Bus Pass

Progress?

2010-03-04T01:48:00.002-07:00

I didn't understand that it would be a physical pain too. A shrinking of the organs or a pressure, piano keys or door bell ringers or a pendulum, against my gut. The feeling of loss that comes across endlessly repeating. I didn't feel this way when my grandfather died, even though his was real death--gone, finished, over. This was only a partial death. Of what I thought could be. Potential.

But then again it is about movement, this loss of mine. Not of the inner organs so much, because that does go away, or lessen, ease up with time. It's about movement of myself, that 91 cm (http://vimeo.com/6913172). My own personal meteorite.

I am terribly afraid to lose it. This sense of loss. How small minded, how limited of me, to fear loss of loss. But if I don't feel loss over what I've lost, then maybe I didn't have it in the first place? It didn't exist? Maybe Nathan, the man I told, quite convincingly, that I love him, didn't exist as I thought. Or maybe I didn't love him. Or maybe those 14 months were an imagined life.

I'm left with a burn on my left inner arm and a cut on my right pointer finger and a feeling that, though I think I'm losing weight, I'm sure I'm gaining it. The feeling that if I control my out, I'll satisfy my in.

Too much thinking, that's what I'm doing. Dear friend Andrew invited me to roller skating. Wonder if that's still a thing.

Movement. . . and thinking about writing again. Moving toward moving again. Through and around and toward something new. Trying not to compare myself to others (ex girlfriends!) and letting go, slowly, of small things (holes, hair, exercise). Trying to write more. Starting now.

What's Moving

2009-12-12T20:07:00.005-07:00

These days it's tough getting things moving. Tough thinking about how words fit together and how all those words fitted together formulate a whole vehicle that moves entire essays, works, novels. I am not creating a vehicle as we speak. I'm watching an engine sputter, a window crank rust. I'm not doing much moving.

But Ida is. 100 year old Ida Fasel. Poet Ida. Sent me home three weeks ago with a book of her poems, All Real Living is Meeting. Sent me home two weeks ago with another, The Difficult Inch. She said she would really like to hear what I think of the books.

What I think of the books.

I've decided, in a completely premeditated act of spontaneity, to use a pencil to underline the parts of the poems that get me. Like "runners passing deep in purpose" and "the flesh of grass." But those lines are both from the same poem--Carlo. I'm having trouble reading lately. It's not difficult to read so much as it's difficult to move myself to read. And to write, for that matter.

I'm perfectly capable, have two hands to hold the book, two hands to type the letters, two eyes to read the words, and I can't seem to motivate. Ida, on the other hand, can't stop thinking about working. 100 years old, fell and broke her nose, suffers from heart failure, weak hips and swollen calves, needs constant oxygen supply, and she is always asking when she'll be able to write again. She said once that sometimes she stays up all night writing. I wonder if it's true--that she still does. 100 years old and up all night writing. Or does she perhaps confuse her present self with a former, younger self?

It doesn't entirely seem to matter. She wants to write, but for me that feeling is, sadly, fading.

I want to want to write.

Where does this leave me? Stalled. Busted. Broken down, but looking, jump-start seeking. Bubbling. Refilling.

Not worried. Or, worried, but hopeful. Hopeful and ready.

Preface to a Long Thought

2009-05-27T20:07:00.008-06:00

How does my future transportation affect this moment?

On Monday, Nathan and I are embarking on a road trip. A month of van riding and music listening, hiking and the building up and breaking down of my parents' old purple tent, eating trail mix and tuna fish and canned soup and seeing the ocean.

Future transportation. Sitting in the passenger seat. Mostly. Because I love sitting next to Nathan while he does something as simple as driving on the highway. He's just so good at it. One of my mom's friends said this trip will either "make or break" my relationship with Nathan, a comment I've heard more than once, and I wonder what exactly that means. Talitha said today, as she transported me via her white Toyota to my grandma's house, that the trip can't "make" Nathan and my relationship, because the relationship is already sort of made, and furthermore, does surviving this trip with Nathan mean that the relationship can't break after just because we lasted a month sleeping on hard ground together? The answer to that, as unsettling and honest as it is, is of course no.

But yes, this month of transportation could definitely break us.

