Rest Stop/Side of the Road Stop City

Girl behind me on line for bus seems to be in the midst of a serious situation. There are tears, discussions of prescriptions called in, of having enough medication to make it, of this morning being almost too much to handle. I plan to not sit near this girl.

12:01 bus from DC to NY. I almost didn't make the 12:01 bus. Three people ahead of me, and the driver announces that the bus is full. He asks if anyone is "riding single." I raise my hand, M pushes me to the front of the line, ticket is ripped, and I'm the last one to board. Second row, aisle seat.

The overhead is full. I manage.

I see an abundance of seats. The first rows behind the driver are empty, and most people are sitting sans seatmate. Bus driver even says that the bus so empty that if we, the people in the front, wanted to talk on our phones, we should sit towards the back.

Full, empty. Liars at Greyhound. I could have been made to wait another hour for next bus because this bus driver wanted less people on the bus. I probably have been made to wait another hour for the bus because a bus driver wanted less people on the bus.

We drive. It's only 12:56.

My seatmate is quiet. She enjoys listening to music, drinking Ethos water, and eating sandwiches.

One rest stop. In Maryland, an hour into our trip. I buy a travel mug that will let the world know (a) Don't bother me, I'm crabby and (b) I made a purchase in Maryland.

I text M, I text P and plan a trip to visit her next weekend, via car.

I watch the next two episodes of Picket Fences, Season One, Disc One. I watch the last two episodes of 30 Rock, Season One, Disc One. I study.

Bus driver pulls over, gets out, and adjusts side-view mirror. Loudmouth Married Woman repeatedly tells her husband that we have a flat tire. I worry slightly, and ready myself to text M and complain. We continue.

Bus driver pulls over immediately before the Tunnel, and walks to the bathroom.

I had previously noticed on my attempt to use the bathroom that the door does not fully close, and the light will not go on because the door does not fully close. I also noticed that a broken door did not deter someone from spreading poo all over the seat and mirror. Both noted, I make my back to my seat, I slowly walk to my seat, holding the backs of chairs as the safety video tells us to, and try to figure out who did that to the bathroom. No one stands out as a suspect. I can only rule out myself, my seatmate, and the man across the aisle in Columbia Football sweatpants, and his seatmate.

4:00, I am the first one off the bus.

I thank the bus driver, and I realize that my next bus ride to DC will not be on a Greyhound.

It's been several hundred accident-free miles with you.

ticket to (not) ride

6:30 bus from New York to DC. Third row - right side of the bus - window seat. I used the overhead compartment. I'm aboard the "Pirate Ship," a nickname designated to my vessel by the Peter Pan Bus company.

Seatmate was a quiet man who enjoys sleeping and staring at his hands. Child in the seat in front of me -- so quiet I didn't know he was there until I saw his reflection in the window, and we were near Baltimore by then. The ideal Greyhound child.

I watched two Netflix - Freaks and The Green Butchers. Watched the pilot episode of Picket Fences. Studied.
Ride was fast, uneventful, and quiet.
Rainy, but fast. No rest stops, and that's the way I like it.

I wanted to take a cab from the bus station in DC to my destination.
The cab drivers usually gather outside the doors, and solicit for rides. Bother you about rides, ask where you are going even if you don't want a cab, demand to know where you live.

Not this time. Not this night. Not so easy.

Two cab drivers pull up and ask me where I am going. I tell them, and they respond by shaking their heads. No. No. No, they will not drive me. Another cab driver didn't respond, but didn't drive away. I take that as a "Get in. " I walk to the car...and he pulls away. Fairway Cab Association...I'll remember. I hold grudges.

One cab driver said yes, and then went to find MORE people to drive, and that annoyed me. I waited over 5 minutes for him to come back. He found no other eligible passengers. He'd take me "anyway." I told him that I would wait for another cab, he seemed shocked. Riders have dignity, sir. I don't want to be your last-choice passenger.

Eventually I got a cab with two other people. $7.50 plus tip.

-l

king of the road

There's a psychoanalytic construct known as Thanatos that derives its origins from Greek mythology. It is believed that this so-called "death drive" impels us to engage in risky and self-destructive behavior, which ultimately equates with our desire for death. This drive is in direct opposition with the concept of Eros or the life/love force. The two are said to create a balance to which we navigate throughout our lives. One might postulate that taking a greyhound bus every 2 weeks is a means of enacting Thanatos but sometimes its even more devious, more sinister than simply the will to constantly take in the recycled air and the smell if illegally smuggled baba ganoush.

It should stand as no surprise to those who read the greyblog that I have had my fair share of obstactles when it comes to the relatively 'simple' feat of riding the bus. I've had delays and customer service incidents, but none have been more harrowing then the realization that I had erronously misplaced ticket while already at Port Authority. While ticket fares purchased online are relatively cost effective, buying a ticket at the station is not. My first experience with this situation involved furious phone calls, a 10 dollar fee and a lot of rattled nerves. Solutions were formed, promises were made.Life quickly went back to normal.

