’Nuff said. Its charms include questionable aromas and funny-colored stains on felt seats, some of which are occupied by sleeping individuals with briefcases and purses, others of which are occupied by said briefcases and purses — their owners wear snooty expressions to prevent anyone from occupying the open seat beside them. Despite the passengers’ distant resemblance to “Mean Girls” (“You can’t sit with us”), I think the bus is one of my favorite places on the planet. It has always existed as an intermediary between two destinations, and I cannot conceive a place where my mind is clearer and my thoughts are less bothered. Maybe if I really travel and go to Italy or Greece, I’ll change my mind. But for now, the bus — in all its pungency and fermenting glory — is the most serene space I can think of.
Of course, I say this ignoring the big sign at the front of the New Jersey Transit buses that threatens five years in prison and a $15,000 fine for assaulting a bus driver. And I dutifully ignore the fact that I have never once worn the seemingly optional seat belt dangling loosely at the side of my seat. I suppose the bus is, by all logistical standards, a hazard to those who board it, but I don’t see it like that. I think because, before I even sit on the bus and subconsciously transition to mouth-breathing, I’m already afraid.
***
I’m afraid. I’m barely 14 years old, and I can feel my breath shake as it escapes my lungs. My fingers grip my suitcase with a startling strength as I prepare myself to do the scariest thing imaginable: take the charter bus back to boarding school … by myself. Thanksgiving break, with all of its turkey and hominess, came to an end, and I stand here at Columbus Circle, full of dread. Students — older students — huddle together in swarms and laugh, recounting details of their fun-filled Thanksgiving breaks. They really seem to have it all figured out, don’t they? Meanwhile, I spent my entire break just trying to adjust back to a place I once called home: suddenly my best friend from down the hall lives four hours away from me, suddenly my mom can tell me what to do again, suddenly I can brush my teeth after 10:00 p.m. without getting yelled at for breaking dorm rules. That last part was pretty epic.
But this change was all for nothing because here I am, right back at square one, having to completely adjust all over again.
Deep breaths, I tell myself. Chill. Out. But it’s futile. I know that in just six hours I’ll be back in my dorm, having to surrender to lights-out and study hall and, worst of all, unpacking my suitcase. I hate unpacking my suitcase, feeling the stress of change and lack of control all over again. How am I supposed to put down roots when I’m being whacked from place to place like a tennis ball? I’d rather just live out of the suitcase. As I begin to surrender to the idea of ditching the suitcase in its entirety (the clothes weren’t that cute) and running away to the nearest New York tour bus (because hey, at least they were consistent), my thoughts suddenly dissipate.
Relief comes, looming tall above me, perched atop four wheels that go-round-and-round-all-through-the-town. Yes, the bus arrives, casting a shadow on all of the chattering seniors who didn’t need their moms to drop them off at the stop. I swear we look at each other, the bus and I, and share a moment of harmony. I hoist my suitcase and climb on.
The bus is silent as we make our way through the city; the seniors out-chatter themselves, some sleep, others have their noses buried in their phones. I put my headphones on and press my clammy forehead to the window.
My seat partner snores, head lolling dangerously close to my shoulder. And as we move at roughly 60 mph from New York suburban terrain to the rolling hills of Massachusetts, I can’t imagine myself being more still — and not just because my bottom feels numb from six hours of sitting. The thoughts of shower shoes, roommates and — god-forbid — living at school all seem to be left behind in my wake, stubbornly waiting back at Columbus Circle. The fact still remains that nothing is in my control, yes. But right now, at this moment, it doesn’t have to be.
I am suspended in time between two different lives and realities, neither of which I have to claim as my own. I can’t imagine why people would choose to sleep during this.
