Standing at the corner of 32nd Street and Cherrywood Road on an August morning, rays of sunshine lash my face as I wait for the bus to arrive. Unlike so many kiosks, this stop has neither a seat nor an overhead shield, so I move under the shade of my neighbors’ tree. I’d spent the previous hour washing my hair and putting on makeup, but now I’m wilting in the heat as the bus runs several minutes behind schedule. When it finally arrives, I step on board, my shirt reduced to a sodden bathmat.

I’ve owned a car since I was 16, and I hadn’t taken a bus in Austin since my senior year of college. But in a spectacular bout of bad luck, both of my parents’ vehicles suffered major mechanical issues within weeks of each other, rendering both inoperable.

Since they were already tasked with selling their house in Amarillo and moving to Austin, I decided to sacrifice my own vehicle so they didn’t have to worry over another expense. Without the funds for a car rental or an endless procession of Lyft rides, I was forced into public transport.

Because I hadn’t used the local Cap Metro bus service since 2007, I was unfamiliar with the routes. Quick research revealed that I couldn’t reach my office in Westlake via any route. To get to work, I’d have to go as far as I could on the bus, which dropped me off at the intersection of Bee Caves Road and Walsh Tarlton Lane, then get a lift or ride-share across Highway 360. The July evening my dad drove off with my car, a twinge of fear coursed through my body. Now what?

After my first carless week, I wondered why I’d ever worried. Each stop I frequented had shaded outdoor seats, the vehicles arrived on time, I had time to read during transit, and amazingly, the stress of rush-hour traffic was no longer my problem.

The most difficult part to navigate, it seemed, was everyone else’s opinion. Upon hearing my new means of transportation, the reactions of my otherwise open-minded colleagues and cohorts ranged from astonishment to mockery. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” one quipped. Others adopted a comically grave tone: “Oh my god, girl, please don’t do that. I’ll give you a ride.”

Without question, having a car is a rite of passage for most Texans, and Austin is no different. According to a 2016 study, only 6 percent of Austin households don’t own a car. Still, I didn’t like the idea that taking the bus was somehow “beneath” me, a notion that felt not only classist but racist. (Sixty-two percent of Cap Metro riders are minorities.) Yet I was made to feel embarrassed by relying on mass transit. So why, in a city that touts itself as progressive, is Austin anti-bus?

First of all, taking the bus is a financial no-brainer. Once I added up my annual car payments, insurance, gas, registration, maintenance, and repair costs, I realized I had spent more than $8,000 last year to own a car. Now compare that to a $500 annual bus pass. My head was spinning thinking of all I could do with an extra $7,500 in my pocket, say booking a four-star vacation to Europe.

Then there’s the traffic component. If you think Mopac is a nightmare now, consider that our metro population is predicted to double to 4.5 million by 2040. Taking the bus not only removes cars from the street, it’s almost always more environmentally friendly: one study found that a bus with as few as seven passengers is more fuel-efficient than the average one-passenger car, and buses generate only 20 percent of the carbon monoxide and 10 percent of the hydrocarbons per passenger-mile when compared to a single-occupancy car.

Of course, the novelty of taking public transportation faded fast. The No. 30 bus, which picked me up near Walsh Tarlton, only arrived every 35 minutes, meaning if I missed it by a few minutes I’d end up in a Thundercloud Subs to console myself with a sandwich and air-conditioning. One day it took nearly two hours to get from Westlake to Northcross Mall during rush hour. I avoided riding transit after dark, giving me a veritable curfew. And then there was the time I stepped on the bus only to notice a giant urine stain on a seat.

Many of the people on the bus were friendly and courteous. For example, a neighbor who I’d never met filling me in on the history of our predominantly African-American neighborhood. But then there were the trolls and mentally unwell, like the inebriated passenger who harassed me near Barton Springs and the woman who screamed, “I don’t have psychosis—I have HYSTERIA!” at a downtown stop. One time a driver kicked me off the bus after I prematurely pulled the stop request cord. (After walking four blocks in heels, I sighed and booked an Uber.)

Once I was behind the wheel again in September, it was hard not to fall back on old habits. So, I’m certainly not guilting anyone into forfeiting their vehicle. But for those days when your car is in the shop or you just don’t feel like dealing with traffic—consider the bus. Just watch out for the occasional wet spot.