And there's not much to be said of that. Going on a trip as intense as this could be asking for a break up, but here's the thing: I still went to Israel even though there are constant car bombs, I still went to Spain even though I could have gotten mugged, I still went to New York even though I could have gotten lonely. And there were bombs in Israel, I was robbed in Spain, and I got lonely as hell at times in New York.

So, you go. You go on the trip, take the risk, hope you're a better person because of it. Hope you come out stronger.

I'm so ready to move on, out, around. So ready to travel, I can barely stand it. My heels are itching. And this is the first time I've traveled with anyone. I mean, as an adult, a full human being, this is the first time. And I don't think I could have chosen a better partner for it.

If I Had a Nickle

2009-05-15T02:13:00.007-06:00

Back to the bus. Yeah I know I promised big things. We were going to move to a strict diet of walking, longboarding, van-riding, but tonight I bolted to catch the 10. Eastward home. Left the comedy club downtown where Talitha's friends were trying their hand at improvisation, and paid my $2 fare. Yes, Wendy, I paid this time; didn't use my expired pass. Used cash, sat in the fifth row on the left, kept to myself. A man got on around Corona Street and told the driver he didn't have enough money. Brought out a roll of nickles and dropped a few in the cash box. He lingered at the front a moment too long and the driver pushed him back. He sat near the front, and spoke to every single person around him, eyes wide open. "I know you, sister," he said to the women, and "We are brothers," he said to all the men. He said to the young man reading his book, "Brainiac. Hey brainiac, how'd you learn to read?" No one around him made eye contact, but I kind of couldn't help it. He didn't look at me for a minute, but then, once he caught my eyes, he wouldn't let go. We had to stare at each other. He said, "Sister, I know you, and you goina be okay. Just let it happen, sister, don't have to worry about it, trust me, sister, you goina be okay." He kept talking, I got up to exit, and walking down dark 12th Street, I thought, Yeah, crazy man thinks everything's going to be okay. Also, he knows me. He knows. Everything is going to be okay. So yeah, I got my $2 worth. No wobbling on the way home--total confidence.

Long Ride

2009-05-03T11:20:00.003-06:00

I've decided to expand the blog. Listen, all of you hardcore fans, we're busting out of the bus world bounds. We can't be held back, we won't be detained by more promises of quarter-hour pickups and rainy day disappointments. We've moved on to bigger and better transports. Here are my latest new modes of transportation:

Foot. Well, feet. I have two, I've been using them. New shoes, moleskin, iPod, warmer weather.

Snowshoes. Cold, beautiful scenery, makes Nathan really happy when I go. Have started to love it independent of him, but I’m not sure that I would ever go alone.

Longboard. Requires a bit more explanation. Am still not officially a Dude Bro, but edging closer, I suppose. Nathan and I found that we both have longboards available to us for free (roommates/landlords), and have been taking advantage of that. Not so much like a skateboard. Longer. Bigger. Bigger wheels, a wider wooden platform that wobbled the first time I put all my weight on it. No--it wobbles every time I lose confidence or go down a hill too fast. It wobbles and I wobble and I have to remind myself to give up on the idea that I won’t fall. The idea that I can control it, myself, everything. I went longboarding with Virginia the other day. Peruvian Virginia: small, wears her thick, short black hair in two small pig tails, speaks with a slight Peruvian accent. She wants to teach me to longboard mostly, I’m told, because she’s been desperate for a longbaord partner. Before last month I would have had no idea what that meant, but I sort of get it now. It’s not a solo sport, it’s something to be shared. She is a magnificent longboarder, albeit at times still the tiniest bit shy of steady. This only makes Virginia more delightful.

Nathan. Transports me in his 1997 Dodge Caravan. Never thought I would love a minivan, but I kind of do. White, dented, battered, slowly falling apart from the ceiling cloth to the electric locks. Here’s the thing: it smells like cinnamon because of this novelty cinnamon-scented broom that’s been in there since Nathan and I started dating. The first time I got in the car, I commented on the smell, and since then I’ve gotten to mostly ignoring it. It’s mixed in with all my other associations now. There’s a story behind the broom—something about his roommate and Christmas, but it doesn’t really matter. Here’s another thing: Nathan never cleans the van. He’s messy. There are piles of trash and dirty clothes from snowshoeing and tools and our longboards and blankets and ski poles and. The van transports me. To being with Nathan. To letting go of the need to gather food wrappers in some sort of receptacle (though I’ve tried on more than one occasion. He hates that, and pushes the bag and trash out of my hand, back to the floor. He has a system, he assures me). To being in an adult relationship that involves moving myself, moving him, allowing him in and out of my life.

