Waiting for the 51 is like waiting to achieve Nirvana. The sticky bench. The splat of an unidentified stain seeping into the cracks of the sidewalk (Yogurt Park and home-fermented beer don’t mix, ya dig?), the wizened cashier from your favorite Phở joint clutching a plastic bag of leftovers, the Vietnam Vet offering you sage advice in between generous swigs from a brown paper bag. The wait is long and hard-earned, but once you’re on that bus, it’ll take you anywhere and everywhere.