Life on the Road

I finally got around to reading Gloria Steinem’s autobiographical My Life on the Road, and it was a revelation. That the book was well-written and filled with stories of political activism did not surprise me; the overwhelming sense of hopefulness I got while reading it did. As someone who cares a little too much about social and political inequities, I know firsthand how easy it is to spiral down into bitter cynicism. Some days, it feels like nothing much has changed at all; other days, it feels like American society and politics are hell bent on taking five giant steps backward.

And then I read a book, and I am surprised by hope. And utterly charmed by stories of traveling around the country on public transportation. I admit, I think anyone who chooses public transit over more private forms of travel is brave. The germs alone will lay you flat, and depending on where you are, that is the least of your worries. But I could see Steinem’s point: you really don’t get a sense of a place or a people unless you spend time with and among them, and I don’t mean sticking to the spit-and-polished tourist spots. Never a fan of crowds, or buses, still I wished I could be more like this determined woman who took to the road any time, any where, in the pursuit of societal and political transformation.

My first chance to be a little braver came last week when an academic conference called me to Houston. I think I’ve been to Houston before, but I can’t really remember, which means if I have been, I definitely didn’t do it properly. Layovers in the airport don’t count. This was always going to be a quick visit – just in and out. My son’s final soccer game on Saturday morning trumped any thoughts of staying over. Besides, I was financing this trip myself, and with extremely limited means I decided to skip the hotel room. I also decided to skip taxi rides to and from the conference center, mostly for the same reason but also with Gloria’s stories in the back of my mind. I would be taking the bus.

For those of you who are regular bus riders, I am sure you will laugh when I tell you how daunting such a prospect seemed at first. I never take buses at home; I prefer to drive. In fact, up until I visited D.C. last month, I don’t think I’d set foot on a city bus (parking shuttles not included) for years, if ever.

But the prospect of saving some cash was too attractive, and I soon found myself waiting awkwardly at the airport metro stop for city bus #40 to appear. This was the bus that would (eventually) make its way past the conference center where I’d be giving my presentation that afternoon. The schedule said it would take about an hour, with a route that wound its way over city streets and guaranteed a close-up view of southeast Houston.

I’m sure I looked as uncomfortable as I felt, in my dress slacks and suit jacket, shoulder-to-shoulder with every imaginable kind of person. As we bumped and jarred past crumbling buildings and weed-choked lots, shiny new strip malls and fast food joints, and then entered the shadow of the towering buildings of downtown, I thought about how much this place looked like every other place I’d ever been, at least in slices. People working, driving, arguing, shopping; the same stores, the same tumble-down spots, the same marked difference between the neighborhoods to the south and downtown, with its shiny windows and spotless concrete.

On my trip back to the airport, a woman asked the driver for a Band-Aid, but the driver didn’t have one. I did. I gave one to her. I got asked for a light, but I don’t smoke and so didn’t have one. In consolation, he told me I “didn’t look the type” anyway. I was very aware of my pale (by comparison) skin, alien in a sea of beautiful shades of brown. But mostly, I read my book and avoided eye contact; I guess my bravery has its limits.

I made the whole round trip intact, and as I boarded my return flight that evening I considered the result. I really didn’t expect much, having stayed so short a time. I felt a little more confident on public transit, a little less awkward. Those people on the bus were too busy with their own concerns to worry much about an awkward out-of-town woman in their midst. Maybe next time I will talk to some of them, if I can work up the guts. I’m chicken shit when it comes to talking to strangers. Is taking the bus the cure? I doubt it. But then again, I guess we’ll just have to see.