I haven’t had as much need for the bus lately. Other modes of transport. New modes, old modes, finding ways to get around. New ways. Erin is getting a motorcycle, and Nathan and I are going on a road trip this summer. One way or another I’m transporting. Don’t worry about me, I’m getting around.

Who's Hand Is This!?!

2009-04-16T04:37:00.003-06:00

A more eloquent and entertaining blog post about riding the subway than I could ever muster. Plus: there's a picture! http://jamesfallows.theatlantic.com/archives/2009/04/china_v_japan_the_packed-train.php

(i can't figure out how to post a real link here. it just shows up as invisible, or rather, not at all. any clues?)

I don't worry about getting groped, although when the train gets packed people do stand unreasonably close. When in line, I used to give the person in front of me a little of what I deemed "personal space". in the us, no one would dare jump in there. this was my weakness for awhile; i kept getting budged as "personal space" means no space here.

The iPod Shuffle

2009-03-28T23:09:00.003-06:00

The truth is, dear Sarah, when it comes to moving around this city, I rely on my iPod to an almost pathetic extent. I take one earbud out of one ear before boarding the bus, to show the driver that I'm "making an effort" to be a part of the bus culture, but I put it right back in when I'm seated, and generally try to ignore all that goes on around me. Generally.

I find my curiosity occasionally wandering beyond the constricts of my tiny music machine, but my world is often so self-contained, so tightly packaged, that I have enough to think about on a Colfax bus ride. The feeling of my leg touching my neighbor's is almost too much information, the wrong kind of information, and I prefer not to process it. Prefer to let it go unnoticed. Prefer to lose my thoughts in something less immediate. The lingering feeling from earlier that morning of Nathan's leg against mine. The electricty of it still makes me squirm. It's so distant and overwhelming that it erases the bus entirely.

The reality of riding the bus is mundane. Inane. Pungent. Dull and unnecessary. Most often, riding the bus is not a metaphor for the possibilities and beauty of this great metropolis, but a morsel of the ugliness. Vague cigarette fumes, boredom, obesity, overcrowding, handicaps and poverty.

We don't all fit in the bus. Not all of us together. It's too crowded, too hot, too much.

But these are just the bad days. When I need to be somewhere else. In Beijing. On the subway. Back in New York City for the briefest of moments, just to catch my breath, to remember why I love it here, in Denver, Colorado.

Sometimes I need breaks from my own unrequited idealism. Sometimes I just need to be the deep-sigher. I need to be the one who gets on and off the bus without thanking the driver. I need to be the one who hates the routine of it, the absence of control, of personal space. Of sitting next to someone so beautiful or plain, so lonely or so tired.

Apparently F Scott Fitzgerald took his notebook to the park and made notes about all the people he saw, and created entire biographies and curiosities to match each. Sometimes it's just too much. I don't want to imagine a life for any of these people. I want to be alone with my iPod, my life, the same dumb songs I've heard a million times already. Really bad pop songs and old podcasts turned all the way up.

Subway Update

2009-03-26T03:31:00.002-06:00

Well, I've been taking the subway a lot lately because let's face it, even in China where we sip martinis and toast to what recession!, taxis are kinda expensive and getting stuck in traffic is a big time bummer--not to mention the good feelings you get when you're doing your part to cut down on air pollution.

(not to be a jerk about the recession, but seriously. you wouldn't know it here. even in Hong Kong, a more economically developed place, people were living it up. when i get homesick and dream of coming home and moving to sf, i remember my country is pinching pennies and employees--not a good time for post grad yoga teachers to return from the land of expat playgrounds, asia, and look for a job.)

But back to the subways. It's like, two RMB a pop to take the subway, and it's pretty easy, really. I complain a lot, and sure, it's crowded and sometimes the man next to you has such bad breath the whole car smells like baiju or eggplant, but mostly its efficient and fast. However, there are such caveats like the ones above, and more annoying things like people staring and people shoving. But here's the subway dealmaker: IPODS!