***
So clearly I don’t like change. I think it’s a pretty common fear or aversion to have; why give up on something that’s comfortable for an alternative that has the potential to be significantly worse? I’d rather keep myself in a situation that negatively impacts me than uproot myself to an unfamiliar environment. The unknown freaks me out. And the bus, for all its intents and purposes, has been a vehicle bringing me from one place to another, neither of which I felt really rooted or secure in. Whether it be my first week of classes at the University of Michigan during which the bus hauled me from Mary Markley Residence Hall to the desolation of North Campus, or when I took the bus from my sketchy neighborhood in New Jersey to day one of my first-ever internship in New York City, I was never fully able to relax until I sat in one of those plush seats and turned up the music ringing in my headphones.
***
Bobbing my head to the sick beat of Sam Smith (said no one ever), I text my roommate and freshman year best-friend-from-down-the-hall, “26 minutes away!” The blue light from my phone makes me squint; the bus is dark and everyone around me is chorusing in a cacophony of heavy breathing and snores. The six-hour drive is certainly no joke. “Last charter bus ever.” I press send and click off my phone, not bothering to wait for the inevitable “YAYYY!!” that is to come. Last charter bus ever.
I know I want to savor this moment, the bus ride back after my boarding school’s notoriously-early February spring break. It’s the last 20 minutes of peace I’ll feel before the craziness of graduation season commences. The last 20 minutes before my friends and I start receiving college decisions … yikes. The last 20 minutes before the goodbyes begin. I almost don’t want the bus ride to end. Despite the amazing friends I’m excited to see and the memories I cherish of us trying to make the best out of having a ridiculously early curfew, I would give just about anything for a little more time sitting right here in this seat. The stress hasn’t begun yet and the fun isn’t ending yet. I don’t have to feel any emotion connected to having no control, or watching time speed by as I’m still trying to find my footing. I am situated perfectly in the middle, riding on the cusp of change and existing in every empty second of it.
It’s crazy to me that the next time I go home, it’ll be for good, with a lot more than one suitcase. And in a car, no less.
***
It feels like I’m always interchanging one life for another, and though I’ve gotten more used to the constant back-and-forth swinging of the metaphorical pendulum, it hasn’t gotten easier. But as the bus has been moving from place to place at dizzying speeds, I’ve been moving along with it. I’ve changed, I’ve grown and I’ve been supported by this portable sanctuary.
***
NJ Transit. I’m certainly not on the charter bus anymore. People sit huddled beside one another, thumping and bumping along as the bus careens through the Lincoln Tunnel, emerging victorious on the other side of the state border. Ah, New York.
The 45-minute bus ride was pretty ideal. I had a quiet seat partner, I didn’t forget my headphones at home and I managed to snag a window seat. Even if I wanted to worry about anything, I’d get bored of it at around minute 10 or 15.
In just five minutes, I’ll arrive at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Sounds like my heaven on Earth, right? Just a buttload of buses piling into a confined space. What could be better? But no, this is not a joyous occasion; the second I get off of this bus, I transcend from a kid to an adult. A bud to a rose. A caterpillar to a butterfly. Though I doubt any of this transcendency will diminish my dramatic flair.
My first real job. Well, my first internship. An internship that I felt so incredibly unqualified for, as I’m sure oodles of other students did, but the guise of invisible camaraderie did nothing to assuage my panic. As I stepped off the bus, I thought of my 14-year-old self: Scared to walk to the bus stop alone in the city, scared of change, and she most definitely would have been scared of the tweed pants and business-casual attire I was sporting.
But she would be in awe of how I’m pushing myself to do things I’m not comfortable with — springing out of bed at six in the morning to haul myself to an unfamiliar building with unfamiliar tasks and people? Certainly not in my top 10. But I know that all I have to do is push through this rough patch, get through the transitory period and find my footing. It takes time. And though having one foot on either side of the New Jersey and New York border reminds me all too well of that cunning tennis ball metaphor, I know that as I cross the border I’ll be safe on the bus. Nothing bad could possibly happen on the bus.
