Busing it

In case I haven't spoken to you for more than five minutes lately, here is a small fact: I take a lot of buses. Twice a week, I take a Dublin Bus to work and up until recently I took a Bus Eireann one home. Having done this for the past several weeks, I have to say; I tip my hat to you, regular commuters on the 14, 15 and 27b. I didn't think anything could make me like Bus Eireann, but here we are. On a bus, as it happens.

I get the 27b (nervously) at Amiens Street or Eden Quay, clutching my bag for fear of the junkies that hang out at bus stops. I've never seen a bus stop quite as bad as Amiens Street for junkies - not the "sorry love, have ye a spare euro for a hostel?" Kind, but the fighting, I'll-kill-ye-for-your-chips kind. Genuinely scary. When the bus finally arrives, I jump on, only to be met with an angry driver who doesn't want a student asking how much it is to Fairview. They want to go for a smoke and a coffee; which they often do.
Can someone explain to me the phenomenon of changing buses? At Eden Quay (a stone's throw from Busaras, so the temptation to leave and
retreat to the country is always there), buses switch drivers. Which is fair enough. But more often than not, passengers are forced to switch buses for reasons that seem lost on even the driver. A few weeks ago I got on a bus had to get off at Eden Quay and THEN wait fifteen minutes, only to get back onto the original bus. All this and I'm charged 2 euro to be late for work!

Charges are not my biggest problem with Dublin bus, though. I'm a huge fan of the Leap card, which allows me to bop around Dublin with my student ID - and it's a bit cheaper than a regular fare, too. No, Dublin bus isn't expensive. Not when one spends so much on Bus Eireann: specifically the 120. A bus route of majesty and sadness. Let me tell you, the sight of a double decker bombig it down the quays at 80 mph is quite something. This sight is a familiar one -- the queen of the Bus Eireann Fleet has become my second home since September. In fairness to Bus Eireann, it doesn't have the scary junkie or angry driver problems of Dublin Bus. Sometimes it has wifi and more often than not, it's lovely and warm. I have two very different issues with bus Eireann: first, the cost. Do you know, dear reader, how much my bus costs? It's 50 euro a week. Fifty euro. For some context: a flat in town is double that. For 100 euro a week I can go out, walk to college and NOT spend my nights staring at the grey and red seat in front of me, wondering who's idea that itchy, scratchy material was. Bus Eireann has a monopoly on the countryside and by god does it abuse that. Which brings me to my second issue with bus Eireann. You know the dinky orange signs you Dublin folk have to tell you when the bus is coming?

In the country, we don't have signs. We have faith. We spend hours every week oping that the 9am will arrive before half. When half comes
And hoes, we shrug, sigh and hope that the 10am will be on time. at night, We crane our necks at the Ha'Penny bridge, watching for the big neon 120 to loom out of the dusky dark of the city and carry us home. And when it does arrive, we rejoice! I have never once seen a bus Eireann passenger berate a driver for being late. Never once did I consider it myself, overcome with joy at seeing that bus arrive. Such is the complex relationship we culchies a have with our national bus service.

All this commuting was a holy terror, and to be frank, it got to me. I don't hate waiting in the cold for a bus, but I don't relish it either. No, what I really hate is running from a lecture (full-pelt, with open laces and a laptop) to my stop, praying that I haven't missed the bus. The infrequency of my bus drives me mad! So now, after a mere term of commuting, I have moved to Dublin. I've chosen junkies over waiting around and leap cards over ten-journey tickets. Though a small, slightly mental part of me will miss the banter of Bus Eireann, I'm mostly glad I won't have to hear the words "Setanta
House"* over a scratchy tannoy every day


*for the uninitiated: Setanta house is one of the few announced stops on my bus route. No one ever gets off there and it's a horrible halfway point between town and home. It's the most depressing place on earth.