I wrote in my other blog about dancing around to the Talking Heads on the train and it was a lifesaver. For some reason, I haven't been using my ipod lately. What's my deal? I recharged and deleted all those quiet, thought-provoking podcasts, because what I really need on a crowded Beijing train is the screechy, post punk hipster wailing of Karen O. And I need it LOUD.

Alyssa so eloquently writes about riding public transportation to connect to the heart of a city, staying tuned in to the heartbeat. But I think at this point in my Beijing life, the heartbeat of the city is too loud, too strong. I gotta stay tuned into my iPod for the time being.

Skip bus driver

2009-03-19T16:13:00.003-06:00

For this post, I want to focus solely on my regular bus driver. As I don't know his name, I will refer to him as Joe. Because let's face it, the likelihood that his name is Joe is very high.
Joe is a fairly new RTD employee and he takes his job extremely seriously.
I am going to describe a typical bus ride with Joe from beginning to end:

I wait at the bus stop a few feet away from the curb, as to not get run over or splashed by the pools of water by the sidewalk. Joe pulls up in the Skip and opens the doors. I look up and he is waving me in. "Come on, come on". This makes me feel like I'm wasting his time and I get flustered and run up the stairs into the bus. I sit down and he announces over the bus' PA system "Heeeere we goooo!" And we pull away. This makes me feel like we're on a ride or a fun tour bus, so this makes up for the earlier incident.
Before every single stop, Joe pulls down his microphone and says either "For this stop, exit out the back door folks, back door at this stop thank you" or "Either door works for this stop folks, either door at this stop thank you". I appreciate this because I don't like when people exit out the front door when there are people waiting at the stop to get on. So when the driver sees that there are people waiting or no people waiting, he can direct his passengers accordingly.
As you may have noticed, Joe is a little bipolar. You may like him at first, but then he gets mean. For example, I was on the bus yesterday and someone had accidentally pulled the "stop request" cable a stop too early. Joe stopped and there were other passengers getting on anyway, so it wasn't a big deal. He opened the back door because the "stop request" light was on, and the person who had accidentally pulled it yelled "Sorry, I'm getting off at the next stop" and Joe looked in the rear view mirror, gave him a dirty look and yelled back "Good for you!" and continued to glare at the poor sap. When the bus arrived at the next stop, our hapless friend mumbled "thanks" and rushed off the bus to escape Joe's burning stare.
I've noticed that Joe is like an old abused dog. The more he becomes familiar with you, the friendlier he gets. He still hurries me onto the bus, but he always smiles at me in the rear view mirror when I get off the bus and yells "Have a great day!"

Rush Hour

2009-02-17T00:46:00.006-07:00

I've taken on the unholy task of teaching a 6:45 am yoga class across town. In Boulder, no problem-- lemme just hop on my super awesome bicycle and I'll be there in a flash. (or the bus!) But in Beijing, it's more like--oh God, there are just so many potential problems. It is my great luck, however, to live near both a subway stop and a bus station, and only a minutes walk to a busy street with many a taxi. So I've been taking a taxi at 6:15 to arrive just before class begins, over on the East Third Ring Road.

(I live off the West Second Ring Road. Beijing is built like this: (((((*))))) The Forbidden City and Tianamen Square are the center, "downtown" areas, and then there's a circle road around it-the First Ring Road. Then follows the Second Ring Road, Third Ring Road, Fourth Ring Road, and lastly, the bane of my existence and where I spend most days teaching yoga, the Fifth Ring Road, out near the airport.)

By subway however, it's a difficult and annoying trek. My stop, Jishuitan, is on line 2, which is a circle line. If I want to go anywhere outside the circle, I have to transfer, usually more than once. And the problem with finishing a yoga class on the south side of the East Ring Road is rush hour traffic headed west. Twice now I've stood out on the corner flailing my arms at 8am at any taxi that passes. No takers. This morning, I sought other means. Walking to Shuangjing, the station, proved difficult. Weird traffic flows, two false taxi alarms (actually got into one as the cabbie was trying to tell me not to) and a biting wind.

