One early evening last week, I went to catch the bus at an unfamiliar stop near the corner of Zhōngshān Běilù and Shānxī Lù. Approaching a small cluster of people standing on a narrow median strip dividing the main street and the access road running parallel to it, I joined them and waited for a brief moment before taking a closer look around. Zhōngshān Lù is the main drag in Nanjing and I was sure that this little sliver of pavement couldn’t be the whole stop. Stepping out into the street, I saw that I was correct. In Nanjing, a typical city bus stop will have a large, illuminated sign at either end of it displaying the route numbers, street stops, and hours of service for each bus passing through. By my rough estimate, the two signs here were at least thirty yards apart, book ending several other packs of commuters. It made sense. This particular stop had at least half a dozen routes listed on its signs. If several buses were to arrive at the same time, they’d need all of that room to fit. I hadn’t seen that the stop was so long because, for some reason, my little group hadn’t even been standing within its boundaries and a tree had blocked my view. I figured that they must’ve been waiting for one of the private buses that sometimes pass by. Leaving them, I went to find a better place to stand and soon realized that the entire stop was a free zone for any bus that came through-the drivers could stop wherever they pleased. I hedged my bet and chose a place right in the middle. Speed is important in catching buses around here. The drivers stop just long enough for people to get off and if there isn’t a line forming by the front door, they’re gone with a sputter and a belch of smoke. In other words, covering fifteen yards at a very brisk walk (I refuse to give them the satisfaction of running) is no guarantee of going any further. Throw in the added challenge of having to weave through whoever’s getting off of the bus that you’re trying to get on and your odds get even worse. I waited. A bus came. Not mine. It stopped about ten yards before reaching me. People got off. People got on. Those who had picked the wrong place to wait rushed past me and into the crowd already forming by the doors. Another bus came. Again not mine. It pulled in right behind the first one, which still hadn’t left because of the group still sorting itself out there. More people scurried past, enlarging the already growing jam of commuters now squeezed into the area next to the first bus. A third bus came. My bus. It pulled in behind the second one, right where my former traveling companions were standing next to the tree. The doors opened. Still others who had guessed wrong made a hopeless dash into the fray. I didn’t bother. I watched my bus, the last to arrive, pull away, followed by the second one and then the first. I caught the next one that came in a few minutes later-it stopped fifteen yards past me. Almost everyone who had been standing near the spot where it had finally come to a halt had by now moved to the opposite end of the stop, leaving me an open path, but I still had to bang on the door for the driver to re-open it and let me on. Hanging onto the overhead bar as my bus rattled along, I was angry and depressed. Just about everybody in Nanjing has to take the bus on a fairly regular basis. Although, at first glance, it may seem ridiculously funny, having to go through this kind of obstacle course is unnecessary, inefficient, and dangerous. The fact that this is the way the system is designed to work makes it enraging. The fact that it probably won’t be changing anytime soon, because this is the way it’s always been, just makes it sad.