Beetle Betty

I must confess, I don’t always ride the bus.

I know, how can I have a blog named Bus Rider Confessions and not ride the bus all the time?

• I’m in graduate school with night classes and the bus picks up hourly rather than every 20 minutes, which means I’ll get home at 10:00 PM after a 8:30 PM class release time.
• I sometimes need to go somewhere not accessible by bus during or after work.

The excuses could be endless and not wholly without merit, but the true fact of the matter is — I love my car! I do. It’s the car I’ve been dreaming about since my brother was old enough to dream about cars…and he’s two years older. Okay, so it’s not THE car of my dreams. That car was a 1968 Volkswagen Beetle, manual transmission, orange, and with a moon roof. I’m not sure that car even existed.

What does exist is Betty, my 2004 red Beetle. She’s as cute as a Lady Bug and drives like a Panzer. Those crazy German engineers knew what they were doing when they built the Volkswagen, or people’s car. Marketed as an economical family sedan, Hitler even owned a 1939 model. During the 1960s and 70s, their marketing strategies were brilliant (http://www.adclassix.com/vwvolkswagenbusbeetleads.htm) and their writing was subtle, yet humorous. I think the VW of today is trying to recapture that classic style, but hasn’t been able to reclaim the glory.

I’ve digressed. The thing is, I don’t particularly enjoy driving, but I love my car and what it represents. It was my very first new car. It’s like being a kid and buying your first 10 speed bicycle with odd job/babysitting money. It represents hard work and the knowledge that the “American Dream” isn’t completely dead.

Don’t worry, I’ll be back on the bus soon.

Don’t squeeze the Sunbeam!

The Route 10 bus home is often crowded. There have been days when the previous bus doesn’t arrive and everyone, their brother, and mother are packed like Japanese businessmen on a subway train. (Check out YouTube, I’m sure there are all sorts of videos on this topic.) On these days, I hang ten because I stand in the aisle and “surf” my way home.

Last Monday, the bus was busy, but not hang ten busy. I was able to find a seat nestled between a pole and an older gentleman cradling a shopping bag. As people exited the bus and personal space was reclaimed, the gentleman and I began to talk…he just didn’t want me to squish his Sunbeam bread. In fact, he gave the meticulously wrapped package its own seat and watched it as if he was a mother hen observing her chicks.

I don’t blame him. There’s nothing worse than smashed bread. Well, there’s soggy bread, but soggy bread can dry out. Smashed bread never recovers. Never. Part of the joy in eating fresh bread is reveling in its soft, white fluffiness. It’s like being a kid again. It’s innocence.

During our ride together, I learned that he was a widower and his wife worked at the then Bank One Building. He was going home (with his bread) after a long day, which started at 3:30 AM. By the time we spoke, it was creeping dangerously close to 5:30 PM. He was tired. I could see it in his eyes and the way his slouched slightly in his seat. It probably wouldn’t be long before he was safely tucked into bed, but not before he enjoyed a sandwich made with his Sunbeam bread.

Riding the Bus

The city bus seems to have a stigma surrounding it.

It’s dirty. The people are weird. It smells. It’s expensive.

Whatever the reasoning, it gets a bad reputation. For the hundreds of people who must ride the bus for work, school, shopping, etc., it means independence, self-sufficiency, and most of all transportation. The bus is life.