1. On a hayride Saturday, north of Pittsburgh, I heard my first indigenous "Yinz." It was monumental.
2. Yesterday, Monday, September 27, I conquered the burgh's Port Authority bus system. By conquered, I mean, I no longer have fear of it. By that, I mean, everything I was afraid of pretty much happened and therefore I have no longer have anything to fear regarding the local bus system. Here's how it broke down:
Duquesne to Shadyside:
I jaunted over to Duquesne in downtown via der jetta and Lucas' kindness, and promised him that I would find my way back on the Port so that he needn't wait around. The Authority does not believe in posting bus schedules at the actual bus stops, preferring only to deeply embed then in a tapestry of links on a website, and so I had made sure to find out what bus to take home before leaving the house. The stop for me was in front of Mercy. My fated bus: the 500 (Highland PK 62nd St Loop - Downtown - Oakland-Outbound). Simple enough, right? Except that when I got to the bottom of the (mountainous) Duq hill, Mercy was nowhere in sight. Did Mercy mean UPMC? Did Mercy mean the Duq teaching hospital? Why are there so many damn hospitals in this town? 61% of our population must be, at any given time, convalescing.
Because I didn't even know which way on Forbes to walk in order to get to the fabled Mercy, I chose one of two bus stops within sight. The one with people at it (this would later prove key to finding an effective bus stop). I waited, like a good metropolitan, with my earbuds in, an indifferent look on my face. After a few minutes, a bus came. One of the two people at the stop got on it. The second, a man I'd decided would lead me in the right direction, did not. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, a suit, black dress shoes, a black umbrella, and a brown leather attache case with a colorful woven shoulder strap. He looked friendly. He looked like he knew what he was doing. In his resistance to step on any given bus, I found comfort. I decided to wait, too. More minutes waiting. Maybe up to 10, which seems like a long time standing by a busy street. I began to doubt my 500. Another bus came. The stranger hoisted his bag. I felt that I should follow him, even though it wasn't the 500, so I hoisted my bag too. Besides, the bus said "Negley via Oakland and Shadyside," so, since I recognized all three of those things, I thought I'd get reasonably close to my house.
I enter the bus. I don't show my student ID because I've learned in my research that when boarding a bus going away from downtown, one pays/shows bus pass when exiting the bus. When boarding a bus going toward towntown, one pays/shows ID upon entrance. I'm still working out the logic behind this, along with the question of what to do when one enters a bus one has no idea where it is going, or where it has been.
So, there I am, rejoicing in my triumph, settling into the plush seats like a real yinzer, me and the working people and the students of the burgh. I take one earbud out so I can listen to the conversations around me. We slide through Oakland where I figure out after a series of stops that in order to signal a stop, one pulls the coated wire strung over the windows. File it away. We take a street I've never been on toward Shadyside. Then, suddenly, we're in front of Market District. This is near my house. I decide, naturally, to stay on the bus, because a. there are way too many people at this bus stop and b. it can only get closer from here. Right? Wrong. Instead of veering right down Negley into Shadyside, my friend the 32 1/2J (or whatever) hangs a Louie and we're in East Liberty. Shortly thereafter another stop, and my briefcase bus-stop friend deplanes. I begin to get nervous. We pass a series of stops that I decide I am not comfortable stepping out to. Wet newspapers clinging to chain-link, etc. In fact I begin to feel overwhelmed by the comfortable-ness of the bus as compared to the unknown neighborhoods flying by the windows. Can I just ride it forever? What would happen? At last there are only two people on the bus, me and a man sitting directly behind me, a man who is talking though I'm not sure who it's to. I see a sign that says "entering Highland Park." I know where this is. I know two people who live here. I wait one stop and then pull the cord. I show my student id (like magic) and am spewed onto a residential sidewalk. Remembering that Highland Ave parallels Negley up in those parts (from map study), I successfully turn and walk in the right direction. I remember to call Lucas and tell him I'm alive, at which he's happy though puzzled as to why I'm near the North Side now.
On Highland, I find a bus stop. It says 500 (ah, fate). I've figured out a few things: be on the side of the street whose traffic is flowing in the direction you want to go. Look on the blue Bus Stop sign for little number stickers to tell what buses stop there. If you're supremely lucky, there will be longer stickers that even say the areas on the route (95 Bloomfield to South Side is much more helpful than an austere, mysterious 95). The one thing lacking, universally: what time that bus will arrive. So there I was, up in Highland Park on a drizzly Monday morning, standing all alone, memorizing the landscaping of the gorgeous old houses, watching the mailman across the street go up steps and down steps and up steps, from door to door. After a very long time and I am still the only person at this stop, I give up (again) on ye olde 500 and simply start walking down Highland toward my street. One person I know who lives up here swears he can walk to campus in 15-20 minutes. This is what I tell myself. He's also about 6 feet tall. With my beginner's luck, I am only a few blocks down, near enough another bus stop to sprint back to it when finally, finally, the maroon Behemoth 500 hisses down the street. I'm on! Five minutes and I'm a block away from my house! I did it! I swaggered down my street and entered my house like it was the winner's circle, punching the air. Lucas was not too impressed because it had been over an hour since I'd left downtown. But I had figured it out. Armed with my student ID, I could ride the Port all day, be anywhere I wanted to be. Still flying high, I decided to go to Target.
