Getting Granny on the Bus

I went to the clinic this morning. Boyfriend drove me there, and I took the bus home. Boyfriend asked me, knowing my tendency to be light-headed, if I had my bus pass, and I assured him I did.

Every single time I use public transportation, I have an adventure. This morning was no exception.

On one of my last trips, I had purchased a new OPUS card, because I'd seen the signs posted everywhere that they expire. I had loaded it with tickets for both Montreal and the Longueuil lines. I had thrown out my old card and used the lovely hard case for the new card. I had verified that it was, in fact, in its particular spot, in my purse.

When finished at the clinic, I walked to the bus stop where there was a shelter, fortunately for me, since it choose today to snow 27 cm. I had my cell phone out, and it assured me a bus would be along in a few minutes to take me to Longueuil, where I would transfer to one of several buses I could take to get home.

Imagine my surprise when I tapped my card on the reader and it loudly proclaimed "Carte Expiré." (Expired card.)

I tried again. Same message. I uttered something out loud, a cry of disbelief, in which language I do not recall. I explained to the driver that it must be my old card, and I had a new one. He urged me to take a seat while I dug in my purse so that I did not fall down. Good thinking.

Digging proved to be futile. I must have thrown out my new card, after all.

Searching in my purse, I came up 25 cents short of the fare. But the driver allowed me to stay anyway, since I was heading to Longueuil and could sort myself out there at the terminus.

Well, the terminus has changed a bit since my public transporting days, I must say! Where once there was a stark cement building barely large enough to hold the two metro tracks and two outdoor aisles where we stood in the cold to wait for the buses, there is a small city now. There are hundreds of snack shops, whole wings of buildings with large letters of the alphabet to denote which one you're in, with mutiple bus parking spots neatly arranged the length of them.

It's a bit unnerving if you don't know quite where you're going. I headed towards the metro, because that's where I used to buy my tickets. I searched in vain for the STL "Billeterie" inside the familiar gloomy building, so off I went down to Metro level to buy a new pass there. I loaded it up with tickets. The fellow had to take a few tries to get it right, so when I was done I went back out into the new terminus to one of the machines to put my OPUS card in its slot and verify that what I expected was there.

It said I had six tickets, and that my card was set to expire on March 31.

I checked it again. March 31.

Stepping back from the machine in puzzlement, I now finally espied the official "Billeterie," beyond where the entrance to the metro was, and made my way there. I explained to the young man what had transpired and that for some reason the card was set to expire on March 31.

He nodded, after verifying the card. "Yes, Madam, March the 31, 2017."

Oh. Silly old woman! I laughed and thanked him, and, when out of his sight, checked the card against the machine once more. March 31, 2017. Ok then, "Read the Screen," echoing in my mind, I had a good laugh at myself and went for breakfast at MacDonald's.

Hot cakes and sausage is my guilty pleasure.

Sated and refreshed, I lumbered toward Aisle C and found the spot where soon the number 13 bus would arrive and whisk me home. There was even a seat. I calmly read my book.

The bus arrived, I got on. I tapped my shiny new card on the reader, and it was refused. It said the card wasn't valid for this zone.

What?

The driver began a long explanation. I had purchased my tickets at the Metro, not at the Billeterie.

The fares are different.

Right. Of course they are.

I knew that.

The courteous driver allowed me to plunk in my $2, a full $1.25 less than the fare, and encouraged me to find a place to buy STL tickets. I barely understood a word he said. I was completely confused.

Granny needs to get with the program! I'll be trying this again by Friday, since my usual lift into work is taking his Fridays off to use up his allotted vacation time.

I'll report back then.

Don't Answer That

My Daddy had a few funny expressions I picked up over the years.

The one that first struck me as hilarious I heard when we lived on Gimli Air Force Base in Gimli, Manitoba. We were in the PMQs (Private Married Quarters) which were reserved for servicemen with families.

The PMQs on this particular base were made of sheet metal. There were constructed to look like normal houses, but there was no insulation, they were just large pieces of metal welded together. We didn't have a basement, so I don't think there was a foundation. Probably just a concrete slab. They were painted regulation yellow or regulation green or regulation beige on the outside (we lived in a yellow one), and the inside had properly finished-looking walls, but I'd be surprised if the insulation value reached R-2.

So, one autumn day, Daddy and I were headed out somewhere. He exited ahead of me, I took up the rear. As so many parents throughout the ages have done, he glanced in my direction and said, "Close the door! What do you think we live in, a barn?!"

And then he added, "Don't answer that."

I nearly doubled over. I've used that expression many times since, and this morning's usage brought it back to mind.

I'd seen my friend L's announcement on facebook that she had attended a Zumba class this morning. I commented, "What's Zumba?" And she replied "It's an exercise class."

I phoned her up and said, "I KNOW it's an exercise class! I meant what kind of exercise! How stupid do you think I am?!" 

Then I thought better of it, and added "Don't answer that!"