I need to start this post with a little announcement. Henceforth on this blog, I will no longer be referring to my husband as Mr. C. He's just going to be "Matt" here on the blog because lately, every time I wrote out "Mr. C", I cringed. I feel like I was giving the impression of myself as a hideously upbeat house frau who defers to her husband for every life detail. It annoyed me. It's probably been annoying you too. Thanks for not saying anything. I've always been the kind of person who needs lots of time to come to these realizations on her own.
It's all part of my charm, friends.
Now on to the real stuff.
Matt and I got back from Seattle earlier this week, where we spent 3 lovely childless days roaming the city and taking advantage of my brother in law's hospitality. His home is in the Capitol Hill area, and not only does it have a sweeping view of Mt. Rainier, the bay, and downtown, but there is also a gorgeous rooftop patio from which to enjoy it all from. The weather was perfect. The Blue Angels flew over our heads one morning while we sat out drinking coffee.
Heavenly.
While we were there we did not rent a car, as we usually do. We decided to use public transportation. You know- like, buses. Subways. Trains. Monorails. These are all words that carry the power to make a lot of California Suburbanites squirm. Those of you who live here in the desert, if you don't believe me, grab a friend and do a random word association game. Throw out the words "Sun Bus" and see if the first few words thrown back aren't "dirty", "depressing", or "ewwww." (If it's eww, then please gently remind your player that "ew" is not a word, but an expressive interjection. And then make sure they feel really stupid before you let them take another turn.)
(Kidding! Nobody likes a snob!)
Anyway, Matt and I did okay getting ourselves around Seattle. It helped a lot that he was with me, mostly because when lost, my instincts direct me to just go right. In fact, without Matt, I'd probably still be walking a gigantic square around Seattle. (Which again, is all part of my charm. Matt tells me that I must've been a bat in a previous life.)
So, as I was saying, it all turned out fairly well. Especially because while riding around in the bus through the International District, I had time to muse over a few insights about public transportation, including my history with it. Can I share it with you?
Me and Public Transportation, circa 1988: Me. Middle school. Big hair. Shoulder pads. Zits. My friends and I lived 2-3 miles from school, so we'd ride the bus halfway and then walk. One day an old man got on, sat down next to us and before we knew what was happening, dug out an American Flag from the large knapsack he carried. He then began a very loud and passionate lecture on our great country. He was into it, eyes wide, spit flying from his mouth, arms maniacally waving his flag- clearly he was what I like to call "whackadoo". Nowadays, I would have more empathy and respect, but back then I didn't know any better than to stick with middle school pack mentality. We just kind of sat, rolling our eyes, looking everywhere but at him, wishing away the uncomfortableness.
1988 lesson learned: Crazy people sometimes use public transportation.
Me and Public Transportation, circa 1992: Me. Freshly graduated. Brand new to the desert and it's heat. I'm on the way to my first post- high school job as a waitress at Sizzlers. (Does that make you want to cry or laugh?) I'm waiting at the bus stop in 110 degree heat wearing dark blue nylons, a thick polyester blue knee-length skirt, a blue blouse with puffed sleeves, a goddamn bolo tie, and the ugliest pair of rubber soled black shoes that the world has ever known. I'm crying. Not because of my outfit- although that would have been justified- I'm crying because I'm worried that I'm going to be late for my new job two cities away, and I don't understand the bus routes. A bus pulls up, I get on. I sit and nervously watch out the window at the unfamiliar roads. I'm the only white girl on the bus. No one around me is speaking English. I feel sorry for myself and start crying again. 20 minutes into the trip, I stand up and weave unsteadily up the aisle. Through my tears I ask the bus driver if this bus is going to Palm Desert. He laughs at me and tells me that currently, we were in Thermal. I sob loudly and get off on the next stop, where I find a pay phone and commence to make a drama-filled accusatory phone call to my mother. If I remember correctly, I hysterically informed her that if I lost my job it would be entirely her fault since she refused to buy me a car and forced me to take public transportation. I think I remember an audience of migrant workers watching me. It was a performance worthy of a Mexican Soap Opera, except I wasn't acting. I was really that lame.
1992 lesson learned: Sometimes you ARE the crazy person riding the public transportation.
