This morning as I rounded the corner into the commuter parking lot I noted my bus on it’s way out. Not to worry, there will be another one in 15 minutes, and for once I’m not running late. I also noted the driver was Nazi Man. Not his real name I’m sure, but his name in my mind. He barks at people to move to the back of the bus, yells at them if they are eating anything (against the rules) and generally scowls, rolls his eyes and seems very unhappy as a bus driver. So I didn’t mind missing his bus this morning.

Minutes later another bus for my route pulls in. The driver is Grampa, so named in my mind because he looks like someone’s grandpa, though not like either of mine. As I board his bus he scowls at me and I am reminded that yesterday on my way back out to my car he ran the bus right up behind a (presumably) undergrad coed who was admitedly walking down the middle of a campus road while talking on her cell. He jammed on the brakes at the last minute and pounded on the horn. The bus riders gasped. The coed jumped about 10 feet and moved out of the way, but didn’t interrupt her call. So maybe he isn’t exactly grandpa material.

Which made me start to consider other drivers I’ve come in contact with during this first semester at UM. There’s the 60’s leftover hippy with long grey hair that smiles (sometimes) at students. And the, well, no other way to describe her, librarian, in her long navy skirt and navy sweater who reads books at the red light on Plymouth and Huron Parkway, and who smiles and waves at every group of departing passengers. They each have their personality and distinctive driving style.

Which reminds me. Bus riders don’t seem to be stressed. Even those that run to make the bus. We wait patiently for the elderly woman to find her money. We wait a long time. We watch as crowds of students get on and off the bus. We smile, wave and say thank you to the driver as we depart. (Even to Natzi Man.) We are not worried as the bus idles in some spot waiting for the clock to catch up with reality when the route isn’t crowded. It’s as if we have given over control of our trip, and with that control we have given up the stress that usually accompanies traveling around in Ann Arbor. This morning we all sat quietly as an elderly man hobbled slowly from the bus shelter, climbed precariously aboard, dropped his 50 cents in, waited for a transfer ticket and shuffled down the isle. Amazingly, Grandpa waited too, until the old man selected a seat and slowly lowered himself down into it, before he stomped on the gas pedal and lurched back into traffic. Maybe Grandpa isn’t so bad after all.