<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265</id><updated>2011-08-13T16:59:28.008-07:00</updated><category term='streets'/><category term='bmore'/><category term='Free'/><category term='stories'/><category term='transit'/><category term='bus'/><category term='baltimore bus'/><category term='baltimore'/><category term='maryland'/><category term='Charm City'/><title type='text'>Charm City Bus Stories</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>36</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-1989923353030798189</id><published>2011-06-30T11:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-30T11:35:00.965-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='baltimore bus'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='transit'/><title type='text'>The Movie-Driver's Ed</title><content type='html'>I cried when they showed &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;The Movie&lt;/span&gt; in Driver's Ed class. &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;The Movie&lt;/span&gt; was this horror movie where they showed all these slow motion accidents with people flying out of moving car windows, getting smashed by trains because they tried to outrun the train, people falling asleep at the wheel and slamming into trucks, just horrible scenarios and it was real footage. Distracted drivers just mowing down people! And I tried to watch it and started to cry it was tooooo much. I cried quietly so I didn't embarrass myself. I read my book and put on the headphones. The people in the class were groaning and screeching, and ooohhing and oh shitting. Some covered their eyes. And the soundtrack was a sad, slow pop song about being in the arms of the angel.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Going home the bus is packed. A big dude is sitting in the front, he has an open can of beer, the tall kind, in a paper bag in one hand and in the other hand he has a small bottle of liquor like they give in airplanes of whiskey? vodka? rum? He is loud and laughing. He doles out unwanted, yucky,  salacious relationship advice to the bus riders.  Like nasty advice.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-1989923353030798189?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/1989923353030798189/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2011/06/movie-drivers-ed.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/1989923353030798189'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/1989923353030798189'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2011/06/movie-drivers-ed.html' title='The Movie-Driver&apos;s Ed'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-231313729371516198</id><published>2011-06-09T22:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-09T23:54:22.685-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='baltimore'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='bus'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='bmore'/><title type='text'>The Stench</title><content type='html'>I got on a relatively empty bus that smelled so bad. It smelled like if the Grim Reaper ate some three day old, left over, left out taco bell and then went out, got on the bus and farted a wet, nasty fart that had a life of it's own. Then Reaper got off the bus and left the offensive odor. I got on that bus. The doors shut ominously loud behind me.&lt;br /&gt;I panicked. The bus was going at a breakneck speed down the street. I had to hold on. I had to sit.  I had to get out! It was a Sunday, if I got off the bus the wait would  be 45 minutes, if I was lucky. &lt;br /&gt;I scrambled to this seat and then another one and all of it SMELLED bad. I finally sat and opened the window. The "fresh-ish" air helped. Malodor was my neighbor.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The smell permeated the seats, the walls. It wasn't a smell, more like a terrible stench of 40 days and 40 nights of living, eating, walking, sweating and not washing, and it smelled like piss dripped and dried and shit not washed out of cracks, and sweat forever more, and body odor, the nastiest, worst funk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A woman had a like one year old baby on her lap, the baby's head was tilted all the way back, downing the drink from her sippy cup.  Her head stayed back for so long it seemed unreal.  It couldn't be the baby that smelled that bad.  Nothing that came out of babies smelled like that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Someone sprayed perfume. Could you believe The STINK gobbled up the spray. Being close to the open window helped. At first I watched the range of emotions people had when the smell hit them. Some frowned, and shook their heads in disgust. Others made comments about nasty asses stinkin'.  They realized quickly though that if they opened their mouths too wide the STINK would try to get down their throats. I stopped looking at the people and opened the book I brought to read during that, my "Me" time on the bus. Somehow the wicked smell faded a bit. How could that be?&lt;br /&gt;The bus pulled up to my stop. People looked at me with envy because I was getting out of that smelly bus. I walked home slowly, thankful that the smell did not follow me. I relished in the colors and beauty of the changing to evening sky.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-231313729371516198?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/231313729371516198/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2011/06/stench.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/231313729371516198'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/231313729371516198'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2011/06/stench.html' title='The Stench'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-7070614317413222782</id><published>2011-06-05T04:32:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-05T12:23:18.622-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='baltimore'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='bus'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='bmore'/><title type='text'>"Glasses"</title><content type='html'>Driving class is going great. Tests every week and I'm getting 90's and 100's.&lt;br /&gt;Getting on the bus to class is where the action happens. I got on the bus and there is a hooded, youngish late teens, early twenties guy sitting in the front with bags all around him. He stares at people as they get on the bus. He gives me a look. A dude with suspenders and huge Erkel glasses gets on and sits across from the guy with the bags. The guy stares at the dude with the glasses with annoyance and exasperation. He mutters, "glasses" and "bald headed". The dude looks uncomfortable but doesn't look at the guy who is obviously talking about him.&lt;br /&gt;The homeless guy looks at me and sticks out his tongue. Not like in a nasty way, but like a first grader nya -nyaing his friend. I laughed out loud, it was so funny, such a strange gesture from a stranger. I did not stick my tongue out at him.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-7070614317413222782?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/7070614317413222782/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2011/06/driving-class-is-going-great.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7070614317413222782'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7070614317413222782'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2011/06/driving-class-is-going-great.html' title='&quot;Glasses&quot;'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-1594474663290654233</id><published>2011-05-08T01:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-08T01:20:26.631-07:00</updated><title type='text'>1st Week of Driver's Ed</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.proprofs.com/flashcards/upload/q2210634.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 300px;" src="http://www.proprofs.com/flashcards/upload/q2210634.jpg" alt="" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;style&gt;@font-face {   font-family: "Times New Roman"; }@font-face {   font-family: "Calibri"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times; }h1 { margin: 0in 0in 10pt; line-height: 115%; page-break-after: avoid; font-size: 14pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-weight: normal; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }&lt;/style&gt;    &lt;h1&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span lang="EN"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/h1&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: arial;"&gt;&lt;span style=";font-size:100%;" &gt;My mom learned to drive when she was in her forties. She surprised the whole family by presenting her new driver’s license to us while dancing around the living room with joy. My mom never danced around. She was so joyous that she passed. She didn’t tell anyone she was going to driving school. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: arial;"&gt;&lt;span style=";font-size:100%;" &gt;Being a native New Yorker I never felt the need to learn to drive. The subway system goes almost everywhere and in every direction and there are buses for the places the trains can’t take you. And of course there are four taxis to every person in New York City.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: arial;"&gt;&lt;span style=";font-size:100%;" &gt;My first day of driver’s ed I wait fifteen impatient minutes for the bus. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=";font-size:100%;" lang="EN" &gt;I get on the full, but not crowded bus and the only seat available is across the aisle from a laid out heroin/crack/meth addict. He is passed out and leaning on what looks like a large laundry sack in the seat next to him. He looks messed up with a large, red lump like a small horn on his forehead. His mouth is&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;hanging open. On the floor around him are large bags. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: arial;"&gt;&lt;span style=";font-size:100%;" lang="EN" &gt;The guy sits up like a zombie rising, his eyes don’t open. I see that the laundry bag was really a bent over woman in her own drug induced stupor. She is stooped over, bent in her seat. Her vividly dyed hair is the only thing alive and it is hanging over her face. The addict sways and falls back to the side and lays back down on the woman.&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: arial;"&gt;&lt;span style=";font-size:100%;" lang="EN" &gt;The bus makes a stop and folks get off. The man still in his haze calls for the bus driver to wait, he somehow realizes it is their stop. With wobbly legs he stands up. He coaxes the woman up. They pick up their belongings.