On Sunday, November 10th, 2013, I stepped foot on the 86 bus, and realized I was invincible. It wasn’t an instantaneous reaction, I’ll give you that, but somewhere along the way I lived through my own personal hell, and came out on the other side to tell the tale.
At the Longfellow House, blissfully unaware of what was to come.
Public transportation (and oftentimes private transportation such as cars, or even walking) makes me unbelievably nauseous— coach buses are, by far, the worst. The stop-and-go traffic, the unreliable drivers, the always uncomfortable temperature, the stuffy air and lack of windows that open, and the sheer number of people all add up to the worst ride ever. Regular buses, like the Comm. Ave. bus come right behind, followed by school buses (at least I can open the windows and get fresh air, am I right?), then the T (because it still has to stop at every light), the NYC subway system (fast turns make me queasy), Amtrak trains, and finally really turbulent flights. I have gotten nauseous while walking once or twice, and will not rule that out as just being something I ate.
On that fateful Sunday in November, my Boston: History, Literature, and Culture I class had a mandatory field trip to the Longfellow House in Cambridge. While I did seriously consider taking a cab, the four members of my group came to the consensus that we would take the 86 bus. The ride there wasn’t that bad—I was facing forward, riding on an empty stomach. It was cool outside so I opened the windows and was disembarking after 30 minutes (or slightly more). The trip back? Not as smooth. After waiting for quite some time, we got on the bus that was going back to Cleveland Circle, at about 2:15pm. Or so we thought. It, instead, went to Sullivan Square, where the driver stopped, made us get off and then reboard the same bus after he parked and took a break. Thankfully, he didn’t make us pay, because the rest of the ride was memorable for all the wrong reasons. By 3:20pm, we had passed through Harvard Square for the fourth time, picked up the people who had taken the 3pm tour, and changed seats because facing sideways started to take its toll. Overstuffed, overheated, and over the entire MBTA, I realized that, while I am no stranger to long bus rides, some even totaling nine hours, this was the absolute worst.
About 3/4ths of the way through that final, horrible loop.
It’s one thing to drive from BC to Montreal—it’s one line, there’s a start and an end, and they are two separate locations. It’s another thing entirely to be on a loop—reaching never-ending stoplights for more than 20 minutes, driving through the same intersection five times. It’s like being Sisyphus, except instead of rolling a boulder up a hill, you’re rolling uphill in a bus and you’re never getting off and only thinking “Look at the horizon, look at the hori—oh wait, there is no horizon, just buildings. This is it, this is the end, this is how I die. Does anyone have a plastic bag? Help. Help. Help.”
I learned some valuable things about myself: I don’t always need to take a cab, I am stronger than I think, and next time I’m thinking about taking the 86 bus, DON’T.
Special thanks to Janie Motter, Natalie Dolphin, and Melissa Warten for joining me on what we have titled “On the Road to Nowhere: The Epic Tale of the 86 Bus”.
Photo Credit: Natalie Dolphin