Katrina's Mass Observations

September 1, 2009

8:20 P.M.

Commute home on bus from GSB.

I walk outside of the Graduate School of Business and the sky is dark blue, the moon, bright. It's getting late, but there are still quite a few people on campus. At least fifteen or twenty students are waiting at the nearby West Campus bus stop I am headed for. I cross the street, ignoring the crosswalk, alongside a girl who does time same. Almost immediately, the bus arrives. People flock to both doors before it comes to a halt. The doors open, and the crowd waits for the passengers to get off before attempting to board. The passengers exit and one girl gets onto the bus before the doors close. People look around confused and walk after the bus as it proceeds forward to a stop sign not far from where it first stopped. The crowd is looking in the bus windows and around the street and sidewalk around them. The crowd is quiet. The bus idles loudly. The girl in a pink shirt who boarded the bus stands up and walks to a different seat at the back of the bus. The inside of the bus is lit and easy to see as it is dark outside. The bus makes those air sounds that happen before the doors open as the bus idles. Finally, the doors open. The boarding ramp is lowered on the front entrance of the bus. Several seats were empty before the doors opened, but by the time I enter the bus, they have all been taken.

The aisles are comfortably full, but not awfully cramped. Many people around chat among themselves in either English or Spanish. I stand with my left arm wrapped around a pole to steady myself as I write with my other hand. After the GSB, the West Campus makes a stop at Cypress Bend. Among many others, a boy and girl get off from the two seats in front of me. I snag the window seat before the people waiting to get on the bus have the chance to board. A boy in a dark shirt and shorts sits beside me with his backpack in his lap. The bus is loud with conversation. All of the talking echos in the metal tunnel of the bus. An overwhelming majority of passengers are wearing t-shirts (and shorts of some kind). About half have backpacks or large bags. There were not many passengers on the bus before the business school (the first on-campus stop), but now, with each stop, it is still quite crowded. Many people standing. More of the standing people use the metal poles overhead than the black ropes, which hang from the poles, for balance. The bus is getting louder.

A boy near me wearing a white t-shirt with front pocket and red workout shorts looks sincerely into a girl's eyes and smiles as they talk, both standing in the center aisle. As we near Dean Keaton, the boy beside me tugs a plastic coated wire that hangs slack across the windows along the length of the bus to indicate a stop to the driver. He grips his backpack early in anticipation of his exit. People must step off the bus onto the street to make room for others to exit the bus. Immediately, a girl takes his place beside me, continuing her conversation with her female friend, who, fluidly, tries to share a seat with her. there is not room. The seated girl offers her lap to her friend, but her friend declines. I offer to move over to make more room, and the two girls squish into the same seat as well as part of mine. We are all cramped. They continue their conversation without pause. The sincere boy has re-situated himself so that both of his hands hold the bar above his head. He flexes his biceps as he talks with the same girl. The veins in his forearms become apparent. The sincere gaze is gone from his eyes. he smiles, now, though. It might be more of a grin.

In general, people enter the bus from the front entrance, walk into an open space, then, facing the front of the bus, scoot their heels back slowly while checking over their shoulder to see if other passengers behind them have moved back to make more room. Part of this dance involves sweeping arm motions as they reach to secure new hand-holds as they shuffle back. Everyone standing is holding something for balance. "Where are we right now?" a girl asks. The girl beside her answers. No one is wearing headphones. Two people are talking on their cell phones, a few more are texting. Mostly, pairs are engaged in conversation. Those not in conversation mainly stare straight out of a window, One boy blatantly looks around. One boy on the bus is wearing a hat. It is a white UT hat with orange embroidery. I can't tell who is pulling for a stop each time, but "stop requested" is perpetually displayed on the screen at the front of the bus. It is too noisy to hear the bell ding for each requested stop. A few people wear collared polo shirts. One girl is wearing moisture-wicking athletic attire, and most everyone else wears a cotton t-shirt. When I reach my stop, the girl's friend rises and stands in the aisle of the bus to let me by. The girl who has been sitting beside me simply flattens her back against the seat and I am left with only an opportunity to crawl over her. I do.

Two small swarms of former bus passengers walk north up either side of rio grande. I follow the swarm on the east side of the street and notice that the swarm slowly spaces out until it disperses. Two girls in workout shorts and flip-flops sprint by, crossing through the middle of the street. Two boys stand outside the railing of a shallow first-story balcony. From within that apartment, an arm reaches through a sliding glass door, over the railing of the shallow balcony and hands one of the boys a binder. The two boys walk away. The remaining cluster of former passengers that I am following crosses the street without a cross-walk. I start to follow, but two cars come. I wait and jay-walk with another girl as soon as the two cars pass. I walk past two boys sitting on their street-side first-floor balcony. One is sitting on a stool with a guitar, but is not playing. I see two boys and a girl jogging on treadmills in the workout room of a basement of the quarters as a I pass. Many people walk alone on the sidewalks; I have seen many more pedestrians than cars this evening.

