I'd just returned home from New York City, a two-day whirlwind during which I had a panoply of mass transit adventures, from taking the bus to and from LGA (my one suggestion: when you're planning to take the M60 at 4:30 a.m. on a Saturday, be sure and check the schedules carefully, o.k.? New York, it has no Transit Tracker, as I mourned while sitting on my bag on 125th Ave), to exploring the always-confusing 53rd St./3rd Ave. subway transfers with my co-blogger Victor, to meeting some nice Minneapolins on Northwest Airlines. I was tired, jetlagged, exhausted and Jonathan was at work. I needed HP56 for my inkjet to print iron-on transfers for our Hood-to-Coast team.
Everett and Truman and I hopped on the 75 and headed to Fred Meyer for the all-important supplies. The boys were wild in their just-reunited fervor, and on the way home Truman wouldn't sit still. He was here, he was there, he was trying to climb up the stop pull-cords. Evidently, I dropped my little knitted purse, full of my cell phone, driver's license, debit card.
I didn't even know it was gone until the next day, and Jonathan gave it up for lost. On Monday, we used the Lost and Found form, and backed it up with a voicemail. A few minutes later, a dry voice from Tri-Met read off my list of belongings. Red knitted purse, RAZR, one dollar, some change, debit cards, driver's license. Thirty minutes later, I was picking up my once-lost belongings, my faith in humanity (and Tri-Met) justified.
Thank you Tri-Met, and thank you Portland.
If you've clicked through to the permalink, I'll reward you with a really. really. REALLY funny mass transit story.
It was that same day. I'd just travelled 2400-some miles, on very little sleep and a rocking hangover due to an illusion I was still 24 and childless. Ouch. I was in a bit of a tired zen place, and didn't get upset when another would-be MAX passenger elbowed in front of me at the ticket machine.
I watched, bemused, as airplane passengers angled for position at the edge of the baggage treadmill, trying to guess who was a Portland native, who was a visitor or transplant. I got my bag and wandered back past the ticket machines to the platform when I heard another man exclaim to someone pulling their ticket from the dispenser, "This isn't New York! People who live in Portland are nice.
" ... Asshole."