So. That was an entry I began way back in Feb sometime. I still have the unholy task of teaching yoga at 6:45am, but luckily for me, my amazing manfriend Benjamin just moved into a new office/apartment right above a subway station in the center of town! Not only do I get to sleep on the 22nd floor of a beautiful new apartment, I also don't have to leave until 6:30 to get to class fifteen minutes later! It's perfect. Way better location for all the things I need to do in Beijing, and cuts down on my cab fare. Excellent!

But. This doesn't change the fact that rush hour is a horrible beast. I still get a little worked up crossing the street, or hailing taxis. Getting on the subway at 8am makes me panicky, and it's usually just way too early for me to be getting touched that much. (Forming lines in China is a relatively new concept--it's really more of a shove and get shoved business. I guess before the Olympics they had certain days of the week where subway employees would force the riders to "practice getting in line". Occasionally they still do, which typically means a teenager with a megaphone yells things and points frantically as people push forward onto the car and more people push back getting off the car.)

It is this kind of thing that splits my personality. I started swearing a lot. I mean, a lot. And not just the regular words, like your shit, your fuck, your damn. I'm talking like, foul, filthy words. And to be totally honest, I already have a pretty foul mouth. I get on the subway and feel such fury at the crowds, an old man openly staring at me, or a woman digging her hands into my back to get past me. I just could not deal with it. Am I normally a patient person? I don't even remember. I've never been faced with an animal like Beijing before. It's the biggest city I've lived in, and it positively overwhelms me at times.

I recently went to Hong Kong for a weekend. The weather was balmier, the streets were less chaotic, English was spoken everywhere. I felt myself relax. Even though Hong Kong Island is smaller, and the skyscrapers and office buildings pour onto the sidewalks and roads, it felt manageable. If I got stuck in a traffic jam in a taxi, I could just say to the driver, Hey, take me to a train station, or, Hey, is there a better way to get around this? No split personality, no scary-road-rage-marie. It forced me to address the way I approached my Beijing life.

So I can't just hop on my super awesome bicycle and get to the place I want to go. I can't get in a taxi and chat with the driver about the fastest way to get from A to B. Taking the subway is at times pretty bad and panic inducing, but I'm a girl from Iowa where there is no public transportation so it's probably pretty natural that crowds scare me. I just have to remember to be patient. And to wash my mouth out with soap.

Ogden and Colfax. To the East.

2009-02-12T20:11:00.008-07:00

Yes, I am once again writing about the 15. The bus. The Vomit Comet, as Wendy once called it. Today was quite a day to leave my iPod at home. The man with the generic Dallas jersey and faded blue hair speaking to his toothless friend about prison sentences, where to meet after work, prison sentences. They're smoking their cigarettes with a sense of urgency--the life of a bus rider is one of constant expectation. The bus will arrive, the bus will arrive, the bus will arrive.

I board the bus with my small pile of lunch from work. The box with the salad, the foil-wrapped wheat bread, the small Styrofoam ramequin filled with balsamic vinaigrette. They were all precariously balanced, and the dressing, predictably, nose-dove to the floor of the incredibly crowded rush hour bus. It bled. I awkwardly recovered it and held it for the rest of the ride. The puddle of brown spread and shifted with the ride.

I finally settled in, and noticed a brown skinned man with a Broncos bandanna covering the majority of his long black hair, sitting five or so passengers away from me. A five year old boy sat restlessly on the bench next to the man, fidgeting, playing with his plastic preying mantis. The boy's mother asked questions, and the man with the bandanna spoke. Difficult to tell if the mother and the man were friends, or bus acquaintances. I can't tell if it matters, for the purposes of this blog, that the two were already friends. The mother hugged the man when she deboarded.

Bandanna spoke about his ankle monitor. His sentence, his parole, his remaining time: 28 days. He said to the woman, "It doesn't matter where you're going, just matters where you are." He spoke about his impending move, his new apartment, his new place. He showed the boy his face mask and construction hat.

It doesn't matter where you're going, just matters where you are. I try to think a bit about the sentence. Cliche, of course, but pertinent in some way. My life is rushing lately. Bending and expanding and shifting. I'm rushing. How Buddhist it is! It matters where we are. It matters where I am. On this bus, sitting next to the only other white women. The one to my left has a City Books tote bag, and the one to my right is reading a food magazine.

