Around 10 am this morning, just as the train reached the Mount Baker Station, my spirits sunk at the sight of 30 or so children waiting to board on the flying platform. We would be here forever, the kids would slow everything down to a crawl, time would tick and tick and tick. But then I brightened as I remembered that I wasn't on the bus but the train.
When a bus has to deal with a large group of children, their natural stupidity overwhelms it. The bus becomes stupid. Its operations become one with all that is stupid about children—their clumsiness, their chaos, their limited sense of reality, their poor sense of themselves and surrounding space. But the train with its many doors and absence of steps and other obstructions can smoothly absorb a wild blast of children. And during the process, during their transition from outside to inside, the children and the train do not become the same thing—stupid. The train retains its intelligence, closes its doors, and neatly, efficiently proceeds. This is what it's like to live in the only city in Seattle.