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=";font-size:100%;" lang="EN" &gt; When they finally get to the backdoor we see that dude has pee all over the back of his shorts! There is an audible gasp and folks start mumbling about it. I am disgusted and shaking my head. The drugged up couple tumble out the door. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=";font-size:100%;" &gt;The class is fine. The driver’s ed the teacher is funny. She tells us little hilarious bits about her life and the other students and the dumb things they’ve done on the road. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=";font-size:100%;" &gt;There are folks of all ages and races in the class. The first lesson is a typical driver’s ed lesson with lots of information about a cars dashboard and what the gauges mean it is all interspersed with jokes from the teacher and laughter from the students. One student tells the teacher he drove to class alone.&lt;/span&gt; Everyone laughed at how illegal and stupid that was.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-1594474663290654233?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/1594474663290654233/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2011/05/1st-week-of-drivers-ed.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/1594474663290654233'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/1594474663290654233'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2011/05/1st-week-of-drivers-ed.html' title='1st Week of Driver&apos;s Ed'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-283719064503176392</id><published>2011-03-15T06:06:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-15T06:10:05.683-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Talk about a crowded bus!!</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/biggerpicture/images/gnbn/1_1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 357px; height: 380px;" src="http://www.bbc.co.uk/biggerpicture/images/gnbn/1_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Image from the BBC.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-283719064503176392?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/283719064503176392/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2011/03/talk-about-crowded-bus.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/283719064503176392'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/283719064503176392'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2011/03/talk-about-crowded-bus.html' title='Talk about a crowded bus!!'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-2618071218529300470</id><published>2011-01-17T20:22:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2011-01-17T20:44:12.594-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Rats</title><content type='html'>There is a viral video out that involves a rat in a subway car in NYC. The rat does something so yucky and terrible that I don't even  wanna repeat it. It reminds me of a Charm City bus experience with rats.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It is late one evening, I am waiting for the bus. There is a huge intersection in front of me and a large cemetery behind a large wall and high fence right behind me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The amount of rats I see is crazy. It is like a horror movie. Across the street in the parking lot of a Rite A the rats are playing freeze tag and using the little scratch of grass and dirt as their personal playground. 1, 2, 3 and 4 come out of a hole and chase each other around. They run into the middle of the street and scramble back on the sidewalk. They go in a hole and 1, 2, 3, 4,5, 6,7 come out and start running around. A cat comes out from behind the tree watching them it does nothing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No sign of the bus.&lt;br /&gt;Across the street where I am standing I am shaking in my shoes. I eyeball the sewer drain, the filled to the top garbage can near me. And a few minutes later I hear the rustling. A lady who is at the bus stop also makes a noise and moves away. I move without even looking and when I look there they are 1, 2, 3 running up and into the garbage can! TAXI!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-2618071218529300470?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/2618071218529300470/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2011/01/rats.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/2618071218529300470'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/2618071218529300470'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2011/01/rats.html' title='Rats'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-8345258142203175987</id><published>2010-10-04T09:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-06T16:08:13.494-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='baltimore'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='bus'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='streets'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Charm City'/><title type='text'>Barefoot</title><content type='html'>It was one of the last very hot, muggy days and the grease on folks heads was frying their scalps at the bus stop where we were waiting for the always late, always crowded bus. The air in the streets bent like mirages. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A woman came walking down the street without any shoes on her feet, yet she carried a pair of men's boots in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. It was hot but she was barely dressed, wearing only a sleeveless longish shirt, her copper colored weave was dusty and matted. She had the most beautiful midnight complexion but her eyes were gone not seeing reality at all. She looked newly initiated into the world of heroin or crack. She still had fat on her and she wasn't stooped. I stared at her openly, everyone stared at her and made commentary. The older women shook their heads and the teenagers giggled and took pictures with their phones.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-8345258142203175987?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/8345258142203175987/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2010/10/barefoot.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/8345258142203175987'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/8345258142203175987'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2010/10/barefoot.html' title='Barefoot'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-9200301488551957014</id><published>2010-09-07T16:37:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-09-07T16:44:16.269-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Child mama</title><content type='html'>Today a pregnant teenage girl got on the bus. She looked well into the pregnancy about six months. She got a seat in the front. In one hand she held a mountain dew in the other an unlit, but already smoked cigarette stayed between her fingers. She spoke to another girl who asked about her OTHER child. She said that child was with her grandmother of course. She hoped she was having a boy this time so she wouldn't have two heads to braid.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-9200301488551957014?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/9200301488551957014/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2010/09/child-mama.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/9200301488551957014'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/9200301488551957014'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2010/09/child-mama.html' title='Child mama'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-7728388549092825473</id><published>2010-08-12T14:56:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-09-01T15:23:41.113-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='baltimore'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='bus'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Free'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Charm City'/><title type='text'>Free Bus</title><content type='html'>A new free bus is running around the touristy spots of the city. The buses are "green" but the most important thing about them is they are free! And they don't smell like pee or beer. The brakes don't screech. The seats are clean, for now anyways.  If they came on time they would be so convenient. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;By the frothy green water of The Harbor a large crane and several construction workers took down the huge ESPN Zone sign. The sports themed restaurant went belly up(ha!). It closed. Another empty building. It's like so many structures in the city.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There was a large group of about fifteen people walking towards the Science Center. The women, of various ages all had the same peachy complexion. Their blondish hair was pulled back and they wore some type of small blue cap over their buns.  They all had on the same white and light pastel patterned starched matronly dress. The pastels were in blues, pinks and yellows.  One of the older women carried a brown baby girl in a back pack. The baby was sleeping and they adjusted the baby's position in the pack. The two women looked just like the other. &lt;div&gt;The men and boys all wore short sleeved, buttoned down,  dress shirts and dark polyester looking dress pants. A white child held the hand of a little brown child my daughters age. The boys wore small versions of what the men wore. An older boy held an Asian toddler's hand. Some of the men had dark hair and there was an old geezer with a small straw hat. He had an all white beard and mustache and plaid shirt. Who were these people?&lt;br /&gt;They were quiet as they walked to the ticket counter. Why were they dressed like folks from Little House on the Prairie? I wondered who the children of color were. Were they adopted? Members of their church?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A tatted shirtless man ran for the bus and the bus driver refused to open the door even though he made it. She said something about his &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;shirtlessness&lt;/span&gt; and he yelled he had just come out of central booking. He walked quickly down the block.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Eavesdropped on a woman on the bus breaking up with her child's father on her cell phone. She kept telling him to "shut the f--- up!"  She told him she wouldn't make the mistake of falling for him again. And don't call her mother and she won't call his mother. And the 300 dollars you give her a month is a joke. She was cold!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-7728388549092825473?