I take public transit everywhere. It might be the European in me, but nothing beats taking a bus to get the local flavour, especially for those who fancy themselves amateur anthropologists. I strive to be a traveller, not a tourist and some routes are more interesting than others. One such route is a 21-mile ride from Niagara Falls to Buffalo, New York. The Niagara Frontier Transportation Authority’s Route Forty.
Buffalo, a quintessential American city, is also somewhat of a border town in its own right. While most Canadians who travel to the USA from Southern Ontario will cross the border to the Queen City by car over the Peace Bridge from Fort Erie, some of us like to take the scenic route. I for one, usually cross the Rainbow Bridge by foot in Niagara Falls, entering New York State like a pedestrian, and if I wish to make it to the Nickel City of Western New York, I will walk a few blocks from the US Customs and Border Protection Port of Entry to the NFTA Bus Stop at 3rd and Old Falls Street in Niagara Falls, New York. You can’t miss the bus stop; there’s a fire hydrant that’s been painted with stars and stripes.
The Forty, from Niagara Falls to downtown Buffalo, is about an hour or so ride, driving through Grand Island and the industrial sectors of Riverview, Riverside, Black Rock and the Lower West Side. It is on these trips that I have had some wondrous encounters and witnessed what we French affectionately call l’Amérique profonde, or authentic America.
I live in the milquetoast world of Southern Ontario, so crossing the border is always an exercise in observing subtle yet revealing cultural differences.
On one such adventure, I was leaving downtown Buffalo towards Niagara, when the following did occur. A young man, in his late 20s, dressed in his impeccable jogging suit, was enjoying himself, talking to his friend on his phone, as loudly as one does when pumped with the vim and vigour of someone who shall take over the world, one transit route at a time.
At one point, he suddenly put down his phone, darted out of his seat, careened his way to the bus driver shouting loudly: “You missed the stop, you missed the stop! You can’t miss the stop, look that lady is probably going to be late for work because of you, stop the bus! People have jobs, they can lose them for being late!”
The driver, embarrassed, obliged. At this point, we were in the industrial outskirts of Northern Buffalo, and within five minutes, the young woman managed to catch up with the bus and boarded with a look of relief and a pinch of happiness. Our young man made sure she knew he had had a central role in the plot and followed her back to the upper section of the bus where he had left a large fabric shopping bag with his personal effects. He tried to keep the conversation going but it quickly petered off.
But when one topic fails, another can always be conjured up in the minds of the audacious. Out came the roll of cash. A tightly wound wad of hundred-dollar bills that probably amounted to serial numbers. He proudly announced to his interlocutor that he had plans to visit the casino. He asked his immediate audience where this casino was — looking above people’s heads to the outside landmarks, a little puzzled by the countryside appearance of Grand Island. I piped up, as one does when money is involved, with detailed geographical information, of an exact nature. The information was not worthy of a generous tip. Reassured, he went back to the damsel no longer in distress, trying to revive a long gone conversation.
Now within sight, the Casino was calling and our young man jumped off at the appropriate stop, while the rest of us wondered why we had not had an immediate change of plans and proposed our services to take him around the wonders of Niagara Falls, New York.
Weeks later, I could still see that wad of cash as plain as day, hovering only three feet from me. What became of our chivalrous gentleman? We were traveling through another dimension – a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind. Next stop, the Canadian border.
Months later, or months earlier, I cannot tell, on another trip to Buffalo via the Forty. As per usual, some passengers were obviously international travellers, with large suitcases on wheels, likely destined for the Buffalo Exchange Street Amtrak Station. We shall pay no attention to them, as they are only transient actors upon this stage.
There was however, that same day, an older gentleman in his Sunday Best, with a look so stern, you could have sculpted it in granite and still not done it justice. He was distinguished, maybe even haughty. But looks can be deceiving. At first, one does not pay any attention to quirks, or oddities that can sometimes take over one’s visage.
Was that a yawn? Maybe. No. There it was again! It was a fight, a power struggle between willpower, and some affliction that would take over the gentleman’s entire face. The energy he would put into controlling the uncontrollable was mesmerizing, but one mustn’t stare. Haughty gentleman no more, I felt for this poor soul who had probably spent a lifetime, fighting for control. Who was he? What was his story? I do hope a good church felt like home. His stop came up. Adieu, the next time, maybe I shall engage? Or not.
It’s August. The air conditioning is on. She’s a regular. She boards with her dad, two horses and a doll. She has no audience but herself, as the toys travel from seat to seat. Her curly hair is messy, but not unkempt. So is the doll. The toys disembark somewhere on Grand Island. Au revoir!
Fast forward, pause and rewind. Now, I am sitting on the back upper platform, it’s early April. A Hispanic man in his 40s is talking on his phone. The conversation code-switches between English and Spanish.
He’s drinking Hard Lemonade. I’m sure the rules forbid this, but this is not my country, not my bus, not my place to be the hallway monitor, time to mind my own business, that’s the Forty Way. It’s a tall yellow can of spiked juice; it’s the second can now. The conversation continues, it’s been over eight miles already. Some words slice through noise like lightning: “since my son died”.
Time to pull the cord.
We’re at Buffalo City Hall.
This is my stop.
À la prochaine!
This piece is an expanded version of a piece originally published by The Buffalo News on Saturday, May 2nd 2026 : My View: The bus from Niagara Falls to Buffalo offers priceless slices of life
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