This particular pole in downtown Seattle is nothing fancy—just a long steel rod with a yellow and white sign at the top, indicating with numbers which buses stop there. Surrounding it, however, are people from all walks of life, all of whom depend on the barreling white bus coming towards the pole, with an advertisement for Paris Hilton’s newest perfume on the side.

“Excuse me, ma’am, do you have a dollar for the bus?” a man dressed in a ripped coat and untied shoes asks. I don’t have change, so I shake my head no. He nods, and then turns to ask someone else. There are a few other men and women trying to beg money from passengers.

A college-aged man wearing a black suit with a pink tie squeezes past me, clutching a U-PASS and glancing nervously at his watch. He tells me that he had an interview with a law firm downtown, and is now rushing to catch the bus in order to get to his UW political science class. “I can’t be late for the quiz,” he explains, tapping his U-PASS against his watch.

Behind the college man is an older couple. They are wearing “Seattle” T-shirts and the woman is carrying a digital camera laced around her wrist. They explain cheerfully that they are from Anchorage, staying at the ritzy W Hotel downtown, and just exploring the city.

Sleek businessmen and women in sharp suits and shiny leather briefcases sit conducting business on cell phones next to street people who wear tattered clothing and carry ripped grocery bags. College students sit among the elderly. It is the Metro Transit bus system—Seattle’s answer to the New York subway, a busy web of 1,300 crowded buses carrying 100 million people all around the city and its suburbs each year.

On one particular Saturday in early October, the number 75 from Northgate Mall to the University District is unusually packed. A group of four girls sits towards the front, chatting loudly. They are all college-aged, and dressed trendily—funky coats, woven belts and dangling earrings. One can gather from their strong European accents and use of words such as “dodgy” and “loo” that they are not from the area. One of the girls asks no one in particular: “Do they have rockers at the bus stations here? Or is that just a European thing?”

Just as the group of girls is discussing whether to return to Vancouver by bus the same night or to catch the afternoon bus the next day, the driver pulls to a stop. A beautiful Hispanic woman boards, carrying a toddler in one arm and an overflowing grocery bag in the other. She is followed by a boy of about 13, carrying a folded stroller, and two girls who look about eight. The girls are carrying so many plastic Value Village bags that they can barely walk, but they are excitedly chattering about their purchases. To them, the Metro is a way of life, a means of transportation. Without it, said the boy, they would be forced to walk the mile-and-a-half back to their Lake City apartment.

Following the family is another mother, a striking but tired-looking African-American woman, holding her small daughter by her hand. The little girl, with her bright pink raincoat and twin braids, immediately catches my eye and smiles at me. I smile back. They choose seats right across from me and the daughter continues to stare. I give her a little wave. Her mother notices.

“The lady is pretty, huh?” she asks her daughter in a low voice, gesturing to me in a way that makes me think she doesn’t think I can hear her. “Girls like that, they don’t ever gotta worry about anything!” There is no real bitterness in her voice, just matter-of-factness.

If you only knew, I want to tell her, but the woman takes the little girl’s hand and leads her to the back of the bus.

I get off of the bus at University District, and impulsively hop on the 73 bus going downtown. A group of freshmen from the nearby dorms sits in the back. One of them, a tall blond girl wearing stilletto heels, carries a Louis Vuitton bag in one hand and a pink Victoria’s Secret bag in the other. A boy in their group keeps reaching for her bag, threatening to show her underwear to the entire bus. The girl, the boy, and the rest of their group laugh hysterically.

Just as I am getting fully lost in memories of my own fabulous freshman year, a raspy voice interrupts. “Excuse me?” Before I can even turn my head toward the sound, I smell the stale stench of alcohol. “Are you Indian?”

It’s a question I am accustomed to answering, along with, “Are you Fijian?” “Are you Persian?” and even “What are you?” I nod politely at the man who asked. He has long hair that sits on his shoulders in tangles, and is wearing an oversized shirt and ripped jeans. He smiles, showing a mouth peppered with missing teeth. “I thought so.”

The man explains that he visited India once, and it changed him forever. He adds, “I’m a little drunk so I might be off…we started early this morning.” He motions to his companion, who is blatantly hitting on two girls. The man explain that the he and his friend met two girls the day before on the bus, and were scouring the bus system for dates for tonight.

Seattle is a city that is often accused as being without culture: all Nordstrom and Microsoft and no real soul. But even if one chooses to ignore all the rest of Seattle’s soul, they cannot ignore the life on these buses. The buses resemble a kind of town commons where everyone is on equal ground.

As I deboard the bus for the day, I happen to glance towards the back. An elegant woman, dressed in a red power suit and pumps and carrying a leather briefcase, is laughing with uncensored joy as she plays peek-a-boo with the child of a passenger. The child is giggling hysterically, and her mom is smiling. That is the Metro.