And Yet, She Persisted

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

“You are too famous to ride the bus!” my sister Laura recently stated. 

I was supposed to end my experiment with taking transit in Los Angeles after a thirty-day challenge period, but what began as an investigation has become a passion and perhaps, if I am being honest, a bit of an obsession.

Laura has a point. If you walk with me through an airport pretty much anywhere, folks will approach. Sometimes they want a photo, other times just to tell me that Sabrina the Teenage Witch was an essential factor in their childhood or that they love a film of mine. I appreciate it; I always have time for them, even when I don’t. That’s the job, and I am grateful for it.

I AM SUPPOSED TO BE IN AIRPORTS.

It makes sense that I would be striding through a busy terminal, heading for a flight. No one expects me to be on the Number 14 bus, which careens down Beverly Blvd. and delivers me one block from my apartment home. They look at me with one raised eyebrow and then proceed to talk themselves out of it: “Can't be,” I can almost hear them thinking. “Folks from the TV do NOT take the bus.” Admittedly, it’s weird. What is completely commonplace in most big American cities is an anomaly in LA. 

There is also the fact that my appearance walking about is a bit of an oddness. My aversion to the sun has me garbed up in long sleeves with little thumb holes to keep them in place over my hands. I always have a hat or an SPF 50 umbrella (mine has a delightful watermelon pattern in the lining), or both. Add to this picture sunglasses, orthopedic shoes, and my ever-present ‘gather’ bag. I hate to waste paper or plastic, so on me always is a bag to gather whatever purchases I may make. Altogether, this creates an eccentric–I am being generous here, but I’m partial to me–image. I do not, as a rule, cut a glamorous figure when I am on transit. 

If it seems to you that I am getting weirder by the minute, you might be on to something.

My sisters would dearly like for me to stop walking strange routes and riding in what, to their minds, are dodgy, possibly dangerous city vehicles, but they do not press the point. They can be seen quietly exchanging worried glances when I regale them with tales of my travels, but in truth, this is just one of the aspects of my person which is a tad off the beam. They are ever gracious about it.

I can, of course, buy a car, but the thought pains me. If I buy one and park it in my garage, then I am going to get in the darned thing and drive it. Then I will just be another solo driver on the crowded roads–another person who drives to Target when I could easily walk. 

THROWN UNDER THE BUS.

Transit has been so long maligned in Los Angeles that it is associated only with low-income workers. The housekeepers who head west in the mornings to clean rich folks’ houses and raise rich folks’ children are expected to be on the bus. The sturdy men who maintain our buildings and check our ID’s. The young, still making their way and the old, whose licenses have been taken away. Those folks are there, to be sure, but so are a host of professionals and a truly remarkable number of tourists. Folks from all over the world can be found there every day. They come from countries in Europe, Asia, and South America, where communal travel is the norm. 

They don’t know that the bus isn’t cool, and I ain’t gonna tell ’em.

The folks who have “made it” here are expected to drive shiny, new vehicles. Preferably hybrid models, of course. This is LA, and image is everything. I once had a woman approach me outside my pal Nancy’s place. We had just hosted a fundraiser for one of the many, many politicians whom we have supported over the years. 

“How can you drive that car?!!!” she demanded to know. 

It was an old Lexus SUV, handed down to us by my ex-husband’s parents. It drove like a dream and was perfectly reliable. We could have traded it in and bought a new Prius, I suppose–this was way before Tesla and the Volt–but would that have really been a better choice? It would likely have been sent to Mexico and driven there until it collapsed and had to be relegated to a landfill. There are many schools of thought on this, but I try to keep as many things as possible out of the trash.

I tried to explain this to her, but the woman kept on berating me and ranting on about climate change, and asking how I could hope to be a serious political person if I had such a vehicle. I finally just got in the car, locked the doors, and peeled out of there, aided by a hearty V6 engine. 

I am far from perfect. But, I do what I can. Ever since the city started collecting compost, I have been religiously storing veggie scraps, flower cuttings, and any other thing that can be broken down into fertilizer. My building has private trash service, so I bag it up in my refrigerator until it’s time to visit someone with a green bin. I then descend upon my hosts, armed with compostable bags full of smelly bits. This is most often on a trip to my sister’s home, so you see how it is for them. 

WALK THE TALK.

I recycle and conserve water and try to be conscious about my consumption. We can all do our part. Many people live in areas where it is impossible to manage without a car. My friend Sara lives in a lovely part of L.A. so remote that signs on her street warn of children and horses at play. I don’t think a bus could make it up the windy, bumpy, rustic road that leads to her home if it tried. She has no choice but to drive, but she recycles and composts and conserves water with skill and precision. And, of course, operates an electric vehicle. She is a climate champion.

None of us can do it all, but we can all make an effort. I absolutely believe that it matters. I have faith that we can and will figure this whole “how-to live-in-harmony-with-the-planet” thing out. Maybe not in my lifetime, but someday. Someday.

On we go …

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