An Open Letter to the L.A. Metro:
Almost two years ago, to the derision and disbelief of most of my friends, I decided to stop driving and prove it was possible to live without a car in Los Angeles for 12 months, just to see what would happen. At the time, I had hopes of sparking a pedestrian movement that would give bus riding a new face and fill the buses with cultural dialogue, historical information and consciousness-raising initiatives.
That enthusiasm lasted about a year. Through no fault of anyone’s but my own, I decided to abandon any lofty hopes and be satisfied with the idea of cheap, efficient public transportation. But even that has begun to prove unrealistic.
Granted, there are the rare days when everything works. The bus comes on time; the driver is civil; the seats are clean enough to sit on. But this, sadly, is the exception, rather than the rule. Instead, you just accept the fact, especially if you’re taking major thoroughfares such as the Wilshire, Santa Monica Blvd or Sunset lines, all of which supposedly come within 5 to 20 minutes, the bus is going to be filthy, the bus driver sullen and the timetable more a matter of whim than reality.
So, despite all those bright and shiny ads you’re running touting your system as the pride of America with a bunch of cheery, well-scrubbed “bus riders” equating a ride on the bus with a weekend retreat at a luxury hotel, here’s a selection of real-life experiences culled from one week – five days, actually – of life on the metro.
The 720, 11 A.M., 12/13: Bus driver ignores “stop request,” sails through Robertson and stops at La Cienega, approximately ½ mile away. No apology offered, other than a shrug. Any other day, going west, the 720 to Santa Monica rarely comes within 30 minutes. Again, no explanation as to why it is chronically late, particularly during the rush hour when, logic suggests, it would come more frequently.
The 704, 5:45 P.M., 12/14: Despite the front of the bus saying “Santa Monica,” the bus driver stops at Sepulveda as a last stop. Rather than giving an emergency transfer, the bus driver tells me to learn to read.
The 704, 7:30 P.M., 12/16: Wait for 90 minutes for the bus to take me from downtown to Santa Monica, only to find out the bus stop had changed (but not the sign). Bus drivers from another line on the same stop have no information. Since the information booths you used to have are closed, the only way to check is on the website. News flash: If you can afford a blackberry, chances are very good you’re not on the bus.
The 720, 11:15 A.M., 12/17: Gobs of snot and what looks like earwax smeared across the window. Mounds of half-eaten food and a floor sticky with soda on the floor on the seat behind.
The 720, 11 A.M., 12/18: A used hypodermic needle rolls around the floor. As much as you hate to admit it, you don’t really care about me or any of your other patrons. Why should you? You’re the best public transportation system in the country. So I’m taking the bus down to Abbot Kinney and putting down a deposit on a Fortwo. Thanks so much for driving me to it.