***
The internship went fine. There were definitely some words I didn’t know and directions that I didn’t understand, but I powered through it. Although, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to the bus ride home every day. Not that home was a wonderland itself, but the bus ride back was that and more. I could sit, think, reflect — and not an ounce of my thoughts was riddled with stress. There was nothing I could do, staring out of the bus window, to fix the problems and stressors in my outside world, so why bother? Why freak myself out about things going on outside of the bus when the inside of the bus is so pleasant?
***
Welcome class of 2026. Woo hoo! This. Sucks. For someone who hates change, moving to college is the equivalent of stubbing my toe repeatedly. And what was I thinking, signing up for a class on North Campus? The second I saw that, I should have clicked the “drop” button with alacrity.
Now everything in my life is different. Boarding school feels like a whisper from another life. I can barely remember what my dorm room looked like or why I fought with my roommate on move-out day. Something stupid about who keeps the posters, I’m not sure.
This place is just so big. Everyone seems to know each other well already and it’s only been a week. Why do I still feel so lost? I feel like I’m watching a movie play out and I’m sitting in the audience begging to be a part of the cast. I sit outside of Markley on the bench across from C.S. Mott Children’s Hospital, kicking my feet, waiting for relief to come.
It came. Tearing down the hill with no regard for common traffic laws, the MBus came to a screeching halt at the Markley bus stop. Rocky start, but okay. This bus is new, unfamiliar, definitely not like your run-of-the-mill New Jersey Transit bus. For starters, there’s no warning sign about assaulting the bus driver. How odd. And despite its bold exterior, easily spotted from far-off distances as it veers past (and sometimes through) unsuspecting pedestrians, the interior is completely foreign as well. There seems to always be standing room only, and even so, the seats face each other, so awkward eye contact is a consistent charm of the experience. Comfort is not optimal when your personal space is swallowed by the D1 athletes standing beside you.
But once you get through all of that, it still looks like a bus. It still feels like a bus. There are wheels. It’s quiet in here. And I’m still free to ground myself in the seat if I’m lucky, though more likely the grab rails. Either way, I’m grounded as the world around me continues to spin. Months will go by, game days will pass and I know I’ll get used to them, but for now, I don’t have to worry about that. I don’t have to worry about anything except not falling over when the bus comes to a jarring halt. But even that I can adjust to.
***
And I did. I adjusted to everything in my life that reeked of change and newness. The journey getting there was rough each time, as I moved from place to place in my life, leaving just as I felt that I was starting to get the hang of things. But I think the scariest part is that I wasn’t only moving physically, I was moving through stages of my life as well. And doing so from such a young age made me feel as though I was racing a clock, always trying to force myself into immediate comfort within a foreign environment, rather than embracing the discomfort that inevitably comes conjoined with change. Of course, given my early lifestyle at boarding school and hopping back and forth between different “homes,” a frightening pattern of repeated discomfort became the norm, as I’d have to adjust and readjust every few months or so. After this, every change turned into a stick of discomfort digging into my side, reminding me of my 14-year-old self who thought, this is just too soon. I want to go home.
But amid all of this uncertainty and change, the bus became a symbol of stagnancy for me. Even though we were moving at rapid speeds and weaving through traffic obstacles, I remained still. I could sit and allow myself to lilt from place to place without having to worry about getting there. It was a brief moment away from the two different destinations that invoked in me fear and discomfort; I was right between them, in perfect stillness and comfort.
Sometimes I wish things in my life would never change. That everything could remain as it is, because I know with time, I’d become comfortable where I am. All of this changing and swapping and readjusting leaves me confused, stressed and panicked. But I know that’s not how life works; unfortunately, the only guaranteed facet of life is that it will all end, all comfort and habit swapped for a different manner of being. I can only hope that everyone has a bus in their life, something to guide them through the ebbs and flows of living and stabilize them among the chaos and oscillation of human existence.
That’s all for now. And I’ll allow myself to be certain that as more uncertain chapters unfold, I’ll be on my way — thanks to four spinning wheels, mouth breathing in the changes of my life.
Statement Deputy Editor Irena Tutunari can be reached at tutunari@umich.edu