Ogden and Colfax. To the East.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.