Fifth Ave to the Waterfront
I've got to make this part shorter. So, I look up the bus to take to Target at the waterfront. One must cross a river to get to a Target in this town, for some reason. So it's pretty far away. Again, lucky me, there's a bus that leaves from Fifth and goes straight there, no transfers. The number 64. And it's leaving in 14 minutes.
I missed it. I waited twelve minutes more. A few other buses passed me by but I remembered the steadfastness of my horn-rimmed friend and let them go. In a cruel twist of fate, another 64 did pass by, but I didn't realize it was a 64 until its exhaust was receding from me - the front electronic scrawler had been jumbled. I began then to hate the Port Authority just a little bit. Twenty more minutes passed by and another 64 came -- I couldn't figure out a pattern to the intervals and still am baffled by this. It got me to Target.
Waterfront to Shadyside
Spoiler alert: this route does not exist. I'd left my house for Target at 2:15. I'm going to lay this out there for you: I walked back in my door at 6:07. The bus ride to the Waterfront is about a half hour. So....As I'd stood on Fifth, waiting for my initial 64, I'd seen another 64 headed the other direction. Dropping people off on the opposite side of the Ave, which was exactly where I needed to end up. The number 64 was to be my savior for the day. So simple. So beatles-esque. Good thing I'd written it on my hand.
I came out of Target and went to the same stop at which I'd been dropped off, and waited for my friend 64. When it came, startlingly, the front scroller still said "Waterfront" - meaning it was not headed back into town, or at least that was my interpretation. I stepped back. Puzzling. I realized at that point I had no idea how to get back if it were not on the 64, so after waiting through a few more buses I fell back on one of my Truths of the morning, and walked to the end of the parking lot, crossed the road, and found a bus stop there where any traffic would be, by default, headed back toward the bridge. The stop said 64. I was the only one, again, standing at it. I joked with myself that I was like Julia in Julie and Julia when she explains the comfort she finds in the predictability of cooking: add this to that and it will yield a cake. I thought, even though I don't know where I am or when the next bus is coming, all I need to do is stand under a blue sign that says "64" and the number 64 bus will come. Sadly, this is where the fairy tale I'd constructed regarding public transportation came crashing down around me.
I took my shoes off and stood in the wet grass. I balanced on one foot, then the other. I changed songs on my pod. I shifted my reusable shopping bag to the other shoulder. In about 30 minutes, no bus came. Finally a bus came and slowed down, but it was a 71D or some such sordid thing, and not what I wanted, and the driver opened the door and looked at me, and as I stepped back away from the door he shook his head as though I was choosing my own downfall, and he closed the door and hissed on. His expression shook me, and so after another 30 minutes of waiting or so, I thought I'd try another Truth of the morning: start walking the direction you want to go, and the bus will come. I think you know where this is headed. After a bit of a bus-less hike, I saw a different bus stop, and decided to go stand under it. (when all else fails...). This sign said 64, too. I had begun to loathe the 64. I knew deep it my heart it wasn't coming. I knew it would never come. After 30 minutes alone at this stop, I swore I'd just get on whatever bus came next. At least it would take me away from this Bermuda Triangle of transportation. Anywhere but here, I pleaded with the Port Authority gods, as people pulled up to the stoplight in traffic lines and looked at me like I was a lost granny. Eventually three more people came to the stop. This, I knew, was a very good sign. Shortly after a bus headed labeled "Murray" stopped. I stomped on it. Murray, I knew. Squirrel Hill. I figured there would have to be a Squirrel Hill to Shadyside bus, or maybe multiple buses, that would finish out this wrecked adventure for me.
Squirrel Hill to Shadyside
I got off when someone pulled the cord at Murray and Beacon. This may surprise you, but I stood at the bus stop for about 10 minutes waiting for the bus that was supposed to come next...the 64. It surprises me to report this. What was I thinking? Sometimes we just want to believe so badly in something...Naturally, it didn't come. I walked to the next bus stop, looked back. Only cars, as far as the eye could see. I hoisted my shopping bag, my tote bag of half-edited poems, my crumpled pre-conceived notions of public transportation in Pittsburgh, and flat-footed it 2 1/2 miles to my apartment. Every bus stop I passed said number 64. No 64 passed. In fact, no bus passed at all until I was back around 5th. I had enough time to change shoes, re-pack bags, and walk back out the door to class. Remember, nothing left to fear. Triumph.
And finally, ending on a high note:
Kai Soleil, 6 months old this week.
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