The real life adventures of
our very own world traveler.

Your hostess claims to be a former debutante and third-runner up, Miss Teen New York, 1989. She was raised on the wrong side of town in a central Long Island suburb on a steady diet of delusion and watercress sandwiches. Join Ms. B and her delightful manservant Stan on a wacky romp through the Southern Hemisphere and beyond.

Last autumn, Ms. B had a dream. Not a vision for her people, per se (MLK Ms. B is not), but a dream about herself, of course. In it she was driving a massive, groaning New York City bus. Her clothes were functional yet fashionable: a pair of MTA-issue solid blue workingman's pants with charcoal piping. A single bead of sweat clung to her clavicle and the sleeves of the starched uniform shirt were hastily rolled to reveal her still-feminine arms, well-toned from whipping that big wheel around. Every passenger greeted Ms B by name as they mounted her stairs: man and woman, toddler and adult worshipped her power...

What did all this mean? Ms. B wondered as she removed her eyeshade and groped for her Evian facial mist. Could she possibly have tired of her glamourous life in the world's most fabulous city? Resisting the impulse to fax her analyst, who was ashramming with his mother, she immediately paged her valet Stan, whom she'd foolishly given the morning off. Fortunately, he was at the oxygen bar just down the street and arrived in time to fetch Ms. B a freshly brewed coffee in her "Too Hot to Handle" mug. Stan naturally assumed she was joking when Ms. B explained that she wished to drive a bus. He had indulged her earlier work fantasies, even supported her on a continual quest to be down with the common people. But he wisely pointed out that Ms. B had never driven a car, much less a bus, in her life. Did she realize how big the gear box was in one of those?