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/7728388549092825473/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2010/08/free-bus.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7728388549092825473'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7728388549092825473'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2010/08/free-bus.html' title='Free Bus'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-6154982122862844779</id><published>2010-05-17T10:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-05-17T11:00:25.131-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Band Aid over a bullet hole</title><content type='html'>Someone took down the helium balloons and the pictures of the shooting victim that were on a light pole near the scene of the killing. A small memorial to the young life taken over a stupid argument in a fast food place where folks get their chicken boxes and fried lake trout sandwiches. They took the fight outside and that was the end.&lt;br /&gt;The wreath is still there and the newest thing are all the police. Several cop cars patrol the streets and stand by their vehicles with lights swirling. A warning to anyone thinking about doing something illegal. I heard a bus driver say the other day all this attention now, is just a band aid over a bullet hole. He said the crime will just move to another area and then come back when the cops are gone and the tragedy is forgotten.&lt;br /&gt;Not far from the gas station is a chinese food joint where an elder who was grabbing something to eat before work was robbed and killed. Another life lost for what?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-6154982122862844779?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/6154982122862844779/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2010/05/band-aid-over-bullet-hole.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/6154982122862844779'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/6154982122862844779'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2010/05/band-aid-over-bullet-hole.html' title='Band Aid over a bullet hole'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-7839746720858122559</id><published>2010-04-02T12:53:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-04-04T21:23:06.323-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='baltimore'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='bus'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='maryland'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='stories'/><title type='text'>Distractions</title><content type='html'>I saw a bus driver who was very distracted. Was he texting? I kept trying to peek&lt;br /&gt;and see what he was doing. I happily hopped off the bus. Folks were getting on as I was getting off and I couldn't look at what he had been doing.&lt;br /&gt;I think they just made it illegal for people who drive buses and big rigs to text. They also get fined.  The bus driver was looking down and to the left during the red lights, mostly. I stood up when he was looking down while traffic was moving, slowly, but moving nonetheless.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Once I got on the bus and the driver was arranging a date with someone on his cell phone. He was charming, he sweet talked her, he was very suggestive. The passengers who overheard him were raising eyebrows. Stop after bus stop he continued to talk to her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I also got on the bus and there were three middle aged folks sitting in front of me. I could see one of the guy's tattoos over his shirt collar. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I listened to their strange conversation. The strangest part was when one of the guys talked about how the cops busted in on him while he was shooting up. The bleached blonde woman next to him was nodding as the man relayed his story to the tattooed neck guy. The druggie was like he peed in his "diaper" cause the cops who arrested him wouldn't let him use the bathroom. These folks were having this conversation on a crowded bus during the daylight hours with no sense of shame or embarrassment. The bus driver kept looking back at them with disgust on her face. The guy said he was pissed cause he missed some game that was on. They went on about their strange horrible lives and I listened in surprise and shock.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I can hear the music from your headphones OVER the music of my headphones your music is LOUD.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-7839746720858122559?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/7839746720858122559/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2010/04/distractions.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7839746720858122559'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7839746720858122559'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2010/04/distractions.html' title='Distractions'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-1632164631405195807</id><published>2009-12-27T04:44:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-01T11:10:24.588-08:00</updated><title type='text'>reading</title><content type='html'>Today on the bus was almost surreal. There was a beautiful afternoon light. It was practically empty and quiet except for the roar of the bus engine and the droning computer voice telling of the stops, telling us to be aware of suspicious packages and telling us that it is for our safety and COMFORT we are being monitored by camera. Anyways, I looked around and the five people on the bus were all reading. I was reading the Alchemist. A young woman looked like a student, she was reading a textbook, a guy was reading a newspaper. A homeless looking guy was in the front. He was a mountain of a man. He had his pants rolled up to his knees. He was holding up a book and reading it. He had garbage bag belongings. His legs looked swollen and raw. The one leg was bandaged in many places. He had sores on his thick trunk like legs. He rubbed his sore legs.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-1632164631405195807?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/1632164631405195807/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/12/reading.html#comment-form' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/1632164631405195807'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/1632164631405195807'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/12/reading.html' title='reading'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-3830465434699080425</id><published>2009-12-07T16:47:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-27T04:43:26.194-08:00</updated><title type='text'>In the aisles</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://danadouglaswalker.com/2_SharedImages/Excel/Excel-Walker-400-x-400.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://danadouglaswalker.com/2_SharedImages/Excel/Excel-Walker-400-x-400.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today on the way home I just missed the bus, I knew the wait would be super long, it was about 20 minutes. I waited inside the fish fry place and got some fries. The place was jam packed with folks getting their chicken boxes. The pepper shakers are chained to the wall. In the bathroom the toilet paper is chained to the wall too. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Outside the spot this dude says to me, "Sista, can you give the original man 45 cents." He acted as if he were waiting for the bus and yet Original man didn't get on the bus after someone gave him the money. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The bus was crazy crowded, no room to even squeeze to the back. And then a woman with a walker, the kind that she could sit on, got on the bus. For a moment I had someone's backpack in my lap. That walker was a bulky thing. The already sardined people needed to part so she could get in with her grandson who was like eight or nine. The elder sat down and the bulky thing sat in the aisle. No one could get through. It didn't fold! People were almost hanging out the front door while the bus still stopped at all stops picking people up. Her grandson sat in the thing. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A young lady was sitting at the window next to the elder. She was having an intense conversation with the woman. I don't think they knew each other. It seemed she was on her way to visit someone she knew in prison. Catching just snippets of their convo. She maybe knew the guy who was at the bus stop asking for money. I heard her say she told some guy that he was a loser. She also had a baby in day care. &lt;br /&gt;The bus slowly emptied out. When I got off the bus the young lady was still talking. The elder was able to move the walker so folks could move on to the back.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-3830465434699080425?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/3830465434699080425/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/12/in-aisles.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/3830465434699080425'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/3830465434699080425'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/12/in-aisles.html' title='In the aisles'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-3175566429498172206</id><published>2009-12-06T07:01:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-08T16:10:20.682-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The F-ing Baby!</title><content type='html'>D told me the other day when he was on the bus three young girls got on, all of them had a baby. There were no seats. One of the girls walked down the aisle, pointing at the people on the bus like they were sucka MC's and said, "I know on this crowded ass bus that someone gonna get up for the fucking baby!" A guy stood up quick with his arm up! D said the guy stood up like a benched player at a basketball game finally asked by the coach to play. &lt;br /&gt;"Over here ma!" He gave her the seat and started to rhyme about how hard it was out there. He rapped about the streets, his friends, his girls and his life out loud the rest of his bus trip. Some of it was freestyle and some was rehearsed.  I asked D if the guy had skills, he said the guy seemed motivated,  not ready for a record deal yet, but if he put his time in he might be able to do something with his talent.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-3175566429498172206?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/3175566429498172206/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/12/f-ing-baby.