I'm partial to busses. I've taken the bus to and from LAX, and suggest that others do the same. The concept makes me happy.

The Big Blue Bus is operated by the City of Santa Monica. It's a cheerful line, running directly past my Venice Beach home on its way to the airport. Not knowing the schedule, I scooted with my luggage in that uncomfortably fast gait known to users of mass transit. I was cutting it close for a flight to Miami.

I attribute my occasional tardiness to optimism. This time it paid off. Big Blue was at the red light on Lincoln as I crossed in front of it along Washington Boulevard. I boarded and was whisked to the bus terminal at LAX. A waiting Lot C shuttle bus got me to the ticket counter with time to spare. Bus fare: $.75.

My return was scheduled for midnight a few days later. Stepping outside the terminal with my carry-ons, I was met by the Lot B bus and hopped aboard. Somewhere at the airport, I'm sure it says that the Lot C shuttle goes to the buses, but no biggie. I stayed on the wrong shuttle for the ride to long-term parking and back to the airport. Twenty minutes later, the appropriate shuttle arrived.

With plenty of quarters in my right pocket I headed towards the Big Blue sign. No bus, and nobody waiting. A posted schedule indicated I had just missed the last Big Blue. I briefly wondered how long it would take to walk to Venice -- only about five miles due north. Shouldn't take more than 90 minutes.Without the bags, maybe.

To be clear, I had turned down a friend's offer of a ride home. Even at this late hour, I had a few calls I could make for a ride home with nominal guilt. There was the taxi option. But I've got a green streak, a little stubbornness, and a strong believe in public transportation. At Los Angeles International Airport, barely after midnight, the bus system couldn't fail me.

A second bus rider apeared and stopped at the MTA Bus 40 sign. "Only one still running here" he told me. He seemed right. "Take it to the 33, switch at Venice and Broadway." Sounded close. He couldn't mean the Broadway in Downtown LA.

He could.

The ride downtown was lively. Scholars in back seats had time to pitch solutions to several world problems as we took city streets at least fifteen miles in a northeasterly direction. At least I was moving. And for entertainment, I could listen to the discussion quite easily, even from my seat near the front. The brown-bagging drinker who soon joined the party was obviously a regular: "If I see it, you gotta go" the driver gently reminded him. He was coherent enough to join the debate from mid-bus, usually to correct pronunciation. "You don't tink, you thhhhhink!" he'd sing.

"I'm from anudder cone tree, my man" came from the back.

I got out and waited a reasonable half hour at the desolate corner of Venice and Broadway. The layover provided some fresh air and a chance to make headway in the book I was reading. The ride on Bus 33 did not.

The stench was overpowering. I immediately was reminded of my last voyage on that line three years prior. The passengers, most of whom were snoring beneath layers of blankets and shopping bags, looked like they hadn't moved in the meanwhile.One of the few available seats was alongside a snoozing private security guard. It was the only real option.

In a city defined by its freeways, our thirteen-mile route was entirely along Venice Boulevard. The driver, vocally trained in British train conducting (or perhaps opera school), was amazingly chipper . A "Great morning to you!" was delivered to each new passenger. Cross streets were called out like diaphragm strengthening exercises. "Waiting for the North-South!" was an unexpected audible, though it did explain our ten minutes of idling on the roadside. All other passengers somehow slept through the announcement but my eyes, like the driver's, were wide open. The crossing bus line missed this connection -- we rolled ahead without taking on any transfers.

Trying to match the driver's wonderful manners, I mustered a "thank you" as I exited at Lincoln and Venice Boulevards. "Thank you, sir!" he bellowed. No air was ever as fresh as my first breath off Bus 33. Hungry from my three hour, eighteen minute bus ride, I stopped in the 24-hour donut shop on my corner for some freshly-baked nummies. Then I walked the half block home. Bus fare: $1.50.