Translink 101, or Taking the bus to T-Town:

I grew up in Tsawwassen and, as such, my childhood and teen years were filled with many tedious hours of bus travel into, out of, and around, good old T-Town. Fleeing the Caucasian enclave with my pals to see a movie all the way out to Granville Mall was, in retrospect, one of the few interesting things for us to do “back in the day”. I have been eyeing up my son for similar freedoms because when he’s free, so am I. He just needed to learn how to do it. So we took the bus from East Van to Tsawwassen. So he could learn. So the next time I won’t have to go with him. Which is great, because I really, really (I mean, really) hate taking the bus. Those of you who follow this space may be tiring of my occasional rants about public transit. I intend to make this my last for the foreseeable future.

I looked online at the transit website for the best route. The HAL 9000 they have chugging away on their site wanted to send me through the Downtown Eastside to Robson and Granville, where I would transfer and then take the bus all the way back out of the downtown core and head to T-town. Trip time? I think motherboard was looking at about 2 and a half hours. I used my dim recollections of a sadder time in my life and plotted a less hideous and soul-crushing route. By the time we got there it still took us over 2 hours, (much of which was spent waiting on the street, breathing lovely, green, car exhaust.).

I don’t think I’ve had to take the bus to Tsawwassen for at least 15 years because I have actively avoided it. Startlingly, the only noticeable change between then and now seems to be the price. It now costs 5 bucks for me to have the honour of cramming my paunchy carcass into jostling public transit for the long meandering trek back to suburbia. Five bucks one way, that is…

When we first entered the bus I realized I’d made a fatal error. I knew it was gonna be a chunk of change the get Dad and Son on a three-zone trip, so I had brought a bunch of loonies and toonies, and some bills. I had suffered an old-man brain fart, mixed with unrealistic expectations. You see, I thought that, by now, they would have those fare machines that take paper money. You know, like at the skytrain station. Any of you who take the bus regularly may feel entitled to laugh my naivete. That’s okay, laugh it up. At least I don’t have to take the bus…

The big woman behind the big wheel said, “That’ll be $8.50, please”. I pulled forth my wallet and tried to feed a five-dollar bill into the machine that spits out the transfers. It didn’t fit. A hoard of unwashed humanity was lurching up behind me as I fumbled in confusion. Big Lady Driver sent me off to the side to sort things out while the people who actually knew how to ride the bus embarked. Then she kicked into a madcap, stop and go, bone-jarring extravaganza. I dug through my wallet and all the little pockets of my briefcase, hoping for coinage. It took a while to get this together because every time I let go of the railing and put my hand in my pocket, Driver Lady would slam on the brakes, and then gun it, sending me skittling about like a bowling pin on a string.

It is in my weak and vulnerable moments that my son smells the blood and goes in for the kill. He began peppering me with questions, non sequiturs, and requests as I frantically tried to make the right amount of exact change appear. “Dad?” (two bucks-fifty). “What time is it?” (three bucks –seventy five). “What is your least favourite Spider-man villain?” (four bucks and five cents), and so on. No matter how I put it together, or how many times I counted, I only had six bucks in change. We were nearing our transfer connection and I still hadn’t paid for the trip. I began to vibrate. My boy was happy because he seemed to think that I had agreed to buy him a cell-phone.

Sometimes, people show their quality. I mention this to show the diversity in the public servants I encountered on the trip. Big Lady Driver finally surveyed me with the pity one might offer a guilty, stammering child. She said, “It’s okay. Just put what you’ve got into the machine and I’ll print the transfers you need.” She gave me the indulgent, kind smile that she likely reserves for the mentally handicapped people she helps on and off her bus several times per day. Thank You Nice lady!

