Yesterday, I went for groceries. If this sounds like some sort of Old West expedition, coming down the mountain for coffee and sugar and flour, that wouldn’t be too far off the mark. Because it was an adventure, the adventure of public transport in a place I barely know.
I walked into town, but thought it would be better not to walk back, given the heaviness of my load. No problem. I’d studied the bus route, thought I knew what I was doing.
The first sign of difficulty was the road closure in front of the grocery store. I thought I’d accounted for it when I found a temporary stop, but actually I hadn’t. The bus that finally arrived wasn’t going my way. Instead, I had a lovely tour of Port Townsend from a bus driver who reminded me of Paul Giamatti.
“You missed the #2,” he said. “Best go back to the Transit Center and get the #3. I can take you there.” He did that, then I waited … and waited. As Paul was pulling out for another loop and there was still no sign of the #3 bus, he opened his window and shouted, “He’ll be here soon; he’s just fixing his bus.”
Uh oh. Fixing his bus? This didn’t sound good. But in fact the #3 did arrive minutes later, and a colorful cast of character hopped on, all with various forms of bag and baggage: shopping bags, sleeping bags, backpacks. Eventually, I was dropped off at the stop Paul suggested, walked another half mile or so, and was glad to see the barracks of the fort park where I’m staying finally swing into view.
I’m thinking now about those few hours in town, knowing no one, carless, dependent on strangers. I think about the kindness of the driver, and of my fellow riders. They remind me how much some people carry — and how little I do.
(The mossy roof of home.)