Me and Public Transportation, circa 1995: Me. Spiral perm. Flannel. Doc Martens. Heading from San Bernardino to Flagstaff, AZ via train. My boyfriend is with me (also in flannel and Doc Martens) and although we're feeling very self sufficient and adult, we toss and turn uncomfortably throughout the whole red eye train ride. The seats are extremely uncomfortable. I enviously eye the traveler across the aisle from us who is comfortably stretched out using some kind of foot rest contraption. When my boyfriend gets up to use the restroom, I lean across the aisle and in a conspiratorial tone, say to the well rested traveler "You must do this a lot."
"What?" he asked shortly.
I widened my smile in a show of friendliness and repeated , "I said, you must do this a lot."
"Um, no. Not really." he said.
"Oh." I frowned. "I just figured someone who brings their own foot rest must travel by train a lot."
When a slow smile started spreading across his face, I became aware that I must've said something extraordinarily dumb. I didn't know what it was yet, but I braced myself for humiliation. And I was not disappointed.
"I didn't bring this."he remarked, his condescending eyes sparkling with amusement.
"Oh. No?"
"No. Look under your seat."
Oh. Well shit. Apparently, a foot rest was there, available to everyone, neatly tucked away under all the seats.
My boyfriend came back from the restroom. "Hey." he said to me. "Do you know everyone has one of those foot stool things under their seats?"
I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead.
"Yep. Just figured it out."
1995 lesson learned: It's best not to talk to strangers when using public transportation, if for no other reason than to save yourself from embarrassment.
And that brings me back to Seattle. Sitting on the buses, looking at the maps, checking and rechecking the app (there really is an app for everything) I realized something that I wish I had seen a long time ago. Sure, public transportation isn't as fast and clean as a private car is. Sure, the buses smelled strongly of deli meat. And yes, we rolled through some sketchy parts of town. But I realized then that if you want to get to know a city- like really get intimate with it- public transportation is probably the best way to do that. It's not just about riding with the people, going through neighborhoods you wouldn't have otherwise seen, but it's also about the art of mastering the city. Taking control. Finding your own way around. It's very empowering.
Maybe some of you would have seen that right away. Maybe you're thinking that I'm elitist and naive to only just now get that. But if that's what you're thinking, can I remind you of what I said at the beginning of this post? I'm the kind of person who has to make these realizations in her own time.
It's all part of my charm.
It's all part of my charm, friends.
Now on to the real stuff.
Matt and I got back from Seattle earlier this week, where we spent 3 lovely childless days roaming the city and taking advantage of my brother in law's hospitality. His home is in the Capitol Hill area, and not only does it have a sweeping view of Mt. Rainier, the bay, and downtown, but there is also a gorgeous rooftop patio from which to enjoy it all from. The weather was perfect. The Blue Angels flew over our heads one morning while we sat out drinking coffee.
Heavenly.
While we were there we did not rent a car, as we usually do. We decided to use public transportation. You know- like, buses. Subways. Trains. Monorails. These are all words that carry the power to make a lot of California Suburbanites squirm. Those of you who live here in the desert, if you don't believe me, grab a friend and do a random word association game. Throw out the words "Sun Bus" and see if the first few words thrown back aren't "dirty", "depressing", or "ewwww." (If it's eww, then please gently remind your player that "ew" is not a word, but an expressive interjection. And then make sure they feel really stupid before you let them take another turn.)
(Kidding! Nobody likes a snob!)
Anyway, Matt and I did okay getting ourselves around Seattle. It helped a lot that he was with me, mostly because when lost, my instincts direct me to just go right. In fact, without Matt, I'd probably still be walking a gigantic square around Seattle. (Which again, is all part of my charm. Matt tells me that I must've been a bat in a previous life.)
So, as I was saying, it all turned out fairly well. Especially because while riding around in the bus through the International District, I had time to muse over a few insights about public transportation, including my history with it. Can I share it with you?
Me and Public Transportation, circa 1988: Me. Middle school. Big hair. Shoulder pads. Zits. My friends and I lived 2-3 miles from school, so we'd ride the bus halfway and then walk. One day an old man got on, sat down next to us and before we knew what was happening, dug out an American Flag from the large knapsack he carried. He then began a very loud and passionate lecture on our great country. He was into it, eyes wide, spit flying from his mouth, arms maniacally waving his flag- clearly he was what I like to call "whackadoo". Nowadays, I would have more empathy and respect, but back then I didn't know any better than to stick with middle school pack mentality. We just kind of sat, rolling our eyes, looking everywhere but at him, wishing away the uncomfortableness.
