confident in hopping on the closest coach and maneuvering my way home. Maybe too confident.

A few weeks ago, I left work around 5:45pm to scoot uptown to meet a friend at Laredos at 6pm. I knew of three, maybe four, routes that would either take me right by the restaurant or within a short walking distance. I hopped on the “maybe” route at 3rd and Pike, and cruised uptown. I used to live along these routes, so was (fairly) sure that route 16 would drop me near the restaurant. Mistake Number One.

On 5th Ave near the rapidly expanding Gates Foundation headquarters, the roads are a mess; lanes are blocked, construction workers are directing traffic, and bus stops are temporarily closed. I requested the stop just as I heard the driver announce “Last stop on 5th Ave.” Perfect, I thought.

Now, what happened next is a mystery to even me. Either she didn’t stop at the “last stop on 5th Ave” or I was too wrapped up in a phone conversation to notice. Those of you who know me might have an opinion on this, but I swear she didn’t stop. Mistake Number Two?

The bus sauntered onto Mercer, under Aurora, and took a right onto Dexter. Whaaaat? I pulled the cord, a bit too frantically. The bus. Did. Not. Stop. I quietly asked the guy next to me, “Is this an Express?” No, he answered.

Next thing you know, we were barreling up Highway 99, fish tacos and a glass of sangria a fleeting memory in my head. Great. I’m going to end up stranded in Northgate, I thought. At least there is shopping there. I’ll be like the Target version of Where the Heart Is. Sans the whole baby thing.

Suddenly, the driver heeded my cord-pulling requests, pulled over and dumped me on Aurora. I stood for a moment; cars whizzed past. Well. Okay.

Thankfully, my sister was joining us for dinner and a (hilarious/frantic) phonecall was placed. I walked down the giant stairs leading from Aurora to Dexter Avenue (now I know who uses those stairs!). As luck would have it, two of my friends drove by, honked, and followed up with a “WHY are you standing on Dexter Ave?” call. The sister picked me up on her way to dinner, stifling laughter as she pulled over. “Just when you thought you knew it all.”

Spring fever!

As a TOTAL summer girl (I’m a July baby so, in turn, I grew up thinking June/July/August were devoted to me) I’ve come down with a severe (yet non-life threatening) case of Spring Fever. Heck, go ahead and call it Spring and Summer Fever.  These brief glimpses of Seattle sunshine and 50 degree weather have me itching for a vacation.  Don’t tell anyone but I came thisclose the other day to dusting off my bikini in attempt of getting a tan.  And then I remembered that it’s still “winter,” not July and I live in Seattle, not San Diego.  Whatever. 

But since this is a blog about buses/public transit and I’m a level-headed, budget conscious gal, I’ve channeled my urge to bon voyage into an urge to shop…commute responsibly.  Exciting, isn’t it?  Here are a few transit-ready items to help kick off the soon-to-be spring bus riding season.  Plus, who doesn’t love a little retail therapy? 

 

Bagellini Expandable Tote  
I have this in khaki and it’s the perfect bag for commuting (bus, train, plane, you name it).  The color shown is in “crinkle nylon-mango/tomato.” It’ll neatly pack a laptop, oversized wallet, cosmetic bag, mobile phone, book, journal… trust me, I’ve done it and it looks way better than toting around a separate purse and computer bag.  Oh, and did I mention its waterproof?  Plus, love the color.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elecom Inner Ear Type Stereo Headphone Ear Phone (Sky Blue) 
Just looking at these makes me want to grab my iPod and crank up the tunes (personal song of the week= Imma Be). So cute and only $8.99! Also comes in red. 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Women’s Zetta Tall Rain Boots in Lime Green 
Oh Target, how I love you and the things you create.  There’s no way the bus driver will miss you in these babies!  And with St. Patrick’s Day quickly approaching, why not show your Irish love with a pair of lime green rain boots? If you’re boring and lime green isn’t your cup of tea, the boot also comes in Kelly green, yellow, red, purple and forest green. 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

L’Occitane Shea Butter Mini Hand Cream 
Yes, the sun is peeking out but the winter chill is still lingering.  Between the cold air and frequent hand washing/sanitizing that comes with commuting, our poor hands get super dry.  Ditch that complimentary hotel room lotion you’ve been hoarding and treat yourself to a small sample of luxury: L’Occitane hand cream. A 1 ounce tube will set you back $10 but is well worth it.  To justify the expense, check out Sound Transit’s handy dandy calculator and see how much $ you’ve saved by riding public transit.  Like ST says, “save your latte, ride sound transit.”    

 

 

Until next time, happy riding!