Like Public Transit? Then Try it for a Day.
Yesterday I was reminded why public transit is not a large part of our transportation mix.

In the early afternoon, I went to pick up a friend at the airport. There were a lot of cars, many more than usual, on the entrance road. As I drove closer to the parking ramps, it was obvious that this was not an ordinary day. There was a queue extending far out from the entrance to the garage.

After trolling at 3 miles an hour, I came up to someone who was handing out information cards, directing me to the other terminal. I thought, “Well, I can give her a call on the cell and say ‘Take a cab, please,’ or I can think of this as an adventure and drive over to the other terminal and take the shuttle back.

I opted for the adventure. It was appalling and yet fascinating.

I had been to the other terminal only once, and wondered how traffic went between the two. There must be some airport-only road, I thought. But I could not find it, and as I followed the signs, I was quickly back out on the interstate. I called my friend. No answer.

So I drove over to the other terminal, found a parking spot, and looked for the promised shuttle bus.

As I walked across the parking ramp, I saw the bus, one level down. “Wait!,” I thought. It did.

The bus was packed, and I was happy to not be carrying any luggage.

Of course, my next sentiment was “Time’s wasting! Let’s go!”

In a few minutes the bus did roll. I stood on the steps near the back door to get a good look at the surroundings. I had never been to this part of the airport, and wondered what was going on. I was especially interested in finding the on-airport road between the two terminals.

Instead, next thing I know we are heading … back to the interstate.

No secret passage way. I was disappointed.

Seated near me was a woman wearing the uniform of a pilot or first officer. She was looking at what appeared to be a schedule. I feared for her passengers, who might be delayed because their pilot was trapped on a bus that was stuck on the highway.

The five minutes that seemed more like 15 passed and we were back at the main terminal. The bus disgorged its passengers, and I looked around for signs of where to go next.

Down the steps I go, thinking that in a hundred yards or so I would see the familiar entrance to the baggage claim area, where cattle call meets flying-bus depot.

Instead, the only logical thing to do was to follow the sign pointing to a tram.

Oh great. This is my multi-modal day. Drive a car. Take a bus. Take a tram. Reverse. Oh well, it was all part of the appalling adventure.

Why is it that train-like vehicles and airports are programmed with the voice of a British woman? Is it to suggest bureaucratic efficiency, the well-oiled wheels of the transportation empire?

The tram ride was two minutes, four at most. I left the tram and looked, seeing way off in the distance the familiar corridor to baggage claim.

I made my way to baggage claim and found my friend. We waited for her luggage to appear. It took about 15 minutes, and in that time, we discussed the security review regime she had been through.

By contrast, two weeks ago I traveled three hundred miles to a conference. I drove. No need to rush to the airport to hurry up and wait in a security line. No need to remove my shoes. No need for someone to rummage through my suitcase.

Eventually my friend’s luggage arrived, and we walked to the tram. “Isn’t big city living great,” I mused. “All these connections.”

We rode the tram till its destination, and then found the bus to get back to the other terminal. My friend’s suitcase must have weighed 55 pounds. She struggled to get it up to the stairs of the bus; I gave her some last-second help.

We stood in the aisle, and I held the bag against my legs, lest it become a bowling ball knocking someone over.

Once off the bus, we looked around for an elevator to the second level of the parking garage. One sign said “Employee elevator.” There was no way I was carrying a 55-pound bag 50 feet up four staircases. After some wandering around we came across a public elevator, took it to the second floor, found the car, and drove off.

Total time: 2 hours. Time that I could have spent had I arranged to meet my friend at the curb? An hour. The extra hour? Tuition in the school of life.

FUN WITH LIGHT RAIL
Later that day I drove my car to the latest and greatest hope of urban planners, the light rail station. I use it to go downtown once a week to tutor English-language learners. I could drive, but have thought that it would be more convenient to not have to drive and find a parking spot, especially during baseball season. But this day I was beginning to wonder if that was such a smart idea.

On days with a lot of rail traffic (that is, baseball games), there’s an attendant at the station. He means to be helpful, but he gets in the way. I don’t need anyone to tell me to push this button and get my ticket in that slot, and he just slows me down by demanding that I answer some questions and let him guide me through the purchase process that I’ve got down cold.

I just missed one train, and had to wait for the next. Oh yes, here’s a problem of using public transit: you have to stand and wait. Outside. In the cold. And wind. And rain.

The train came, I boarded, and then encountered other, shall we say, features of public transit.

A woman in the seat behind me was sniffling. I tried to not notice. A guy across the aisle was talking to someone, in a voice that resonated, about how he hated every holiday except Halloween. (Great. Shall I expect a spell?)

I tried to ignore Mr. Halloween, but couldn’t. So I walked down the car, and sat next to a seat that a guy had just given up in anticipation of the next exit. The cigarette smoke from someone’s clothing hung in the air. Meanwhile, two women were yakking away.

Great. Disease-carrying passengers, loud louts, and cigarette smoke. I love how public transportation brings us all together, don’t you?

Once I left the train, I still had to walk 8 blocks to reach my destination. Oh yes, that’s another limitation of public transit: it often doesn’t offer door-to-door service.

Contrast all this with automobiles: leave when you want. Listen to the music you want (or don’t). Steep in your own airborne germs. Go door-to-door. Aside from that initial shock of entering the vehicle cold, stay toasty warm the whole time.

All this suggests that I hate public transit. Not necessarily. For a while I lived in the Chicago area, and used it a lot. A monthly pass was much less than paying for a commuter parking lot, and the volume of cars on the road would have made each trip unnerving. But I still walked an hour each day, between train station and home and office.

Transit works relatively well in Chicago. More so in New York. But even then, it represents a minority of all trips in the metropolitan area. How many people would like to live in a region as densely populated as these two?

Transit systems can be reasonably clean and appealing, but only at enormous costs that far outstrip comparable expenses of a road system. (Think of the Washington DC/Virginia/Maryland metro, giant earmark to the capital region from the nation’s taxpayers.)

As my little adventures showed, there’s a lot left to be desired with transit. I suspect that many people support it for someone else—let’s get those other people off the road.

Labels: Transportation

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