With hordes of soccer fans in Seattle for World Cup competition, the “site” seeing industry is in high gear. Even the public transit systems got into the act by releasing a limited-edition “SEA26” ORCA card created by Tlingit artist Alison Bremner. Her brilliant work, which ranges from totem poles to Starbucks coffee cups, makes the card a collector’s item. 

Much as I enjoy riding buses and appreciate Bremner’s design, I didn’t try to score one of the 27,000 cards. I have enough trouble keeping track of my plain white “SENIOR” card that declares “No Photo Required.” Apparently my wrinkled face is adequate qualification for the senior discount. 

ORCA is a clever marketing acronym based on Puget Sound’s beautiful and beloved orca, or “killer” whales. It’s “One Regional Card for All.” You can use a single card to ride buses, ferries, trains throughout a four-county region. 

With more than two hundred routes just in the King County system, every once in a while I try a new one. Recently I was exploring Route 62, a zigzag journey that meanders north and east from historic King Street Station. You get glimpses of lakes Union and Green and close-up views of well-settled neighborhoods and business districts with intriguing shops and independent restaurants. After an hour or so the route concludes at Sand Point. The former Naval Air Station on the shores of Lake Washington is now home to the city’s second largest park, named for the late Sen. Warren G. Magnuson, who excelled at bringing home the bacon.

But like Route 62, I digress. On a recent Saturday, I boarded the bus and heard the satisfying “ping” as I tapped my card against the electronic reader. I was heading to the Good Shepherd Center in the lovely, lively Wallingford district. Located amidst lush grounds with arching, ancient trees, Good Shepherd was once a home for “wayward girls.” Now it’s a community center for education and arts. A writer friend, Elizabeth Clark Stearns, was premiering a one-act play, presented reader-theater style. 

The play was clever and put me in a good mood, even though the sky was spitting raindrops as I emerged. I walked briskly the few blocks to the bus stop and slipped my hand into my pocket for the ORCA card. Which wasn’t there. How could that be? I remembered distinctly slipping the card into my pocket after boarding the bus. I searched frantically through all my pockets and backpack. No card and really, no reason to panic. Yet I was distraught.

I boarded the bus and tried to slip a dollar into the cash receptacle. The bus driver handed me a receipt and explained the machine wasn’t working. I was getting a free ride! Even that small blessing didn’t calm me down. My reaction was visceral. My head was telling me everything was fine. The card’s replaceable. It could be worse. I could’ve lost my phone, or a credit card, or my entire wallet. Yet anxiety persisted in my gut.

“How did you lose it?” a friend later asked. I had no clue. In the week it took to get a replacement, I began to understand that the card means more to me than just a transit pass. It represents a paradox: both independence and interdependence. Giving up driving was my declaration of independence — from maintaining a car, insurance, gas, parking … all of it. I can still go pretty much everywhere I want, whenever I want. At the same time, I’m dependent on a community that uses and supports public transportation — a diverse group of folks, young and old, whose life styles and behaviors differ, sometimes in bizarre ways. 

There are more than a million ORCA cards out there. More than a million folks who are willing to get on a bus/train/ferry and join with others to get where they want to go. Very rarely, a passenger may be having a bad day. Even when it’s crowded, the norm is courtesy and consideration among my fellow passengers. The card represents membership in a special kind of club, a very inclusive one.

In exactly one week the replacement arrived in the mail. To celebrate, I headed to Third Avenue, where buses abound. I checked the schedule on my phone and sure enough, No. 62 was due. When it arrived, I put my hand in my pocket for the brand new ORCA card. Yes, dear reader. You’re ahead of me. It wasn’t there. 

Disbelieving, I looked down. There it was on the sidewalk. When I’d pulled out my phone, the ORCA card came along for the ride. Then it had fluttered, unnoticed, to the ground. Mystery solved. Now I know better. And it feels so good to belong to that inclusive club again.