For me, one of the best parts of not working in a suburb is riding public transportation. Tri Met, the agency that manages the buses, trains and streetcars in Portland has no shortage of aggravating little idiosyncrasies, but I find getting from here to there with someone else doing the driving preferable in almost every way to the death march on I-5 or I-84.
Thanks to decades of handiwork from the marketing people, using public transportation, like living in public housing, infers ghetto, poverty, shiftlessness. Every time there’s an incident at one of the train stations, or on board a bus, the news cameras are on the scene almost as promptly as the paramedics. But unless they involve someone driving a vehicle into a building, which happens with freakish regularity in Portland, the headlines generated by deadly, atrocious car crashes quickly fade.
Personally, I’ll take my chances, because in addition to getting somewhere without having to drive, the public vessels around here are a joy to ride. From my front door, I can be on a train in 15 minutes, one that will take me to the main terminal of the airport in one direction and downtown Portland and the far western suburbs in the other. In five minutes or less, I can catch one of three major bus lines, each of which will take me downtown in about 20 minutes. And during those 20 minutes, I don’t have to worry about other people’s driving irregularities or car issues. During those 20 minutes I’m not clogging the roadways or clogging the atmosphere with exhaust and I’m not giving even a fraction of a thought to where I might park when I get there, or how much it will cost. Plus I get to see the city through big windows from angles I’d never notice if I were driving.
All of which is great, I think, but what really keeps me riding are the conversations I overhear. Provided the bus or train car isn’t dominated by cell phone blather – which does happen from time to time, in spite of the very nicely done signs reminding people that not everyone on the bus or train car is interested in what they have to say – there’s some good stuff to be had on Tri Met.
Like this. Last week I was on my way downtown on Friday morning. Sitting in front of me, in what I think of as the parlor – it’s at the front of the bus, where the seats face the aisle – there were two young women and one young man on their way to the mall. I could not ascertain the dynamics. Perhaps they were sisters and a brother, perhaps the two women were sisters and the guy was the boyfriend of one of them, perhaps, I thought briefly, they were about to be – or had just been – an ongoing group situation. Maybe they were in the same drug rehab program; maybe they were on their way to buy crack. I do not know.
What I do know is that the guy doesn’t like Carrie Underwood. “She’s not awesome,” he said. “That turn the wheel over to Jesus bullshit? Come on, Carrie. Not awesome at all.” The young women both agreed, enthusiastically. “And don’t get me wrong,” said the young man. “I really like country music.” One of the young women nodded at him and smiled. “Me too,” she exclaimed. “I love Pink Floyd.”
Thanks to decades of handiwork from the marketing people, using public transportation, like living in public housing, infers ghetto, poverty, shiftlessness. Every time there’s an incident at one of the train stations, or on board a bus, the news cameras are on the scene almost as promptly as the paramedics. But unless they involve someone driving a vehicle into a building, which happens with freakish regularity in Portland, the headlines generated by deadly, atrocious car crashes quickly fade.
Personally, I’ll take my chances, because in addition to getting somewhere without having to drive, the public vessels around here are a joy to ride. From my front door, I can be on a train in 15 minutes, one that will take me to the main terminal of the airport in one direction and downtown Portland and the far western suburbs in the other. In five minutes or less, I can catch one of three major bus lines, each of which will take me downtown in about 20 minutes. And during those 20 minutes, I don’t have to worry about other people’s driving irregularities or car issues. During those 20 minutes I’m not clogging the roadways or clogging the atmosphere with exhaust and I’m not giving even a fraction of a thought to where I might park when I get there, or how much it will cost. Plus I get to see the city through big windows from angles I’d never notice if I were driving.
All of which is great, I think, but what really keeps me riding are the conversations I overhear. Provided the bus or train car isn’t dominated by cell phone blather – which does happen from time to time, in spite of the very nicely done signs reminding people that not everyone on the bus or train car is interested in what they have to say – there’s some good stuff to be had on Tri Met.
Like this. Last week I was on my way downtown on Friday morning. Sitting in front of me, in what I think of as the parlor – it’s at the front of the bus, where the seats face the aisle – there were two young women and one young man on their way to the mall. I could not ascertain the dynamics. Perhaps they were sisters and a brother, perhaps the two women were sisters and the guy was the boyfriend of one of them, perhaps, I thought briefly, they were about to be – or had just been – an ongoing group situation. Maybe they were in the same drug rehab program; maybe they were on their way to buy crack. I do not know.
What I do know is that the guy doesn’t like Carrie Underwood. “She’s not awesome,” he said. “That turn the wheel over to Jesus bullshit? Come on, Carrie. Not awesome at all.” The young women both agreed, enthusiastically. “And don’t get me wrong,” said the young man. “I really like country music.” One of the young women nodded at him and smiled. “Me too,” she exclaimed. “I love Pink Floyd.”