Then we waited 18 minutes for our next bus at a busy intersection. I wistfully watched cars, cyclists and pedestrians pass us by. They were on the way to wherever they were going. Many large buses came and went, shuttling other people to more popular destinations, but the suburban routes enjoy much more sporadic service. If you miss the 601 South Delta. You’ll be waiting either 30 minutes or an hour depending on the time of day. Oh… unless it’s after 11 pm, in which case you’ll be waiting until morning. I used our time to coach the kid on bus skills. I drilled him on which bus we were taking, what intersection we were at, where we were going, and I offered him the important bus-transferring skill: how to flag down your (oh-so-precious) connecting bus. If you miss it, you’re screwed.

So we watched and waited. As buses approached I had my son eyeball them to see if any were the coveted 601 South Delta. Gradually the other people were all picked up by the buses they needed and we were left alone at the stop. When my boy finally spotted the 601 he said, in a slightly bored tone, “This is it, Dad”. I strode to the edge of the sidewalk and waved my transfer at the driver while making eye contact with him, to make sure he didn’t forget to pick us up. I have been forgotten and left on the curb in the past.

The older man behind the wheel looked at me, affected a retarded demeanor, and waved back at me like I was an idiot. Then he stopped the bus.

Dick the Driver looked a bit like Wilford Brimley. He was a barrel-chested, white-mustached, union man. As we climbed aboard he corrected me. “Huh. You know. You don’t wave like that. We just stop when we see people.” Although he was totally rubbing me the wrong way (and full of shit), I chose to offer a good role model to my son. I smiled and nodded and tried to hand Driver Dick our ill-gotten transfers. He pointed at his fare machine and intoned slowly, “Those go in there.” as if instructing a child. Still being polite I offered, “Oh, sorry. It’s just that I don’t take the bus very often.” He rolled his eyes in disdain and said. “Huh. It sure shows.”

I herded my son down the bus and into the hard seats we’d be enjoying for more than an hour. When we settled in for the main part of our junket I shared a couple simple truths with the boy: Firstly, when you are a kid, the bus driver is your friend. That was easy to understand with Big Lady Bus Driver before, but it was just as true with the motherfucker that was steering the chariot we had just entered. No matter how big a jerk he is, this is the guy who will get you where you need to go. Conversely, he’s exactly the kind of prick who’ll toss you off the bus if he feels like it. So make nice and rely on the loser. Nextly, never assume they’ll just pick you up. Divers will pass you by in the blink of an eye. I was pleased be able to point it out to my boy when Driver Dick actually left a bunch of frustrated folks behind just a few moments later. Guess he “didn’t see them”.

It’s not that long a trip from my place to my mom’s place, actually. Taking the best route by car it is 33 kilometers. On a Sunday night with no traffic I can drive it in less than half an hour. The bus does not take the best route, but that’s okay because it has taught me to appreciate Ladner, and all the silly side streets and loops required in the two hour version of the trip. Nothing gives you the sense you are going nowhere fast better than 10 minutes cooling your heels at the Ladner Loop before the 15 minute detour through Ladner. It’s actually quite nice if you have the time and abundant patience required. I hold the belief that’s it’s a lovelier place. Being forcefully reminded that there are actually farms doesn't suck either. Besides, you don’t generally have the choice to avoid the side trip. It was good enough for me when I was a boy…

We finally pulled into the terminus at the far edge of Tsawwassen about two and a quarter hours after we walked out of our front door in East Van. We were the only folks left on the 601 South Delta, which would then turn around and do it all over again. As we disembarked I shot Dick the Diver a sickly smile and thanked him for his courtesy. He looked distinctly like a chubby, bitter rat on a wheel.

The day was sunny and the suburban quiet was palpable. As we walked past my old Elementary School my son looked happy. A light had gone on for him. He hadn’t seen the trip as an Odyssey of Annoyance, like I had. He had been paying attention, understanding that, in the future, he’d actually be able to ditch me and head out to Gramma’s house by himself, where people tend to spoil him. This was a win for all concerned, so why did I feel just a little bit diminished?

The boy watched cable TV while I drank wine with my parents and waited for my wife to pick us up and ferry us back home. No way was I doing that trip again.