Last week my car was in the shop for a couple of days, so I decided to take the bus home. It takes an hour and a half to get home on the number 18 bus to downtown, followed by the number 36 bus making its way south on Third Avenue, through the Chinatown International District and onto Beacon Hill.

I boarded the number 18 on Northwest Market Street on Halloween. There was a woman with a pirate's hat. A small child was wearing a firefighters outfit.

"Go put out that fire and watch out for the embers," the driver said, as the little boy and his mother got departed at Interbay.

When I got off at the Pike Place Market, I walked past the street life, people hanging out in parking lots and sidewalks seemingly with nothing to do but just be there. At Third Avenue, across from Macy's, I picked up the 36 to Beacon Hill. I chose a seat near the middle of the bus. It fills with up quickly, many of the riders are people of Asian, Hispanic or African American descent. It's a diversity that I appreciate, having lived in Chinatown and Beacon Hill all my life. It's like putting on an old pair of shoes that is a little worn, but comfortable in its familiarity.

A young man gets on and sits down at the front. He's wearing a bright red box around his head and torso. An opening in the box reveals his face. The word's "kissing booth," are written at the top.

"Did you get any kisses yet?" asks one man.

At Third and Columbia Street, a woman gets on the bus from the rear door. She says in Chinese to no one in particular "is this the number 36?"

Satisfied that it is, she drags three large plastic bags onto the bus.

I've seen her before. She has a deformed face. She's a familiar sight in Chinatown, rummaging through dumpsters for aluminum cans. One of the bags is clear. I could see malt liquor beer cans in it. She doesn't bother to smash them flat to save space. The woman wears a worn out green jacket and a green floppy hat with a backpack. She hangs onto a support to keep from falling over as the bus rocks her back and forth. Her hands are wrinkled, nails long and pointed.

The bus fills up even more when it gets to Chinatown's busiest stop at Jackson and Maynard Street. Shoppers, many of them elderly, get on with bags full of Asian groceries. With the bags crowding the aisle, there's no room to walk. One woman lifts her shopping bags high in the air to get by.

When the bus gets past the Jefferson Park Golf Course, the woman with the aluminum cans pulls the cord for her stop. She drags the bags up the aisle, banging them against the legs of other passengers.

My bus stop approaches and I get up. There's a pool of beer and soda pop in the aisle. A trail of liquid leads to the front of the bus. It's been a long ride and I'm ready to go home.

The next morning it's raining hard and it's still dark. The number 32 is filled with people lined up like sardines.

A very wet man sits next to me studying a Mercedes Benz brochure. He intently reads about the computerized navigation system in the upscale automobile. His umbrella drips water all around his feet.

The driver makes an announcement over the bus intercom. "Will the gentleman who took my transfers give them back or I will stop the bus and call the police."

I look towards the front of the bus and there is a sea of bodies hanging onto the poles. The driver pulls over and opens the front and back doors; he's giving the man a chance to get off to avoid any further trouble. "Please get off the bus," he says.

A minute later the driver pulls out of the parking space. "Is he still here? Did he get off? I can't see," asks the driver. A passenger in the middle of the bus nods her head, another passenger at the front relays the message, the guy was aboard.

"The police will meet us at Fourth Avenue and Jackson to board the bus," says the driver.

Passengers at the front seem uneasy. Potential confrontations in a tight space with no escape will do that to people.

When the bus finally stops, the front of the bus clears out as people leave through the back door.

Two police officers enter the bus. The driver gets up and identifies the young man who took the transfers. He's sitting calmly on a bench seat staring blankly into space. One officer removes him from the bus for questioning. A third officer is on the street waiting to assist. A King County Sheriff's car is parked nearby with its lights flashing.

One of the officers takes a brief statement from the driver and the bus continues on its route. When it was my turn to get off, I made sure I'd have a few minutes to talk to the driver.

"The man was pacing back and forth. Then he took my book of transfers. I think he was on drugs," the driver said.

"I didn't push my red button. If I did the police would have surrounded the bus with their guns drawn in two minutes," said the driver.

When the bus stops, I head down to First Avenue to catch the number 18. There's nothing I can do about the cold, except to zip up my jacket, adjust my Ichiro baseball cap and deal with it.

As I wait for the number 18, cars pass by on the street, their headlights reflecting off the rain soaked pavement, and the drivers looking nice and warm. Riding the bus always reminds me there is more to life than the view you see out the car window. Sometimes, though, you have to get wet to see it.