Where I am: Denver, City Park Neighborhood, winter, age 24. Where I am: The strange interlude between childhood and adulthood. The interlude that lasts the longest minutes of your life. Minutes that take years and decades. I'm shifting, rushing, going.

The man with the ankle monitor is moving on--28 days he has left, and his new apartment is waiting for him. The young boy reminds his mother of his presence by throwing his small plastic bug across the aisle, and for a moment we are all on the bus. Together. It's where we are. Together.

Spring Festival Photos

2009-02-12T01:24:00.003-07:00

above is a photo snapped on the subway of a family returning from the Ditan Temple Spring Festival Fair, looking how most people in the crowd below must have felt: crushed, defeated, overcrowded. The traffic was unbelievable that day on the roads and on the buss and subway; it was hard to believe there could still be even more people actually at the fair.

Colfax Westward: Downing

2009-01-14T17:27:00.006-07:00

It's almost eight at night when I board the 15. It's relatively empty. I find a seat next to a heavy white woman with a skater hoodie and an off-brand mp3 player.

The Ethiopian man sitting across the aisle has a hole the size of a matchbox in the top of his loafer, and a brand new black and shiny HP laptop on his lap. He's not looking at anyone, but carefully pressing in the keys as if unlocking a safe.

The man and woman in the seat behind me speak loudly. I've caught them in the middle of their conversation, and can't quite get the full of extent of their words. She says incredulously, "People say, 'So you're Spanish then, ey?' and I say, 'I speak Spanish. I also speak German. What languages do you speak?'" When she says "Spanish," the whole weight of the word rests on the 'a', and comes out with a distinct, deeply felt and sufficiently strong accent. 'Spawn-eesh.' I don't once turn around to see their faces.

I'm headed West, which means the bus just gets more and more crowded as we near downtown. The two behind me exit the bus, and are replaced by a mother and her two young daughters. One is five at the most, and the other looks to be three. The older sits by herself next to the window, watching things happen outside, and the younger is distracted by everything on the bus. She can't stand sitting still, wants to walk all over, and her mother becomes more and more irritated by her constant need to move around. She wants her young daughter to behave and shut-up and stay put. She wants her daughter to listen to her mother. Wants her daughter to do it because she said it should be so. She threatens with more spanking, and the daughter instantly becomes demure and quiet. The girl answers her mother that, No, she doesn't want another slap on her butt.

The mother says, "Did you see that man get off the bus and scream at it? He got off just now, and screamed 'Shut up!' at the bus. It was too loud for him on here because of people like you. He's crazy. That's why you be quiet on the bus. You don't want to upset a crazy person."

I decide not to turn around when she spanks the three year old again. Decide not to take over completely raising them. I decide to behave and shut-up and stay put. I decide not to upset a crazy person.

Bus Rising: The Boulder Express Part I

2009-01-07T16:53:00.011-07:00

Even the bus feels expensive these days. Four fifty to ride to Boulder, and I think they recently raised the local fee to two dollars even. That's what it costs in New York City, too. A fourteen percent increase from last year.

The bus to Boulder is different than the local Denver buses. The boarding terminal at 16th Street and Market in Downtown Denver is underground, warm, contained, the seats on the buses are comfortable and large, and between four and six in the afternoons, you pay as you exit the bus. It's incredibly trusting. Inviting a hundred strangers to the vehicle, and assuming they'll all dig into their pockets for the four and a half dollars at the end of the road.

I often imagine not paying. Arriving in Boulder, positioning at the top of the rubber bus stairs, and leaping full force to the street. I imagine myself running down the sidewalk like some scrappy city kid. I remember that I actually love the public transport system, it's not trying to swindle me, and I have a duty to support it. Also, stealing is wrong.

Truth be told, I'm a total wimp and would never attempt anything so bold and publicly confrontational.

But the thought is there. This bus is here for me, a vessel for my own personal transport. I take pride in the Boulder bus, and much comfort. This great metal whale trusts me to put in my four fifty, and against my better financial judgment, I will not let it down.