1988 lesson learned: Crazy people sometimes use public transportation.
Me and Public Transportation, circa 1992: Me. Freshly graduated. Brand new to the desert and it's heat. I'm on the way to my first post- high school job as a waitress at Sizzlers. (Does that make you want to cry or laugh?) I'm waiting at the bus stop in 110 degree heat wearing dark blue nylons, a thick polyester blue knee-length skirt, a blue blouse with puffed sleeves, a goddamn bolo tie, and the ugliest pair of rubber soled black shoes that the world has ever known. I'm crying. Not because of my outfit- although that would have been justified- I'm crying because I'm worried that I'm going to be late for my new job two cities away, and I don't understand the bus routes. A bus pulls up, I get on. I sit and nervously watch out the window at the unfamiliar roads. I'm the only white girl on the bus. No one around me is speaking English. I feel sorry for myself and start crying again. 20 minutes into the trip, I stand up and weave unsteadily up the aisle. Through my tears I ask the bus driver if this bus is going to Palm Desert. He laughs at me and tells me that currently, we were in Thermal. I sob loudly and get off on the next stop, where I find a pay phone and commence to make a drama-filled accusatory phone call to my mother. If I remember correctly, I hysterically informed her that if I lost my job it would be entirely her fault since she refused to buy me a car and forced me to take public transportation. I think I remember an audience of migrant workers watching me. It was a performance worthy of a Mexican Soap Opera, except I wasn't acting. I was really that lame.
1992 lesson learned: Sometimes you ARE the crazy person riding the public transportation.
Me and Public Transportation, circa 1995: Me. Spiral perm. Flannel. Doc Martens. Heading from San Bernardino to Flagstaff, AZ via train. My boyfriend is with me (also in flannel and Doc Martens) and although we're feeling very self sufficient and adult, we toss and turn uncomfortably throughout the whole red eye train ride. The seats are extremely uncomfortable. I enviously eye the traveler across the aisle from us who is comfortably stretched out using some kind of foot rest contraption. When my boyfriend gets up to use the restroom, I lean across the aisle and in a conspiratorial tone, say to the well rested traveler "You must do this a lot."
"What?" he asked shortly.
I widened my smile in a show of friendliness and repeated , "I said, you must do this a lot."
"Um, no. Not really." he said.
"Oh." I frowned. "I just figured someone who brings their own foot rest must travel by train a lot."
When a slow smile started spreading across his face, I became aware that I must've said something extraordinarily dumb. I didn't know what it was yet, but I braced myself for humiliation. And I was not disappointed.
"I didn't bring this."he remarked, his condescending eyes sparkling with amusement.
"Oh. No?"
"No. Look under your seat."
Oh. Well shit. Apparently, a foot rest was there, available to everyone, neatly tucked away under all the seats.
My boyfriend came back from the restroom. "Hey." he said to me. "Do you know everyone has one of those foot stool things under their seats?"
I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead.
"Yep. Just figured it out."
1995 lesson learned: It's best not to talk to strangers when using public transportation, if for no other reason than to save yourself from embarrassment.
And that brings me back to Seattle. Sitting on the buses, looking at the maps, checking and rechecking the app (there really is an app for everything) I realized something that I wish I had seen a long time ago. Sure, public transportation isn't as fast and clean as a private car is. Sure, the buses smelled strongly of deli meat. And yes, we rolled through some sketchy parts of town. But I realized then that if you want to get to know a city- like really get intimate with it- public transportation is probably the best way to do that. It's not just about riding with the people, going through neighborhoods you wouldn't have otherwise seen, but it's also about the art of mastering the city. Taking control. Finding your own way around. It's very empowering.
Maybe some of you would have seen that right away. Maybe you're thinking that I'm elitist and naive to only just now get that. But if that's what you're thinking, can I remind you of what I said at the beginning of this post? I'm the kind of person who has to make these realizations in her own time.
It's all part of my charm.
Well, I always took you calling Matt, Mr C., as a nice term of endearment. Like when The Fonz calls Mrs. Cunningham, Mrs.C. Also, being a teacher it made sence. Not that I'm against you calling him Matt, if it makes you happy. Just know, I wasn't thinking, "What a house frou! " I honestly don't really know what that means.
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