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/3175566429498172206'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/3175566429498172206'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/12/f-ing-baby.html' title='The F-ing Baby!'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-7575329529496630739</id><published>2009-12-05T08:12:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-08T15:59:48.980-08:00</updated><title type='text'>How to get on the bus</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The wait&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Since there is never a line formed as people wait for the bus, try to let the people who were waiting longer than you get on before. This is a silent agreement between the folks waiting on the bus. Some people break this silent agreement and cut in front of the line.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes if the bus stop is very crowded you will have to just claim a spot. It is civil enough. I have never seen folks fight about it, though it sometimes gets tense.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is no single spot you can stand and know the bus will stop directly there. It depends on the driver. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you are waiting at the bus stop alone never wait by the actual bus stop sign, that is a sure way to get the bus to drive right by you. Instead, when you see the bus finally coming try to make eye contact w/the bus driver through the window and nod.  You can always wave like crazy to get the bus driver’s attention, not too maniacal or they won’t want to pick you up. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Do not read the arrival times posted at the bus stop to get an accurate idea about what time the bus is going to come. The buses come five minutes to half an hour of the time posted. A book to read or electronic distractions are highly recommended.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes two or three buses will come at the same time, go to the third bus because that bus will have the least people in it and will probably be the best smelling.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On the bus&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's a 50-50 chance the fare box will be broken. You don't have to pay. Take it as a tiny little gift.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The fare box likes to eat nice, crisp dollar bills. If your quarters have lint they will be spat out and then you have to stick your finger into a dusty wayward coin catching box and redeposit your change. Don't be like some people who put twenty pennies in fare box.&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;$3.50 buys you a full day of passage on the rolling circus called the MTA.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When you get on the bus you might have an easy time- not too crowded- a smattering of seats. Don’t take a seat next to anyone talking/singing to themselves, talking on a cell phone, leaning over or wrapped in a cloud of funk like Pig Pen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If the bus is super crowded- suck in your butt, suck in your gut, hold your purse and say “excuse me” as you squeeze through all the people crowded in the front part of the bus. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hold the pole so you don’t fall. Keep your balance like an urban surfer.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you happen to find an empty seat towards the front of the bus give it up if a person with a baby, elderly person, handicapped person, pregnant woman get on the bus and there are no seats. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Usually you will find a seat in the very back where the guys with the tattoos on their faces sit.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ring the bell by pushing the yellow tape or by pulling the cord to get the bus to stop at your bus stop. Do it as the bus pulls out of the last bus stop. Your timing must be impeccable-if you ring the bell too soon it won’t register for the next stop, if you do it too late the driver will assume no one wants that stop and pass your bus stop right by. If the bell doesn’t work yell, “Next Stop!” at the top of your lungs.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-7575329529496630739?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/7575329529496630739/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/12/how-to-get-on-bus.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7575329529496630739'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7575329529496630739'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/12/how-to-get-on-bus.html' title='How to get on the bus'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-1121471575717706638</id><published>2009-11-30T15:43:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-05T07:48:00.219-08:00</updated><title type='text'>On the bus today</title><content type='html'>On the bus this morning I heard a man renewing his Xanax prescription. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went to the ATM  and waited behind a woman. she finished and walked away leaving her card in the machine. &lt;br /&gt;When I went to the ATM and the machine was telling me to "return card" or "continue with another transaction" I pressed return card and called after the woman and told her she left her card. She came and got her card and just looked done. Did she even say thank you. She might have been super embarrassed. The woman waiting behind me acted like nothing odd just happened. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Coming home took so long. We waited half an hour for the bus! And yes it was "rush hour".  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I saw my dream car (faded denim blue, old school VW bug) which made me happy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Otherwise, it was a long, dreary rainy whiny wait.  The freaking bus finally came. The annoyed driver told a wobbly, drunk man to wait as he tried to get out of the bus while we were getting on. He stood in the middle of the bus and yelled, "You want me to get out the backdoor! You want me to go out the backdoor, huh!" He started to get off at the back door and yelled, "You wanted me to get out at the backdoor right!" &lt;br /&gt;The people on the bus were laughing at the man. I was glad I wasn't on the bus earlier because it seemed like he might have been entertaining the bus riders with drunk antics.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-1121471575717706638?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/1121471575717706638/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/on-bus-today.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/1121471575717706638'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/1121471575717706638'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/on-bus-today.html' title='On the bus today'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-7040970872327683819</id><published>2009-11-20T15:07:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-08T16:25:04.942-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Finally! The End-Driving Permit Part 5 ( scroll down. start at part 1)</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.plexusowls.com/photos/albums/mammals/Queensland%20mammals%202005/normal_P1020739%20kangaroo%20crossing%20road%20sign.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 375px;" src="http://www.plexusowls.com/photos/albums/mammals/Queensland%20mammals%202005/normal_P1020739%20kangaroo%20crossing%20road%20sign.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I finally went to pick up my driving permit. I had worked so hard for it. The wait at the dmv was the same. The computer voice droned out E23 and then H5, A22 in her robotic voice. &lt;br /&gt;They were at G16 and I was G43! I was so sick of that place, I didn't even want to be in there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I left and I went shopping at the Target next door. I planned to spend 25 minutes out. I spent forty five minutes shopping! Got slippers for every member of the family and picked up some really cute tops on the Mossino clearance rack. I overheard the workers gossiping to each other. There was a constant beeping sound from the walkie-talkies they all carried. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I saw a gay couple with a baby. The baby was in a car seat in the cart. They argued  about if they should feed the baby in the car or at the cafe.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was nervous that the dmv might have been close to my number and semi rushed back. &lt;br /&gt;They were at G34. I sat next to a mom and son to my right, and an elderly man with shiny white hair to my left. &lt;br /&gt;He immediately started to make small talk. He was perplexed about the way the numbers were coming up. He looked like he was in his fifties. He said, "I hope our health care doesn't get like this. Can you imagine?" I looked at the mostly unsmiling women behind their desks helping the customers. He went on to tell me about a woman in Russia who was in labor and the nurse on shift, whose shift was over, saw the head of the baby and left the woman because it was time for her to go home. The baby had the cord around her neck! "That's not the kind of health care I want." The guys said. I was so disturbed by the story.   Was it even true? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I said, "I never heard that. Did that really happen? Who does that? I mean you would have to be crazy to leave a woman in labor like that!" I said. It could not be true.&lt;br /&gt;"Yes, can you imagine what type of person she is? She has no morals." He said. &lt;br /&gt;I really wanted to get to my book. I started to read. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He said, "I'm glad no one is coughing in here. I guess it's not flu season yet." Mind you swine flu was in full piggy effect. &lt;br /&gt;"It actually is flu season."&lt;br /&gt;"Oh is it.  It's pretty packed in here." The chatty man said. I smiled politely.&lt;br /&gt;"I'm F24 and there at F12, but they just said C47. I could not come up with a system like this. It is too smart for me." The man said. &lt;br /&gt;I put the book down and took a deep breath.&lt;br /&gt;The mother on my other side commented on the number system too. Her son said something to her and he pointed to a guy being helped by one of the drones. The mom consoled her son who was so distraught and offended at the way the guy up there chose to carry himself. He stared and shook his head as the young man went through the process of getting his pic taken.&lt;br /&gt;I wondered why it mattered how the person lived their life. This kid seemed so terribly bothered by something that wasn't even his business.