Beijing Bus Pass

2008-12-22T23:44:00.009-07:00

Buses are everywhere in Beijing. They're in the bus lanes, in the car lanes, in the bike lanes. I'm actually not totally sure if any of those lanes exist specifically for any specific mode of transportation; the streets here are chaotic, spilling over the sidewalks and in constant motion. Some buses appear to be on a rail, and move through the city connected to thick wires that hang from telephone poles. This rigging system does not seem to stop the bus driver from attempting to make a left turn in front of oncoming and cross traffic. Instead, like most Beijingers behind the wheel, the driver just honks repeatedly and continues to turn.

There are 3.3 million cars on the road in Beijing--and that's only one car per every five people. The government estimates by 2020 there will be 140 million cars on Chinese roads. I can't even begin to imagine what that looks like. Below is a photograph of a traffic jam in the financial district; see the woman with a child on her bike? It looks like what might happen if I got a job parking cars and worked without my glasses on, but this is actual traffic, in motion.

So it's safe to say buses are a big part of a Beijinger's future commute. The city added about 3,000 more buses by the time the Olympics started, which raised the daily capacity for passengers from 12.5 million to 15 million. Additionally, two new subway lines and an airport rail link have been opened. The subway in Beijing is nice; clean, fast, and very crowded. The bus is just crowded.

One of my roommates is a big fan of taking the bus. In this way she reminds me of Alyssa; always trying to find the best route, bus pass in hand, while I stare blankly at the schedules and fumble for change. A bus ticket here costs 1 kuai--about 14 cents. So Maggie speaks and reads a little Chinese, and she figured out a bus route that would take us from our street to Sanlitun, an ex-pat bar/coffee/shopping part of the city. She's got a pass, which is also usable in the subway, and although it won't save you any money, you don't have to wait in line buying tickets.

Each stop has the bus number and a small queuing space marked off with spray paint, and you stand in a little line according to the bus you need. Some stops have people with battered green flags stationed at each number along the curb, and when the bus approaches they flag it down. I guess this means the buses only stop when there are people needing to get on or off.

So we get on the bus. And it feels like there are 15 million people just on my bus from Xinjiekou. People are everywhere, standing, sitting, crouching on the ground. One of the marquees listing upcoming stops is broken and it flashes over and over OOOOOAAAAEEEE. I can't even see out the window to see what street we're on because I can't get near a window. It's mostly silent, except for a young boy with thick black frames resting on his nose who's cell phone keeps ringing. He's got a Missy Elliott song as his ring tone, and every few minutes we hear, in English: all you ladies pop your pussy like this. Maggie and I laugh at this, and the people around us stare, not getting our joke.
The bus stops and starts frequently. Not only does it make it hard to stand up, it also makes what would be a fifteen minute ride into thirty tedious ones. I can only imagine what is happening in front of us: taxis trying to edge out in front, bicycles loaded down with garbage, crates of beer, or sometimes just two or three people resting on the back, one person taxi cabs the size of a Radio Flyer zooming in and out of the traffic. There are lanes on the street, but I understand it to be more of a suggestion; I've been in cabs where the driver cruised over to the opposite side of the road because it was faster. I think buses do the same.

Because the bus stops and starts so much for traffic and I can't understand the Mandarin on the intercom, it's difficult for me to tell when we've arrived at our stop. Luckily, Maggie's done it before, this bus riding business, and tugs on my jacket sleeve when we arrive near Sanlitun. We're in the back of the bus now, and we have to muscle our way through the middle of the bus to get off before the driver pulls away. It feels like we're thirty people deep and we'll never escape. On the street again, I feel like running, or skipping. Sweet, glorious air! Space to move my limbs! I take a deep breath, and start coughing. A group of boys walk by, and six or seven bicyclists are headed straight for where we stand, and I realize there's no relief from humanity in this city. Gotta keep moving.

Benjamin told me once its best to live very close to something you do daily when living in Beijing. I didn't realize what wisdom that was until I tried commuting. Because in Beijing, it's a bitch!

Boulder: the Skip on a Saturday morning.

2008-12-19T14:45:00.004-07:00

One Saturday morning, I took the bus down to Pearl St to meet a friend for coffee. I caught the bus at my regular stop (Table Mesa & Ithaca Dr) and boarded.

