[My mom wrote this post before I took over the blog.]
One recent Sunday I got on the 74 to go from Queen Anne to the U district for a concert. The bus was late – a very rare occurrence here.
Naturally, because we had a long wait, there were lots of characters at the bus stop. Two men with a big, barking dog struck up a conversation. They asked me my name. Surprised, I said, “Cathy.” I forget theirs.
When the bus finally arrived, the driver (a motherly-looking African-American woman) announced, “I need a navigator. This is my first day driving this route. I usually work in Tukwila. I’ve never seen this part of Seattle.”
Since we were in Seattle, and not New York or Philadelphia, everyone smiled, preparing to enjoy the adventure.
“Does anyone know the Fremont Bridge?” The driver began to sound really nervous. One sandy-haired young woman stood next to the driver, softly murmuring directions in a soothing tone.
Then the men from the bus stop where I got on yelled, “Hey, Cathy!” I tried to pretend I didn’t hear. I wanted to explain, “I don’t know them.” But I just said, “What?”
“How do we get the Number 16?”
“I have no idea.”
Another passenger handed them a schedule. They were looking for a dog park near the Woodland Zoo. Me, I just go to Belltown.
Returning home, the driver was a calm, experienced silver-haired man. No adventures. We were at Key Arena right on schedule.