The above statement has been my motto, as I plan to singlehandedly solve the gas crisis and save a bundle on car insurance all at once. This coming year, I don't intend to own a car. I'm moving out and I will live in an apartment close to my work. Everything I really need is nearby. And there is public transportation out there, of a fashion.
But my confidence was a little bit shaken this past Friday when I came home from Wenatchee, across the mountains, by bus. The plan was to take a bus--which I had originally thought was a train, because it was on the Amtrak website--to Seattle, and then another bus half an hour after we arrived that would get me to Maple Valley. I must point out that there are only two buses from Seattle to Maple Valley: at five-ten and five-thirty. Since the bus was scheduled to come in at 4:30, I didn't have any worries.
I left my grandparents' cabin at 10:30, and got to the bus station before noon. The bus left at 12:50--only twenty minutes late. The bus was completely full, and there was no air-conditioning. The people around me were all complaining about how late the bus was and how hot it was. But I didn't see any reason to gripe: it was about what I expected out of a bus like that (not a Greyhound bus, but a similar company).
Across the aisle from me was a couple who had just hitchhiked from Acapulco. They were from Vancouver and had decided it was time to go home. Unfortunately, the part of their trip that was supposed to be easy and predictable had been full of snags. The bus they had been supposed to take the previous night (and had had tickets for) had been full, so they had slept in the bus station and finally gotten on this bus that morning. Out of food and money, they were starving and ended up being fed carrots and Cheetos by other people on the bus.
But I didn't worry too much. The bus wasn't that late, and I figured it would pick up time as we went. After all, it takes 2 1/2 hours to cross the mountains, and the trip was scheduled to take 4. Of course, I didn't account for the fact that half the trip across the mountains is uphill. It was an old bus, and it slowed to almost walking pace climbing those hills. We reached Everett too late to get my hitchhiking friends on their connection. It was probably Saturday before they ever got to Vancouver.
The drive from Everett to Seattle was the worst. Starting out, we were only a half-hour behind. The bus driver grumbled, "Why is there so much traffic?" It was obvious to me: it was four o'clock on 405. Enough said. There is always rush-hour traffic on that road, and on Fridays rush hour starts at noon.
More people were let off at a "Greyhound Station" I hadn't known existed--I had made my plans from the Amtrak station, so I didn't dare get off there. I probably should have, though: the Amtrak station was some distance away, and the traffic was barely moving. At this point I moved up to the front and chatted with the driver--there were only about five people left on the bus. The driver couldn't understand why there was always so much traffic in Seattle. It seemed he was used to it, and accustomed to the fact that he was always an hour late.
While I was at the Greyhound station, my dad called from the bus I was supposed to catch. "The bus is leaving now," he said. "Are you going to make it?" I did not make it. But there was still the 5:30 bus.
We arrived at the Amtrak at 5:20. I had ten minutes. My instructions were to go a short distance north to find the bus stop. But I didn't count on the fact that the road above was about a story higher than the level of the parking lot. "It's easy," said the bus driver. "Go into the train station and take the stairs."
It is not a very big train station, so I was surprised the stairs weren't readily obvious. I finally found them behind a set of glass doors bearing the sign "Stairs Closed." Dragging my rolling suitcase and lugging my heavy laptop case, I hurried out of the building, out on the lower street, and took the steep hill up to the higher street. (Seattle, for those who don't know, is not on a level. At all.)
I came panting up to the road and discovered it was 3rd. The intersection I needed was 3rd and King. I didn't see the name of the cross street, but I saw a bus stop. I paused to look at it, but there was no sign of my bus, the 143. "Maybe it's a block further," I thought, when I saw the 143 heading exactly my way. I stood expectantly, waiting for it to stop--and it breezed right by in a hot gust of exhaust.
While I was on the phone with my dad again, near tears, I glanced up and saw the road sign: 3rd and Jackson. "The 143 stops one block down," the commuters standing around commented helpfully. But the next time it would stop there was tomorrow morning--or maybe even Monday.
My dad said I should take the 101 to Renton, and he would pick me up from there. "I think you have to take that from the bus tunnel," he said.
"Where's the bus tunnel?" I asked.
"You want the International District station," he said. "Either that or the Pioneer Square station."
Idiotically, I answered, "Okay," and hung up. In my defense, I had just seen a sign labelled "International District" and thought it might have something for me. It didn't. I trudged on a little further to the next bus stop. The sun was boiling hot, and my laptop case strap cut into my shoulder as my rolling suitcase bounced on the in the sidewalk.
I found a 101 stop. With a symbol next to it, attached to a note that said "From five to seven, stops in the bus tunnel." But where was that pesky tunnel? I only knew one entrance to it, in a different part of the city, but what I did know is that they are not always marked. Again I turned to a nice-looking commuter. "Excuse me, sir." He eyed me uneasily. Maybe he thought I was trying to ask him for money.
He was relieved when I only asked for directions, and pointed me north. He was pretty sure it was that way. I went a block or so when I ran into a cop, and thought I could get further directions from him. He, however, pointed me in the opposite direction. I trudged back the way I had come, passed the nice direction-giving commuter, and took the turn (uphill) the cop had suggested.
No sign of a bus tunnel. I walked further and further, block after block, uphill and down again, passing creepy guys in doorways and pouring out sweat. I passed a beautiful park, and saw signs for Pioneer Square. I had come up a whole stop from where I had started. Finally, at my wits' end, I decided to stop somewhere, get inside for a minute to rest, maybe get some directions. A Starbucks looked promising--but it was closed. Finally, I ducked into a flower shop. The middle-aged proprietors told me there was a tunnel entrance on the side of their own building. I was afraid of walking right by it again, so the gentleman walked right outside with me, pointing out the pink railing on the side of the building. There were stairs there, and I walked down thankfully.
After some observation of signs, I discovered a number of things. First, I had walked by at least three entrances to the bus tunnel, one of which was actually inside the Amtrak station. That would have been useful to know. Second, I found my bus, and which way it would go. Thirdly, and most comforting of all, I discovered that the fare was actually equal to the amount of money in my wallet. I had been worrying all afternoon that I was a quarter shy.
The bus was crammed to the gills, the aisles full of standing people. But at the sight of my suitcase and my weary face, a man gave me his seat. After a long ride, I finally saw my dad at the Renton Transit Center, and he drove me the rest of the way home. It was about 7:30. The whole usually two-and-a-half hour trip had taken eight hours in total.
However, I am undaunted. That, and I still can't afford a car. So I will remain a public transportation user, but keeping this in mind. You can only get anywhere without it a car if you:
1. Don't care how long it takes. It has to not matter how late you are. And you have to be sure enough of this that you don't get stressed out when you're late.
2. You have to keep enough change to pay for all the transfers.
3. Keep smiling. Every time you're delayed, think of how much money you're saving, and how maybe if you try hard enough, gas prices will go down. (*snort*) Hey, you never know.
