“Buses are for Poor People” or Why I Hate Buses

For those of you who have been in my life for the past couple of years you may have heard me say “I don’t take buses, they’re for poor people”. This is a bold statement, even for me but I had come to this revelation one day and just blurted it out. I’ve tried to explain my distaste to people since but I always come off, understandably, sounding shallow and ignorant. This would be explained if I were, say, Thurston Howell III or George Burns (the archetypal rich people of course…?) but since I am usually counting change to buy TP or most currently on Unemployment, I have no right to say “poor people” with such dismissal. I was thinking today and tried to come up with where this disgust for public transportation came from and then little events from my childhood kept popping up. I thought I’d share them with you to maybe explain, justify- probably not, but at least show you what buses have done to me to leave such a bad taste in my mouth.

 One of my first memories of the bus was one I would take to school. I had just moved from Miami to Long Island and I was going to Saint Peter’s by the Sea kindergarten. I’m not sure if I started later then everyone else but I was the new girl combined with my life-long gift of being the weird girl. My only memory of the bus is that we were going to have show-and-tell for school one day so I decided to bring in my guinea pig.. only I decided to bring my guinea pig in every day for 2 weeks prior to the actual show and tell. So I was the girl on the bus with the guinea pig. I thought everyone would think I was the coolest. Not so much.

Then there are those scarring memories of being teased on the bus in middle school. Most days I would come home crying and most nights I would cry myself to sleep at the thought of having to take the bus the next day. Again, the gift of being the weird girl. I remember one day my best friend at the time was sitting next to me on the bus when the girl behind her called me a lesbian. I must’ve been in 5^th grade at the time and hadn’t done anything particularly “lesbian” besides maybe…look out the window? My friend then pointed at me, said “you’re a lesbian” got up and sat next to the girl behind me and never talked to me again. Stacy Dalleinne, you’re an asshole. They weren’t all traumatic memories during that period, however.  There was one particularly proud moment. One day after school I had gone to the mall and purchased the new cassette single of Ace of Base’s “All that she wants”. I went home and listened to it on repeat for hours (much to the chagrin of my family) while playing Mario Brothers. Boy weren’t those kids impressed when the next morning I knew EVERY WORD to that song as it came on the radio. God, it was a high.

Then there was the bus my sister and I would take to the International School of Paris, a kind of summer camp in, funnily enough, Paris. The ride wasn’t so bad but the view of the Chaperone’s feet on this bus left something to be desired. She would sit there wearing sandals but she would always forget to wear one key accessory on her feet- her toe nails. There were none. Not a one. Maybe the creator of Uggs had her in mind when he invented those beauties. Cover ‘em I say!

Now let’s delve into the world of long trips on buses. One summer my Dad was moving from Paris to Prague (yes, I’m fancy) and we took the bus from one to the other. The ride was 8-10 hours, squished next to my sister and bored out of our minds. I was armed with my Donald Duck comic book in French and I would plead my sister to translate the five words of French she knew to try and understand what those crazy characters were up to. This was not only frustrating but utterly unfulfilling. I still have no idea what they were yammering on about. Ah, but that was not the only entertainment we had for the arduous journey. We also had a Walkman and my sister, dad and I would take turns listening to the one B52’s cassette we had. Not even Love Shack B52’s though, the one before that. 

But if you think that’s bad then you have no idea what were in store for on the return trip. Apparently our bus driver was the world’s number #1 ABBA fan, that or Satan, because he played ABBA music videos for the entire 10 hour trip. Had I grown up in the 70s or had a penchant for disco swedes this might not have been so bad but when you’re 11 years old watching the entire, vast and unending repertoire of ABBA you will be scarred for life. My sister and I still cannot listen to ABBA without shuddering and rocking back and forth to block out the pain. Try us. 

 

Let’s see. Then there’s the bus my sister and I took from Florida to New York once. We had been spending Christmas in Saint Augustine but wanted to get back to New York before my parents, for New Year’s Eve or something so we decided to take the bus. Seemed simple. Take the 5pm and arrive in New York 17 hours later. For some reason though, bus companies are lost on the concept of reserving seats for a particular trip. Instead we had to wait for hours and hours at the station, hoards of us attempting, futilely, to get on each bus as they would quickly fill up and we had to wait, crammed in with hundreds of other people trying to get a seat. Finally, I remember being pushed up against the wall by a mob and waving a hurried goodbye to my then frantic mother as my sister and I hurled ourselves to the front of the line and managed to finally get on one of those majestic beasts. At last. Now to relax and fall asleep to wake up in our home state. That would’ve been ideal. Unfortunately at 3am our bus pulled into a station and they kicked everyone off while they cleaned it. How efficient these companies are! Well apparently “cleaning” the bus meant throwing everything out that had been left on the floor, under our seats. So my sister’s huge volume of something-or-other was not there when we commenced our journey and so I then had a very angry Jennifer for the remainder of my trip. This and the fact that it got to the city about 6 hours after it had been scheduled to arrive left us ripping out our hair. This is when I decided never to take a long bus ride for the rest of my life.

Another key bus memory I have was in Colorado. I had just had my heart broken and had decided to spend the summer with my parents at their summer house but didn’t want to wait the couple of weeks until they would take the nonstop 3 day drive there (traumatic memories) so I decided to fly out early. Since their house is in a remote town this meant taking a plane to a tiny plane and then a bus. The second plane landed in Grand Junction, Colorado which, if my observations were correct, is one of the layers of hell. And not one of the cute ones either. This was a real Podunk town. After I walked across the street from the airport, careful not to trip on the passing tumbleweed, I checked into a Deluxe Motel 6 resort. This city seemed like far too shiny a pearl not to explore so I decided to take a bus to the mall. This was the most frightening bus I had ever taken. Not necessarily because I was in any great danger, but because I was exposed to the sordid underbelly of Middle America. I was the first one on what seemed to be a handicapped bus and I must’ve missed the sign that said “stereotypes of trailer trash enter here” but my fellow passengers followed instructions. At the first stop what looked like a 13 year old girl entered. A very pregnant 13 year old girl. The next stop gifted us with a 500lb woman who shuffled to the back. The third stop brought a man in his 40s, shaved head and arms covered in tattoos. I don’t remember there being many teeth in his mouth as he sat next to the 13 year old, put his arm around her and kissed her. Yep, that was his spawn in her belly. Luckily the 4^th stop was the mall and I ran out of there before any other rednecks could get on. The trip was traumatizing and the rest of it is a blur. I do remember sitting in my bed later that night eating a McDonald’s salad with a spoon. A fitting end.

I’ve taken buses since then but the lasting memory that comes to mind when I picture taking a bus was one I took to work in NYC that was filled over capacity, as per usual. A large older woman was squished against me clutching a plastic bag. Inside that bag were two packages of Depends. This is what I think of every time someone suggests taking a bus in Manhattan. An old woman and her diapers.

So maybe when I make the statement “buses are for poor people” what I mean to say is “buses carry some of the most excruciatingly painful and horrifying memories for me and no thank you, I’d rather walk”