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I saw two men with tattoos on their faces. One guy was maybe in his early 40's, he had two hearts and the other, was a young man who had tear drops right below his eyes. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A man sitting behind me was talking on his phone. &lt;br /&gt;"Do you give jobs to ex offenders?"&lt;br /&gt;"OK good. I had spoken to someone who told me to give y'all a call."&lt;br /&gt;"Uh, Can I speak to Rib?"&lt;br /&gt;I guess Rib got on the phone because he started his shpeel. &lt;br /&gt;He said, "My pee is clean. I work hard, I just need a chance."&lt;br /&gt;I guess Rib gave him a chance because he said "OK 9:00. Should I tell them Rib sent me?"&lt;br /&gt;"Thank you."  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We all groaned when K1 was added in the mix. Towards the end of my wait the computer voice called G40, 41, 42 in succession. She called an F and then my number. This lady behind her desk didn't make eye contact and smiled, she was distracted by her pink pearly phone that she glanced at as she reached for a paper and picked up the phone and text-ed as we waited for the permit to print.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-7040970872327683819?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/7040970872327683819/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/driving-permit-5.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7040970872327683819'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7040970872327683819'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/driving-permit-5.html' title='Finally! The End-Driving Permit Part 5 ( scroll down. start at part 1)'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-201336180567781031</id><published>2009-11-18T06:28:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-08T16:12:39.811-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Driving Permit  Part 4</title><content type='html'>I went back to take my permit test again! I studied the driving manual and took the online tutorials like four times. A lady on the bus told me to study the questions about the alcohol and the road signs. She was right. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The dmv was packed but I went straight to the test room. Right outside the testing room door it says "STOP you must not Enter until you are called."  You are supposed to disregard that sign and just walk in. There were a few others there. I was put on computer four. One, two and three were taken. I took a deep breath.  I started and I knew all the answers, then there were two question that I was 75% sure of so I skipped those for later. I finished the rest of the test in a few minutes. Before I could answer the skipped questions, the test ended and said I passed! Green all the way. The three others who were on their computers were still taking their test.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had to work not to do the football touch down dance. I sat down and waited for my results to print out. I saw myself driving. I saw the car, me behind the wheel. I was a step closer. No more 30 minute waits, no more wasted freakin time waiting and waiting. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I saw the red rectangle of failure pop up for everyone of those other people who failed the test. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The elder behind the desk had a cloud like white afro and fluffy beard. He had a sprinkle of dark moles on his face. He  called folks by name and told them they passed or failed. Like we could not read that on the screen. Like some of us weren't cursing ourselves for getting three wrong. He told them when they could return. One guy could not come back for a week that meant he failed twice.  &lt;br /&gt;He finally called me. He asked me if I wanted to pick up my permit today. Of course. I said. Not knowing the wait the was before me! &lt;br /&gt;He handed me a slip of paper. Another receipt with bar code. I was B29 when I went back to the waiting room they were at B9. I waited and texted. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A middle aged father with a baseball cap and his pimply faced kid sat breathlessly next to me. The father had the driving book and was quizzing the son. I gave them the same advice the woman on the bus gave me, study the alcohol and the road signs. The father looked through the driving manual for info about driving and alcohol.&lt;br /&gt;"The stuff about the drinking and driving is in the other book." I told them.&lt;br /&gt;"Another book! There's another book? There's no other book." &lt;br /&gt;"Yep and on the test there were at least five questions from that book. You won't find anything about drinking and driving in that one."  He looked at the table of contents, he flipped through the book. I was reading my book and looking at them. The father finally got up to find the other book.&lt;br /&gt;The son asked me questions. He said he hadn't studied anything. &lt;br /&gt;They were called. And finally it was my turn.&lt;br /&gt;An unsmiling woman took my receipt and scanned it. She typed for a while and then said, "How will you paying for that?"&lt;br /&gt;And silly me said, "How much is the permit?"&lt;br /&gt;"Fifty dollars."&lt;br /&gt;"Oh! Wow, I didn't know their was a charge...I didn't bring....I never saw anything about a charge."&lt;br /&gt;The next customer was already waiting behind the chair I was sitting in.&lt;br /&gt;The unsmiling woman handed me the receipt.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-201336180567781031?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/201336180567781031/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/driving-permit-4.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/201336180567781031'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/201336180567781031'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/driving-permit-4.html' title='Driving Permit  Part 4'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-6490171723753961105</id><published>2009-11-13T13:29:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-08T16:34:37.220-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Driving Permit  Part 3</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i.ehow.com/images/GlobalPhoto/Articles/4832132/200984sign4stop_Full.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://i.ehow.com/images/GlobalPhoto/Articles/4832132/200984sign4stop_Full.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had more than enough proofs of everything! We used a jury summons, bank statement, I had my student loan, cable bill, phone bill. I was so relieved and I was given a receipt with a letter and number. It wasn't too crowded.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A computerized voice called out letters and numbers. She said G5, I was F33? The computerized lady said A23, G23 and finally F17.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was slightly anxious. For fifteen minutes they didn't call F anything. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There were 28 numbered booths lined up. Behind the desks unsmiling women helped anxious folks. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In front of me A group of very young looking girls with two babies, one baby was  being held by a girl who looked 14. She had a front pouch but held the baby. The baby was little little baby with a blue blanket. The other baby, a twin? Was in a car seat on the metal bench we sat on.  She had her friends helping her. &lt;br /&gt;One of the friends sang, "Babies having babies." In a loud voice.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;A woman in business attire walked by, her friend came out of the testing room. &lt;br /&gt;"I failed!"&lt;br /&gt;"Oh no!"&lt;br /&gt;"I can come back and retake the test tomorrow. I got a 16 out of 20. Missed it by one. I don't know what is wrong with me."&lt;br /&gt;Too bad. I thought.&lt;br /&gt;When they finally called me, I was ready. I smiled at the unsmiling woman behind the desk. there was this black binocular looking contraption on the desk and a computer screen. As the woman typed my information I was supposed to read the screen and make sure she was putting in the right information. She gestured to the binocular thing. Time for my eye test. I guessed. I looked in it without touching it with my face. &lt;br /&gt;"I don't see anything."&lt;br /&gt;"Mumble mumble."&lt;br /&gt;"Ugh I have to touch that thing."&lt;br /&gt;There was a white strip and as I leaned my forehead on it i saw the familiar eye chart letters. I was distracted about the fact that thousands of pimply foreheads were at one time on that thing. I read the last line and passed the test. I wiped my forehead with a baby wipe.&lt;br /&gt;"Mumble, mumble." &lt;br /&gt;"Time for my picture?"&lt;br /&gt;I put my chair against a the blue wall and I'm not sure what my face did. Flash and over.&lt;br /&gt;She handed me the papers and pointed to the right.&lt;br /&gt;"Should I go now? Over there?"&lt;br /&gt;"Mumble mumble!"&lt;br /&gt;I found the testing room. A row of desks and computers. Another line. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The woman makes eye contact and speaks clearly. She takes my papers types and types something into a computer and hands my papers to someone else who looks at my paper and types on the on the computer. He says my name and says computer 3.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The computer was a touch screen. I knew the first ten and then I had to skip four questions and when I went back to them I got the first wrong, the second right. The I got the big red rectangle! 16 out of 20! &lt;br /&gt;I failed. &lt;br /&gt;I didn't know the hand signal for left turn! FAIL! Go back to the beginning.&lt;br /&gt;I sat down with a group of others on school like desks. Some folks looked dejected like me! I failed by one dang question. A woman who was taking the test at a computer stands up and raises both arms in a victory sign. &lt;br /&gt;"Yes!" She yells in the quiet room.&lt;br /&gt;F you lady. Dang show off.&lt;br /&gt;How could I fail? I remembered the questions and wrote them down on the driving manual that I should have read more thoroughly. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went home and I took the test online, i read the manual and got 19's and 20's on the on line test. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I felt so dumb. The woman called my name and handed me my papers. She said I could come back the next day. &lt;br /&gt;I could only shake my head and take the papers.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-6490171723753961105?