The bus driver stared at me as I dropped my 12-pack of water and six grocery bags on the floor. He opened his mouth, then closed it. A smirk.

"You've never ridden a bus before, have you?"

"Uh, not really," I said as I unlocked my phone, showing him the mobile ticket I'd purchased an hour earlier.

I grabbed my bags and took a seat. The driver chuckled.

"Oh, honey, don't worry. I've seen people do worse."

I'M A native Houstonian, so my foray into using public transit has been long and slow. Growing up in Tomball, the land of no public transportation, it was nearly impossible to get anywhere without a car. The only time I remember using anything approaching the realm of public transit was when my mom's car broke down and she called a taxi.

And, up until this point, I've never ridden a bus.

Even after I moved into the city, I thought: Why bother with public transit? I already spend money on gas and tires — why spend more money on a Q card? It wasn't until I moved to Miami for a summer that I realized public transportation is vital to a healthy and successful city.

While Miami's transit system isn't the most robust in the country, it felt different from Houston. I saw people using it every day. And every time I used it, I saw the potential for public transit back home. Houston's transit ridership actually went up in 2016, one of only two major cities to make such gains.

Still, Houston is thought of as a car city, even with growing indications that we want that to change. So, I challenged myself to use public transit for a week to see how the system works in Houston.

MY FIRST observation: Transit can involve an awful lot of walking and waiting.

Walking, because I live about half a mile from the nearest bus stop. Waiting, because I ended up standing in the Houston humidity for 30 minutes. This particular stop's only amenity is the shade it gets from a large tree. There wasn't a shelter or a bench. It was uncomfortable. I wondered what would've happened if it had been raining.

I hopped on the 84 — I'd become acquainted with this bus quickly — and after nine stops, I pressed the red button on the yellow pole and crossed the street to Fiesta to do my weekly grocery shopping.

When I got back to my apartment complex, it took me 17 minutes to walk the half-mile back to my front door. In the same amount of time, I could've driven back from Fiesta and had my groceries put away.

Still, I actually liked the walk. It gave me time to think. And ushering the case of water from my right hand to my left hand gave me a free arm workout.

THE NEXT day, I took transit to work. Although the Kinder Institute is housed on Rice University's campus, it's closer to the Medical Center. The Medical Center is one of the more transit-friendly areas in Houston for good reason: It gets at least 8 million visitors a year.

After consulting the Google Maps app (with its handy embedded transit information), I decided to make my morning commute a tad easier, choosing a route that didn't require a transfer and that would drop me off right in front of my building.

By the time we got to the transit center in the Medical Center, the bus was 75 percent full. But those numbers dwindled as soon as the driver parked the 84 in its spot and half the passengers unloaded. Most didn't have the luxury of a transfer-less commute.

The button to request a stop was close enough, no more than six inches to my right, but I had no clue when to press it, especially when we were in bumper-to-bumper traffic. What is the timing etiquette here?

I pressed it. 8:33 a.m. I got to work right on time.

I MADE my longest trek — to my grandma's apartment in Near Northwest — on a Thursday morning that happened to coincide with National Dump the Pump day, a one-day initiative to encourage public transit use. All of Metro's buses, light rail trains and Park and Rides were free in honor of the day.

I had used the light rail earlier in the week to get home from work, and I learned transferring was obvious: just follow the crowd. Only half my bus got off at the transit center and that group promptly split into two, one to the light rail on the left, the other to the one on the right. I followed the group on the right and got onto a nearly-empty rail car.

I had 10 stops until my next transfer, the Hermann Park/Rice University stop. This intersection is notoriously hostile toward pedestrians — a Rice University professor died after she was struck by a light rail while riding her bike to work earlier this year. Metro reacted, and research was done aiming to prevent these types of incidents, but knowing that did nothing to relieve the uneasiness in my chest. Still, I had to finish my task. I looked both ways — four times — and crossed the street to my next destination: a sheltered bus stop for the 56.

LEVY PARK: A great place. But only if you can get there.

The 56 rolled up, and I was off to the corner of Washington and Studemont, an intersection that I was familiar with thanks to the restaurants along the Washington Corridor. I'd never before paid attention, however, to the four bus stops in that area, so when I got off the 56 to transfer to the 85, I wasn't sure where the stop would be. I realized I had to cross Washington, a street full of speeding cars. The nervousness set in again as I pressed a button to activate the crosswalk signal.

I waited a minute, then two. Finally, the walk light was on. I waited a second, then walked two steps before a brown Nissan Versa honked at me. I stopped.

The driver — who ironically drove a car the same color, make and model as mine — gave me a look that said "what the hell are you doing?!" She was trying to turn in front of me even though I had the right of way. I hadn't realized crossing the street made me a target.

I stumbled back to the corner of Washington and Studemont.

By that time, I didn't have enough time to cross the intersection safely. I didn't want to cross at all.

I crossed anyway.

Until then, I'd never felt unsafe until now. I'd expected the uneasiness of trying a new thing, but hadn't actually felt it. Up until this point, the five rides each had their own pros and cons, as well as an overarching thread: Though many Houstonians have never experienced public transportation, it's vital for the people who use it.

The bus pulled up to my stop, across the street from the apartment complex where my grandparents live. I crossed the street and, as I was calling Grandma to open the gate, saw Grandpa outside, walking one of their three dogs.

"Hey!" I called out. "Open the gate!"

"Why are you on foot?" he said.

"I took the bus!"

"What?" he said, as he handed me the gate key.

I looked at my watch: 10:01 a.m. Two hours since I had left my apartment.

I hugged Grandma, who was also puzzled that I'd come on the bus. And then, blissfully, I sat down at the kitchen table — safe and sound — to a plate of empanadillas and a Pepsi.

Glissette Santana (@GlissetteSantan) is the web and social media editor for Rice University's Kinder Institute for Urban Research. This article is a condensed version of a series that originally appeared on the Kinder Institute's blog, The Urban Edge.



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