Just Along for the Ride

Riding the bus in Port Townsend is a little like going to an out-of-state family reunion. You've got the people you came with, and are even familiar with some of the key players (the P.T. driver is named Alice), and then comes the part where you find yourself in conversation with a slew of strangers who sport varying degrees of mustache, wondering aloud if Aunt Camilla's casserole is everything you heard it was and more, despite the fact that its grayish color makes you kind of uncomfortable.

I have been the recipient of all kinds of familial advice while riding the #2 Mountain View Connector, and have subsequently learned that An Additude of Gratitude Makes All the Difference, You Won't Get Anywhere In Life If You Use a Potty Mouth, and that I look like "the daughter of Diane Keaton." I'll admit, at first the flannels and backpacks and unsolicited familiarity had me on guard. How did I know that the man with the binoculars and army boots wasn't the dastardly black-sheep great-uncle who may or may not be trading rogue stocks from Guam? Who was to say that the woman with the strong chin and poodle appliqués on her sweater wasn't going to insist I try some of that casserole? I was polite, even when unable to remember who Diane Keaton was exactly. But hardly embracing the festive nature of the place. I mean, there's a guy on the #2 who memorizes the fares in every county on the Olympic Peninsula. And will tell you, free of charge. Obviously, it was time for me to get an attitude of gratitude.

So I let Alice guide me through the bus-pass options in all their seemingly endless permutations. A Jefferson County month-long will pay for itself in seventeen rides, better to buy at the beginning of the month. She's on to something, Alice. On the #7 Paulsbo Commuter I heard the story behind Port Townsend's streets, how its uptown is named after Victorian-era bureaucrats. "It's like walking through nineteenth-century politics," observed my busmate. I met a former art student who insisted that the artist who he most admires is himself. I was getting the hang of this. And it wasn't long until I started running into some familiar faces. Carrying quarters. Comparing route schedules. Now I just need to think of some sagacious aphorisms to offer the new initiates. Or maybe I will just tell the next first-timer on Jefferson Transit that his resemblance to Freddie Prinze Jr. is uncanny. Then, truly, I will be a busrider. The end.