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/6490171723753961105/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/driving-permit-3.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/6490171723753961105'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/6490171723753961105'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/driving-permit-3.html' title='Driving Permit  Part 3'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-8505487480377386915</id><published>2009-11-11T14:28:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-11-11T15:13:25.942-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Overheard</title><content type='html'>I sat behind two middle aged women. The one closest to the window was talking about Jack. Jack finally died from a heart attack. They spoke of his and his families drinking problem and how Jack was constantly driving drunk! He was caught once! He was so drunk once he couldn't walk. &lt;br /&gt;Next they spoke of another woman they both knew who died of a brain aneurysm. The woman closest to to the window said she had one and went to JHopkins for her surgery. She said she really bothered the hospital because she wanted THE top surgeon in the world Ben Carson. She said they told her he was out of the country for two weeks and she said "and you know what, I waited till he came back. That was five years ago." &lt;br /&gt;Nothing in the woman's demeanor gave away what she has gone through.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-8505487480377386915?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/8505487480377386915/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/overheard.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/8505487480377386915'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/8505487480377386915'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/overheard.html' title='Overheard'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-4198652351321126311</id><published>2009-11-11T14:21:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-11-20T10:52:41.861-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>On the bus I got on with a woman with a sleeping baby and stroller. The baby had his head on her shoulder. The bus was packed, she stood in the front with the baby her whole ride. There were young people and there were people with canes sitting. One girl looked up and looked back down. A young man was sitting down, he looked fine. I didn't say anything. Was it my place? I squeezed my way to the back of the bus.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-4198652351321126311?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/4198652351321126311/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/on-bus-i-got-on-with-woman-with.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/4198652351321126311'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/4198652351321126311'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/on-bus-i-got-on-with-woman-with.html' title=''/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-8520634673383675832</id><published>2009-11-01T14:27:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-11-11T14:28:26.883-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Mask</title><content type='html'>Lady with the medical face mask, is that for us or to protect you?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-8520634673383675832?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/8520634673383675832/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/mask.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/8520634673383675832'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/8520634673383675832'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/mask.html' title='Mask'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-7425527791365419909</id><published>2009-10-28T12:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-11-23T15:21:39.226-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Driving Permit Part 2</title><content type='html'>I went the social security department to get a new social security card. The service was quick and efficient. When you enter the waiting room there is a computer with large colorful buttons on a touch screen. &lt;br /&gt;THE REASON FOR YOUR VISIT&lt;br /&gt;Appointment&lt;br /&gt;Lost Card/replacement&lt;br /&gt;New Card Application&lt;br /&gt;Other&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two things though, in the waiting room the chairs were not facing the window where the customer service people helped folks. I guess they don't want to see the bored and anxious, annoyed faces of the patrons. &lt;br /&gt;I had to really push myself to go. I had both girls and I was going to be on a long bus ride and then a significant walk in a strange neighborhood. It was a warm day and it was a very busy area, no trees. Zooming cars it was not made for walkers. &lt;br /&gt;A hefty man with beautiful long locks helped me. He was quick. &lt;br /&gt;We saw a work desk that went up and down instead of the chair.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We waited for the bus to take us back home in front of a BMW car sales lot. Finally the bus came after 15 minutes. In front of us, zipping zooming cars. Finally an accordion bus. We got on and the bus smelled like sulfur, like one of those stink bombs that kids would let off in the hall way at school. We sat down. I said Phew! The man next to me said- that's what hell smells like. Another man walked by and said-it smells like a perm. Folks acted normal to the smell that dissipated as the bus drove on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My card came a week later. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went back to DMV with new social security card, mail from the social security department, passport, mail from my bank.&lt;br /&gt;A woman who yelled -NEXT helped me. She seemed almost happy to tell me I did not have enough identification. She said with the social security letter I needed the actual envelope too! I did not bring any bills! Why didn't I bring a bill. I really thought it was enough.&lt;br /&gt;I searched my purse for something, nothing!&lt;br /&gt;I was so upset!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-7425527791365419909?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/7425527791365419909/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/driving-permit-2.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7425527791365419909'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7425527791365419909'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/driving-permit-2.html' title='Driving Permit Part 2'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-129093863530934691</id><published>2009-10-21T05:28:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-11-14T12:40:26.064-08:00</updated><title type='text'>My Driving Permit Part 1</title><content type='html'>Today went to get my driving permit. &lt;br /&gt;I had my social security card (which I laminated when I was 18 years old), a passport, bank statement, and other pieces of mail. I waited on the short line that was held together by faux velvet dividers. All types of people on the line. Finally it was my turn. My social security card was laminated! A laminated social is not acceptable it says so right here. I asked for a scissor. I cut the edge of the shiny card and as I peeled it I saw it was tearing the card. I could not pass go!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-129093863530934691?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/129093863530934691/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/my-driving-permit.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/129093863530934691'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/129093863530934691'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/my-driving-permit.html' title='My Driving Permit Part 1'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-3868665376914068779</id><published>2009-10-16T01:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-16T01:26:01.528-07:00</updated><title type='text'>memo to the drunk/high guy dancing</title><content type='html'>To: The drunk/high man dancing in the rain at the bus stop&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;From:Me&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;RE: Dancing Drunk in the Street&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know the music coming out of the fish fry place was bumping, but outside, in the cold rain, with no umbrella is just not the place to be dancing, especially dancing like a toddler with ZERO rhythm.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I also wanted to comment on the fact that tumbling into the street with its moving cars and trucks could have gotten you very hurt, yet you kept dancing even as all of us transit riders gasped. I was worried for you dude. A good guy took you by your arm and helped you out of the street and you were clueless and still dancing. You were feeling good, huh, but you already had bandages on one side of your head, you don't want any more hurts. So, why not go home, turn up the radio and boogie your heart out there. Also everyone was laughing at you AND someone was video taping you on their Iphone so you will either wind up on You Tube or AFV.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-3868665376914068779?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/3868665376914068779/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/memo-to-drunkhigh-guy-dancing.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/3868665376914068779'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/3868665376914068779'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/memo-to-drunkhigh-guy-dancing.html' title='memo to the drunk/high guy dancing'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-6916061373868265208</id><published>2009-10-11T10:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-16T02:47:20.198-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Dear Transit Autority Letter 2</title><content type='html'>Dear Transit Authority&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why do you have all those cameras on the bus if you are not even gonna try to catch the dude who pees by the back doors. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sincerely,&lt;br /&gt;Transit Rider&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-6916061373868265208?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/6916061373868265208/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/dear-bus-company-letter-2.