September 21, 2009

9:20 P.M.

Drive to Art Building from home.

I shuffle to my car through soft dirt, dead branches, and wet leaves in the unpaved alley behind my house. I am wearing open-toed shoes and, as usual, a few leaves get caught below my feet within my shoes. I unlock my car with two swift clockwise turns of the key in the driver side door. Sitting sideways in the driver's seat, I pick the leaves out of my shoes and toss them among the other leaves in the alley. I turn the key in the ignition until I hear the engine turn over. Next I adjust my thermostat to a slightly warmer stream of air conditioned air. I put my car into reverse, and try not to hit my roommate's blue Element as I back out. I put my car in drive and pull around the unlit curve of the alley where the ground switches from dirt to sand and gravel. I take the turn a little too fast to be safe, blindly trusting that no one is heading the opposite way. As I reach the opposite end of the alley, I turn west onto 28 1/2 Street. Slowly, I pull out from between the densely parked cars on either side of me. Heading west toward the intersection of 28 1/2 and Salado, I spot a car approaching the stop sign opposite me. Though there is at least half a block between us, we begin our dance immediately, both aware that only one car can fit between the rows of parallel parked cars. The opposite car waits patiently at the stop for me to emerge through the tunnel of vehicles. Once I approach the stop, I have to continue forward, turning my wheels hard to the right and jutting out past the stop sign to clear the path for the opposing car. Needing to turn left, I have to correct my wheels to the completely opposite direction to successfully redirect myself south at the intersection. There is no oncoming traffic, so I ease off the break and swing into my turn.

My next turn, a left onto 28th street, is uneventful as no other cars are around. My next intersection is a four-way stop about a block away. I am not the first to reach the stop sign, so I wait as boy in an SUV takes a left turn in front of me. I proceed east on 28th up to the last stop sign before Guadalupe, passing a Taco Bell on my left. Without waiting, I have a clear entrance into the road, so I pull directly into the left lane. The roads are quite busy; I see a field of headlights and breaklights ahead of me. Directly in front of me is a young man on a scooter wearing a light- colored long-sleeved shirt and a dark helmet. I drive through a green light before coming to a stop at Dean Keaton. I hover in the left turn lane near Cream Vintage, signaling. I hear the roar of a motorcycle engine before I see a sport bike zoom past me on the right, cutting into the bicycle lane to pass cars after it clears the light at Dean Keaton. An old white car pulls snugly up behind me, but I still don't take a left on the unprotected green light. A northbound 1L bus is picking up passengers at the corner across the street, so the stream of oncoming traffic is steadily fueled as car after car spills out from behind the stopped bus. I wait through a light cycle for the next protected green, and confidently take my left turn into the left lane on Dean Keaton. Almost immediately I switch into the right lane, just before stopping at a red light. When the light turns green, a burgundy SUV that has been crouching just ahead of me in the non-existant shoulder lumbers out into the road, stepping hard on his breaks shortly after gaining momentum when the Forty Acres bus in front of it slows to make a stop. The bus pulls up to the curb, freeing traffic to squeeze by once more. The next obstacle, about a block ahead, is a white coupe signaling to parallel park along the south side of Dean Keaton. Cars swiftly switch to the left lane and navigate around the stopped car. I do the same. As soon as I pass the white car, I turn my head to check my blind spot before sliding back into the right lane, where I dodge the jutted-out back end of a northbound 5 bus.

The light at San Jacinto is green so I have no trouble making my right turn. Speeding down the road at twenty miles per hour, I take note of the many available parking spaces dotted between parked cars. When I see my speed reflected above the guard stand at 24th street, I slowly break down to fifteen miles per hour before making a smooth stop at the 24th street stop sign. Across from me, a white truck with orange lights on its cab pulls forward from his stop sign, continuing north on San Jacinto. I continue south, actively searching for a parking space. I pass the first open spot, hoping for something even closer to the north stair entrance of the art building. Finally, I see the closest possible spot is open, but it is on the opposite side of the street and, consequently, angled appropriately for the opposite lane of traffic. I wait for two quickly approaching cars to pass, then turn my wheel hard and ease into the spot.