With excitement, I had boarded the bus from Kirkland to the University District. The term "Express" accompanied the number, 540, and I felt empowered. This is the sort of endeavor which, I am embarrassed to admit, reveals my true identity as a suburban novice. A novice characterized by only knowing the places she knows, dislikes asking for directions, despises getting lost, and harbors a particular hatred for instruction manuals. I would only realize the fatality of this combination later in the day, after several hours and miles in the wilds of Seattle and its surrounding territories. For the moment, I was both proud and enthused to immerse myself in "the people," to mingle in the circles of society, on the bus; this would make me modern, independent, and cosmopolitan. Right.
I had already been riding the Express Bus to the University of Washington campus for several mornings, easy enough since it stopped right where I needed it to, without me having to figure out how to push the signal/pull the cord (I couldn't really tell which). So far, hoping someone else would take care of this for me before we went sailing on past my stop had been working out splendidly. All was following suit that morning, I mused as I munched on my breakfast while admiring an undisturbed view of Lake Washington. We really did seem to be floating freely on the water as I had imagined as a kid, and it was nice to not have to be concentrating on the road. At this point, a serious false confidence was instilling itself in my head.
Sure enough, as the bus approached my destined stop, some blessed person pulled the cord, a muted bell dinged. In the woosh of airbrakes, I hopped off began a morning of class, coffee, studying, and then, feeling subsequently enlightened, decided I would head home. I knew the same bus made return trips to Kirkland about every half hour, so made my way over to the same stop. Unfortunately, after walking the 10 blocks back (I had not meant to wander so far...), I saw that I had just missed it and would have to wait. Oh well, it was a pleasant day, if a bit sunny, so I sat down and tried to make sure I looked like I knew what I was doing there. Thirty minutes later, I skipped onto my bus and was on my way. Sometime I would have to change busses to arrive at my house and I hadn't managed to look this up beforehand. But how hard could it be? Kirkland wasn't that big, and after my smooth morning experience, I wasn't worried. Hmm.
I figured getting off at the library would be opportune; I could use the computer and plan out this "route" home; in reality, I wasn't very far from home anyway, and naturally assumed this would be an easy task to plan. And it was--at least in terms of typing in my starting and ending points and pulling up the logistical information. The variable that would prove the problem would not be the King County Metro Trip Planner, or even the King County Metro itself, but me. Which is embarrassing.
The bus stop I needed was up the hill from the library-I could go directly home from here. Great! ...Wow, this hill had never seemed so steep from my car window...I trudged along with a bag full of books and other "essentials" I was quickly finding quite unnecessary. I had nearly reached the street above and saw the bus stop sign on the left side, just a few feet from the intersection. Checked the watch, a good 10 minutes to spare. Perfect. Somewhere between seeking shade and checking my watch again, I saw a bus breeze by about eight minutes later...wait, why did that bus say, "Factoria 245?" That was funny, that was supposedly the one coming to this stop...? It was then I realized an important detail: there is a reason why there are bus stops on both sides of the street. One for coming and one for going. I was on the wrong side of the street. And I had just missed my bus home.
Ok, ok, wait twenty minutes or just buck up and walk home? Why, walk of course, after all, I was an able-bodied young woman this side of a quarter century. And yes, that past tense verb "was" has been carefully chosen. I set off and immediately began to feel the heat of the day in the form of a trickle down my back. Among the many things that might perturb me on a daily basis, sweating is one of them. I hate sweating. I began to hate every step more and more as the incline increased. I began hating my books, the other ridiculous things burdening my bag, which was burdening my shoulder. I hated walking, I hated...it was then that I began to feel the familiar sensation of frustration-induced irrational tears behind my eyes, a disgusting response that has plagued me since childhood.
There I was: dragging, drooping and sniffing my way up the long hill home in a most unsightly fashion. No little blue engine mentality here. At least I couldn't see myself, otherwise I would have cried more. It was tough being all alone, but what was worse was the disaster the day had turned into. Just because I didn't know how to ride a silly bus, humiliating. I would not be calling for help like some little weakling though. I would suffer...I would...sniff sniff.
I eventually arrived home, throwing my bag and myself on the floor--actually, I sort of fell through the doorway onto the carpet, utterly and completely exhausted. Such great expectations certainly make for such epic fails. Since that fateful trip, I have mustered up the courage to get back in the saddle, so to speak, and ride again. Always with a book, always with a fully-charged ipod and sometimes a first aid kit, because you just never know. No more catastrophes thus far though; knock on wood, knock on paneling, knock on vinyl linoleum, knock on something, lest I knock myself right out again.