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/6916061373868265208'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/6916061373868265208'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/dear-bus-company-letter-2.html' title='Dear Transit Autority Letter 2'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-7234380784216207846</id><published>2009-10-11T00:51:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-11T01:48:23.048-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Bus Etiquette</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;Always&lt;/span&gt; get up for people, not just women but people carrying babies and children.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;Always&lt;/span&gt; get up for a pregnant woman. And if you are not sure then just get up without making a comment about her impending delivery date. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been seeing a lot of folks not getting up for the above mentioned. Get the hell up lazy bones. Why T H do you need to sit so bad so you can get to your destination and sit some more. Maybe watch TV or type into your all important cell phone computers.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And of course make sure you get up for old people, handicapped folks, blind, drunk (cause you don't want them falling on you if the bus makes a sudden stop). &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;F it just stand.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-7234380784216207846?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/7234380784216207846/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/bus-etiquette.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7234380784216207846'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7234380784216207846'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/bus-etiquette.html' title='Bus Etiquette'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-3567404793526676562</id><published>2009-10-10T07:36:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-16T02:50:47.342-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Blind Woman and her toddler</title><content type='html'>2008&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Blind Woman and her toddler &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A black Labrador seeing-eye dog guides a blind woman into the sing along story-time at this library around my way. The woman has a toddler in a carrier on her back. He looks at us and waves. She seems familiar with the layout. There are tables pushed against a wall. Her fingers trail the tables as the dog guides her through the rec room. Women and children open up the circle for them. She sits on the floor and takes the toddler out of the backpack.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mamas, dads, nanas and nannies sit on a blue, alphabet mat with sweet, chubby babies on our laps. Several of the children refuse to sit still and are being chased. The story-time lady gives everyone rattles to make music with. She forgets the lyrics to "We're going to Kentucky."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The blind woman’s little boy has a monkey backpack with a leash attached to it. He keeps having to be pulled back away from the crates of colorful scarves and furry animal puppets that he can see. She tries to hold him while singing, "Are you sleeping". &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Her baby sits for a moment and he gets squirmy again. He has bells on the back of his sandals so she can keep auditory tabs on him.&lt;br /&gt;The child next to the beautiful, shiny black seeing eye dog is playing with it's tail. It does not react. The dog lays heavy on the mat waiting for her next task. The children pet him, some avoid him as we march around in a circle. The mom stays to the side and marches in place leaving the dog in the center.&lt;br /&gt;At the end of the story-time a few of us are left gathering our children and talking. The blind mom comments on her son missing his nap the day before. This gets us all into a lively toddler sleep deprivation discussion. She gathers her son and herself to leave. I stay behind as my daughter climbs up and down and up and down a few steps and stands next to her toddler friends.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I sometimes find it challenging to leave the house with my own toddler. There are diapers with changing pad and snacks, wipes, entertainment, stroller, change of clothes, juice, book. Then your own keys, phone, bag, money, jacket... Then the getting changed and dressed and shoes on....I tried to imagine what she dealt with doing it as a blind person. Leaving the house has to be an act of daily courage. Could I be that brave in my everyday life?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wondered how she got to the story-time. Then one day I saw her waiting for the light to change, toddler on her back and her seeing-eye dog very attentive as cars and buses rumble passed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I saw her again recently, this time walking with just the walking stick and her toddler. He had the same monkey backpack with the leash attached. They walked up the block to the bus stop where I was. They turned the corner as a bus pulled up. Her child said, "Bus mommy."&lt;br /&gt;She said, "Already?"&lt;br /&gt;I said, "It's a 22 bus."&lt;br /&gt;"That's what I need."She said. &lt;br /&gt;The bus driver lowered the bus steps for her to get on easier. She picked up her son and put him on. She stepped in and up and then went in her pocket for change. Doors close. My older daughter and her friend who had witnessed the two were staring at the departing bus. Then they looked at each other in amazement and said, "Whoa!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then I see her again at the supermarket. She was pushing a stroller and was carrying a basket. There was a somber looking worker walking with her. I heard her say, "sweet potatoes".&lt;br /&gt;I wonder if he will help her pick good produce.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-3567404793526676562?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/3567404793526676562/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/blnd-woman-and-her-toddler.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/3567404793526676562'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/3567404793526676562'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/blnd-woman-and-her-toddler.html' title='Blind Woman and her toddler'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-7034381226491138478</id><published>2009-10-10T06:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-11T00:43:51.703-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Dialyisis</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://phillyist.com/attachments/philly_star/0813Septabus.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://phillyist.com/attachments/philly_star/0813Septabus.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I took the crowded bus after work. It is filled with students and regular folks. I could walk the ten blocks but seriously after a full day of work it feels like twenty blocks. I get on and the bus is humid with the breath of many warm lungs. I hold on trying not to bump anyone or touch anyone though we are only centimeters apart.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A woman gets on the bus. She says,&lt;br /&gt;  -I have just had dialysis can I please have a seat.&lt;br /&gt;The bus was silent. I heard crickets. No one got up. And then finally someone in the middle of the bus got up. We moved out of the way and the woman from dialysis started to file her nails with an emery board. She looked like a healthy woman. My heart broke a little bit. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I squeeze my way to the back of the bus and this in not one of those regular city buses. This is these new fangle double buses with an accordion in the middle. Sometimes when the bus gains speed the back of the bus sort of snaps a little out of control, like a roller coaster. The bus in the size of two buses. It is crowded in the but not sardine can. I find a seat behind the mohawk twins. Two middle school/early high school brown young men. One has a blue tinge in his mohawk and the other has a slight pink mohawk, diamondish studs in both of their ears. A girl with a Louis V head tie and maybe house slippers is on the phone. Huge group of folks at the bus stop they get on and still no one wants to move back. She finally moves back climbing the two steps to the top. She stands next to the twins seat. The mohawk twins are giving her the mean eye. &lt;br /&gt;  -I did say excuse me. She says loudly and with great attitude. To the twin on the right.&lt;br /&gt;They both blink at her with attitude, teeth are sucked and cold eyes rolling.&lt;br /&gt;She gets back on the phone. &lt;br /&gt;I get off at another crowded bus stop.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-7034381226491138478?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/7034381226491138478/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/dialyisis.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7034381226491138478'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7034381226491138478'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/dialyisis.html' title='Dialyisis'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-7336233995869277354</id><published>2009-10-09T06:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-11-19T06:23:36.668-08:00</updated><title type='text'>baby on a bike</title><content type='html'>Saw a guy without a shirt on, he was holding a baby and talking on a cell phone, while riding a bike.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-7336233995869277354?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/7336233995869277354/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/baby-on-bike.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7336233995869277354'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7336233995869277354'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/baby-on-bike.html' title='baby on a bike'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-7346429149088431654</id><published>2009-10-05T02:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-16T02:46:23.788-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The beers on the bus</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images.askmen.com/money/body_and_mind_200/244_4-steps-crush-a-beer-can-on-your-forehead.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 410px; height: 230px;" src="http://images.askmen.com/money/body_and_mind_200/244_4-steps-crush-a-beer-can-on-your-forehead.