To my delight, my favorite seat was vacant. The one opposite the rear door. As Iapproach the seat, I notice an unopened can of sauerkraut sitting on the seat. I love sauerkraut, and this was the good kind that’s sold at the Farmer’s Market. So I sit down and put the sauerkraut in my bag, happy as a clam. I looked around the bus, taking in my surroundings, and I locked eyes with a man sitting toward the back of the bus. He is literally staring at me. I give him a polite smile and turn my head to look out the window. A mere moment later, he is right next to me. I look at him, and he plainly says “What’s your name? You have a pretty face.” I tell him my name and ask him his, and we begin a cliché conversation. He asked me what I was up to that day, and I tell him I’m on my way to meet a friend then I’m going to a birthday party. I asked him what he was up he told me he was on his way to a meeting.

“What kind of meeting?”

“I’m in a special program because I have severe schizophrenia.”

Oh. Well, then.

So then he starts asking if he can come with me to meet my friend, and if he can come to the birthday party. Asks if I have a cell phone, to which I replied no, asks who I live with. Do I live with a bunch of pretty girls? Creepy. “No, I live with my husband.”

And at that point he got up and went to sit with another girl about my age. He actually gives her the exact same opening line as he gave me. “What’s your name? You have a pretty face.” I was a little insulted.

Moving East: Colfax and Josephine

2008-12-02T23:06:00.001-07:00

The difference between standing by the stop at Milwaukee and Colfax and the stop at Josephine and Colfax is measurable. There's the hordes of high school children, the sudden increase in concrete (buildings, empty lots, broken and crumbling courtyards and churches), the smell of deep fried food.

It's eleven in the morning, which means I've interrupted the seemingly endless East High lunch hour. The kids are teasing and stumbling, crowding, shouting, calling to each other in every imaginable pitch, and avoiding all sorts of unnecessary eye contact. The empty school looms large to the north.

It's a comfort to me to know that when the bus arrives, I'll be relieved of all this adolescence.

I board the bus after two or three others, the first of whom is still arguing with the driver about her fare. I notice a heavy young man holding his very young baby against his chest. I wouldn't have known there was a child in all that cloth except for its small face among the layers. I find a seat near the back of the bus.

The bus begins to move, and a large black man standing near the front, holding the bar near the ceiling of the bus, deliberately faces the man with the baby. Without hesitation or shame, the standing man announces to the small group of people around him, "I just yesterday learned my baby ain't my baby. My girl told me it's zero percent. That baby is zero percent of mine." The crowd is completely unsettled, and a wave of excited chatter takes hold of the front of the bus. Disapproval, sympathy, laughter. The standing man just keeps talking about it. It seems he can't stop.

It appeared first that the tall black man knew his audience. He spoke as if to old friends. As if perhaps those around him knew the woman in question and her illegitimate child. Minutes pass, and interest in his story, his anger, his drama, fades into talk of cell phones and groceries and the tiny baby's impossibly tiny hands.

The black man moves slowly to the back of the bus and faces the front, watching the father with his baby, and waiting for his stop.

Stop One: Colfax and Milwaukee

2008-11-24T00:04:00.001-07:00

The bus stop nearest my house is always cold. No bench, just the signpost and a small wind shelter. The stop stands in front of an empty fenced yard near a dirt-bag weekly motel, thirty feet from the liquor store which Chris says sells good cheap wine. Frat boy bar directly across the street.

The bus schedule is always about ten minutes off, but I check it anyway. I want to know there's a bus coming. At all. Time doesn't really seem to matter. I want the reassurance that a bus will come.

The homeless man with the oxygen tank seems to know when to expect me, and has already begun his conversation with me before I arrive. I feel rude ignoring him, even though I don't want to listen, and I know he's talking in circles. He points in the direction of the bus, but the bus isn't coming. He's got a heavy pot belly, and holds the rim of the blue metal trash can to stabilize himself while pointing.

Standing at this stop, I imagine the passing drivers in their cars think I'm a prostitute. But that's only because this is Colfax, and I'm standing near the edge of the street, waiting for something to happen. On Thursday a man in a white hatchback pulled over and asked if I needed a ride. I said no, and he asked if I'd ever done any modeling. Would I be interested, he wants to know?

This is not my favorite bus stop, but there's something strangely safe about standing out on Colfax. That street is raw. Unprotected. It's open and exposed and there are always people walking around. Nothing feels covered. The street seems to open up on either side, to the north and south of this city. Colfax is our spine.