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What is it about the 35 bus?
It carries the OB vibe with it
Izzy grins as Lupita sings, aboard the therapeutic #35 bus
“I keep coming back,” says the elderly lady with the walker-wheeler, Lupita. “I’ve been coming here for forty years.”
“That’s more than I can say,” says Israel. Izzy. He’s sitting at 90 degrees from Lupita in the front section of the bus.
We’re aboard the #35, heading south from OB. It’s 10 pm. I’m coming from OB’s Wednesday night farmers market. Like most times I’m on this bus, it carries its OB vibe with it. The drivers are quirkier, chattier; strangers talk to each other like they’re old friends. There’s no shortage of long hair and earlobe stretchers. The miasma of OB’s ecosphere stays, as long as you’re aboard the Magic Bus.
“What brings you? The market?” Izzy asks Lupita.
“Well, I used to live here. I still like it. People are nice. But then…something happened. My daughter was murdered. I have never gotten over it.”
A kind of frisson runs through the bus as it trundles along the ancient Indian trail of Rosecrans.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” says Izzy. “And yet you keep coming back?”
Lupita nods. “I bring food to help out some of the homeless people in OB. They’re nice. It’s something I can do. Ocean Beach helps me that way.”
“OB sure helps me,” says Izzy. “I come to a drum circle. When my marriage broke up, the drumming was the only thing I had. The only way I could deal with my feelings. I put all my passion into drumming. People would come and watch. I think it helped them with their own lives.”
“I’ll sing you a song, if you like,” says Lupita. And she launches into what I’m pretty sure is the Lauren Daigle song: When you don’t move the mountains I’m needing you to move…when you don’t part the waters I wish I could walk through, when you don’t give the answers as I cry out to you… Her voice isn’t loud, but in the mostly empty bus, it carries. Everybody strains forward to hear. …I will trust, I will trust, I will trust in you.
Then Lupita reaches up, pulls the cord, starts adjusting the plastic bags that bulge out from her walker-wheeler, and stands, just as the front of the bus erupts into claps and cheers. She smiles, bobs her head, and maneuvers towards the door. “See you all again,” she says.
Izzy and I look at each other. “What is it about this bus?” he asks.
Here's something you might be interested in.
What is it about the 35 bus?
It carries the OB vibe with it
What is it about the 35 bus?
It carries the OB vibe with it
Izzy grins as Lupita sings, aboard the therapeutic #35 bus
“I keep coming back,” says the elderly lady with the walker-wheeler, Lupita. “I’ve been coming here for forty years.”
“That’s more than I can say,” says Israel. Izzy. He’s sitting at 90 degrees from Lupita in the front section of the bus.
We’re aboard the #35, heading south from OB. It’s 10 pm. I’m coming from OB’s Wednesday night farmers market. Like most times I’m on this bus, it carries its OB vibe with it. The drivers are quirkier, chattier; strangers talk to each other like they’re old friends. There’s no shortage of long hair and earlobe stretchers. The miasma of OB’s ecosphere stays, as long as you’re aboard the Magic Bus.
“What brings you? The market?” Izzy asks Lupita.
“Well, I used to live here. I still like it. People are nice. But then…something happened. My daughter was murdered. I have never gotten over it.”
A kind of frisson runs through the bus as it trundles along the ancient Indian trail of Rosecrans.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” says Izzy. “And yet you keep coming back?”
Lupita nods. “I bring food to help out some of the homeless people in OB. They’re nice. It’s something I can do. Ocean Beach helps me that way.”
“OB sure helps me,” says Izzy. “I come to a drum circle. When my marriage broke up, the drumming was the only thing I had. The only way I could deal with my feelings. I put all my passion into drumming. People would come and watch. I think it helped them with their own lives.”
“I’ll sing you a song, if you like,” says Lupita. And she launches into what I’m pretty sure is the Lauren Daigle song: When you don’t move the mountains I’m needing you to move…when you don’t part the waters I wish I could walk through, when you don’t give the answers as I cry out to you… Her voice isn’t loud, but in the mostly empty bus, it carries. Everybody strains forward to hear. …I will trust, I will trust, I will trust in you.
Then Lupita reaches up, pulls the cord, starts adjusting the plastic bags that bulge out from her walker-wheeler, and stands, just as the front of the bus erupts into claps and cheers. She smiles, bobs her head, and maneuvers towards the door. “See you all again,” she says.
Izzy and I look at each other. “What is it about this bus?” he asks.
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