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  A woman was drinking a large can of beer wrapped in a brown paper bag, she was sitting next to a guy who turned out to be her brother. He was drinking an equally large  can of beer wrapped in a paper bag. The bus was crowded and somehow I wound up standing near them. &lt;br /&gt;  The woman was having one of these cell phone conversations WHERE EVERYTHING IS SAID REALLY LOUDLY FOR NO REASON or because of drunkenness. &lt;br /&gt;    The man offered me a seat. &lt;br /&gt;She paused from her phone convo and said to her brother, "If you didn't offer her a seat I would have busted you in your God D&amp;%^% head!"&lt;br /&gt;    I laughed and when I saw he was not laughing I quickly stopped. I thought she was kidding. He stood by the back door and put his tall beer in the garbage bag tied to a pole. &lt;br /&gt;   There were children sitting next to us. She said into her cellphone,    &lt;br /&gt;  "You're lucky there are some kids sitting next to me or I would be cussing your ass out!"&lt;br /&gt;    "You got some candy? You know what kind of candy I mean!" For some reason that sounded like some kind of drug deal. &lt;br /&gt;   She started to describe her looks to the person on the phone. No comment she did not look like her description-drunk, old haggard weave, stank, loud, she didn't mention any of these things. &lt;br /&gt;    She then gave the phone to her brother and she hawk eared and eyed him. He was  trying to describe her on the sneak tip and she's like "I already described myself. I'm gonna stab you in your neck if you don't stop that stupid sh*t!" &lt;br /&gt;   He complained into the phone about her violent nature. Not good for the blind date I think they were arranging. &lt;br /&gt;   She said, "I stopped fighting! It was your fault I would be getting into all those fights."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-7346429149088431654?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/7346429149088431654/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/woman-and-man-with-large-cans-of-beer.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7346429149088431654'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/7346429149088431654'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/woman-and-man-with-large-cans-of-beer.html' title='The beers on the bus'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-2439117543941121462</id><published>2009-10-02T01:48:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-16T02:52:31.712-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Dear Transit Authority Letter 1</title><content type='html'>Dear Transit Company &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;During rush hour buses should run every five or six minutes not every fifteen!! &lt;br /&gt;It's rush hour so people are rushing. When we have to wait so long, it's no longer rushing and that could make us late. So come on just add a few more buses. Hey just take a couple of those almost empty ones I sometimes see during off peak hours, there not that busy...give them something to do. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thanks&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-2439117543941121462?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/2439117543941121462/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/dear-bus-company-letter-1.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/2439117543941121462'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/2439117543941121462'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/dear-bus-company-letter-1.html' title='Dear Transit Authority Letter 1'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-1743961257438223986</id><published>2009-10-02T01:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-16T02:52:08.701-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Dear Transit Authority Letter 1 Draft</title><content type='html'>Dear Transit Assholes&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;During rush hour buses should run every five or six minutes not every fifteen!!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-1743961257438223986?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/1743961257438223986/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/dear-bus-assholes-during-rush-hour.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/1743961257438223986'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/1743961257438223986'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/dear-bus-assholes-during-rush-hour.html' title='Dear Transit Authority Letter 1 Draft'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-848432219540465377</id><published>2009-10-01T00:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-16T02:45:45.752-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Handsome man</title><content type='html'>A handsome man gets on the bus. He is smooth looking and seems to take very good care of himself. He is wearing a suit and has two canes. He is missing a leg. He gets on bus and sits down effortlessly. He reminds me of Blair Underwood circa 1990's dry curls and everything.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-848432219540465377?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/848432219540465377/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/handsome-man-gets-on-bus.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/848432219540465377'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/848432219540465377'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/handsome-man-gets-on-bus.html' title='Handsome man'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-2054873428415538715</id><published>2009-09-10T02:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-16T02:49:07.074-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Can't hide your age</title><content type='html'>I got up for an elderly woman as soon as she stepped on the bus. She said thank you and smiled at me. She called me over with her index finger. I wearily got closer, she said &lt;br /&gt;   -I guess I didn't fool you even with my wig on. &lt;br /&gt;I laughed out loud, as did she. &lt;br /&gt;   -I got the grays braided up under here.&lt;br /&gt;It was so funny.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-2054873428415538715?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/2054873428415538715/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/cant-hide-your-age.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/2054873428415538715'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/2054873428415538715'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2009/10/cant-hide-your-age.html' title='Can&apos;t hide your age'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173925401166395265.post-9002933129693479592</id><published>2009-09-05T07:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-16T02:49:53.411-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The cops on the bus</title><content type='html'>2006&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;An ordinary day, going to work, &lt;br /&gt;the bus is dark and cool, and practically empty for once. &lt;br /&gt;We make this hair pin turn and then straight.&lt;br /&gt;I hear a person yell and the bus stops at the next bus stop and waits. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two red haired police men come to the bus, one is a head shorter (a little brother?) Both have a short spiky haircut, a nose with a bump and milky white skin.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The taller one comes up the steps a bit and tells the bus driver she might have hit a car. The woman whose car was hit is screaming and cussing outside.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have to get to work, the people inside the bus start talking to each other.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The woman whose car was scraped is still yelling as the bus is inspected by bus driver and police. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I first got on the bus, the driver was talking to a stocky guy in dark glasses and golfing cap, dark opened jacket. He stood up front and spoke to her and i heard her say that earlier that morning at 4AM the cops had stopped her car. It was not the driver's day. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Most of the bus passengers are outside. Some are smoking. Some are examining the bus giving their version of the story. The woman whose car was hit is still yelling. &lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;MTA comes in a jeep.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Inside we wait. I stay inside and write. Next to me is an elder with a little girl with a big blow up Dora doll, there's a lady with a pony tail who said she used to work across the street and wished she still did. The guy with the hat who was speaking the bus driver earlier gets on the phone, he is standing front and center. He says, "You up in my house, you got my money."&lt;br /&gt;"what you doing in my house with out my money MF?"&lt;br /&gt;"you better get out my house now or there's gonna be trouble."&lt;br /&gt;I'm like WTF.&lt;br /&gt;So he gets off the phone and goes outside. The older lady and I just burst out laughing. We look at each other in shock.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Looking out the window, the sun is glaring on this upset, cussing, yelling woman who no one is taking seriously. Cops, bus driver, MTA, witnesses all there. &lt;br /&gt;Finally, everyone gets back on the bus and the woman is still shouting as the bus pulls away. &lt;br /&gt;The bus driver said she was not in error. It was the womans' fault, she opened her door as the bus was driving passed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A woman with braids and a tie sits back down directly in front of me. She picks up her word search book and looks back at me. She says "That woman out there tested me, but i said to myself i am not going to jail again. Not today. I have control of that."&lt;br /&gt;And then we stopped at the next stop, the bus got crowded and loud and normal.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8173925401166395265-9002933129693479592?l=charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/feeds/9002933129693479592/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2006/06/cops-on-bus.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/9002933129693479592'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8173925401166395265/posts/default/9002933129693479592'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://charmcitybusstories.blogspot.com/2006/06/cops-on-bus.html' title='The cops on the bus'/><author><name>Mirlande Jean-Gilles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11736811278313481759</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-PgLP3pRoes/S_VcXI2sOLI/AAAAAAAAAVk/YvrCxMMCz6o/S220/collagefreearethose2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