This past Sunday as I prepared to embark on my journey, jokes are made about the whereabouts of my ticket. The present company, myself included, all had a good laugh at my expense/folly. I made a remark about "learning from my mistakes," as I patted my ticket that fit snuggly in my left coat pocket. As if a scene from a film, I shook it gingerly to make sure it was there. Sadly, life does not offer a screen shot warning us of oncoming peril, no close up shot as a cue to prepare us with a sense of forboding.

As I leer in awe of the new fish tanks at the Staten Island ferry, I am oblivious to the world as I read and listen. It is not until I am on the uptown 1 when I realize that the ticket is gone. Again. My first reaction is one of shock, as if the universe (or our roving, invisible director) is in on the joke, and how I will quickly retrieve my belonging. No such luck. I quickly become one of those people on the subway who is feverishly looking through my bag, indicating to all in my proximity that something is not quite right. I am checking my pockets repeatedly and once again patting myself down as a habit every 15 seconds hoping that somehow the ticket will mysertiously reveal itself. The contents of my overnight bag is now overflowing onto places they have no right being-the floor of the filthy subway, encroaching upon my fellow subway riders, etc. Around 18th street I have accepted the fact that it is gone, thrown into the void of mass transport where some lucky (arguable?) fuck can now ride gratis to our nations capitol.

The time for mourning has concluded by the timeI arrive at the station, although the endless thoughts about how better to spend this wasted 23 dollars will swirl around in my mind for the duration of the afternoon. Lori is the first person dialed but is unavailable leaving me to discern who among my friends and family I'll have to burden this process upon. My first few candidates strike out.
This leaves me a good ten minutes where I am sitting on the floor of Port Authority with my phone plugged into the wall reading a book. I have resigned to my fate, realizing that my carefully time constructed day has gone awry and that I am now completely at the mercy of someone else's ability to gain access to the Internet. This, along with my spot on the floor, is an overall humbling experience. It is a reminder that we are all just a few slippery steps away from being the people we silently stop to look and wonder "what exactly are they doing over there?"

It is in this self-actualized, existential moment I recognize my Thanatos and suddenly realize that this is no way to live.

cause= time

There's a tendency (I pause in calling it 'universal' although my huntch is it's just that) for us to wonder why other people are doing things at certain times while excusing ourselves.

When stuck in traffic, phrases like "Where are all these people going!?" or "_____(enter time) on ______(day)!? And it's CROWDED!?" roll off the tounge almost mechanically. It's as if the internal fool-proof scripts we've written for ourselves have malfunctioned in the cruelest and most unexpected way. Inconceivable! How could we be so off? And don't these people have somewhere to be?

Yes, presumably where we intended on going.

In my head, I demand explanations. I scan the crowd and wondering how it is we've all gotten here when everything points to us being somewhere else.

As I wait in the queue for the 11 am Tuesday bus, my mind starts racing with these thoughts. How can there be a line for a bus mid-day on a Tuesday? Don't these people have some place to be? Why am I there, you ask? I have an alibi. A perfectly good explanation for all this, as they say.

I was enjoying a three-day weekend when I was struck ill on Sunday requiring me to prolong my stay in New York thus leaving me to take the day off (from a job! A seemingly unfamilar concept for those lurking around the Port Authority!) and ride the grey steed back to our nation's capitol on Tuesday.

My stomach virus was not an epidemic. That leaves a lot of people here with some explaining to do.

As I crunch into the back seat of the bus with two people on my side, I bemoan my fate.

11 AM on a Tuesday?! Don't these people have some place to be?
-m

greyhounds of love

Todays update is from a guest blogger, Ms. Pia Agrawal purveyor of our blog brethren themattsiblog.blogspot.com.


Ever since "Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead," I have been fascinated by petty cash and expense accounts. Fancy dinners with important clients! Meetings over cocktails! New pantsuits!

Enter into the world of non-profits. Wearing whatever I want to work (i.e. no coordinated separates) means sacrifices elsewhere. I do not go to top notch restaurants when I travel; I eat pizza in Penn Station. I do not stay in four star hotels; I sleep on my sister's couch. I do not take Amtrak; I take Greyhound.

Much of this is self-imposed. My department has a budget and I'm responsible for making sure everyone stays within these means. I could take Amtrak but I think: I'm young, I have a Discman, and I can save some money for the company. What a gal! What a fool.

My most recent journey started with a tofu hoagie (love) the new Hot Chip (like) and a pile of work (loathe). I need to keep myself with my head in a book because as a woman traveling alone, I've been offered sexual favors on the greyhound more often than not. Today, unfortunately, my tactic is not working. The man across the way is staring at me, then sleeping, then staring at me, then sleeping. Am I boring to look at? Then stop staring! His head, craned forward and sideways simultaneously, and pressed into the seat in front of him, never moves despite his drifting into and out of consciousness. I wonder if he even has the ability. I spend too much time thinking about this and start to feel bad that maybe his head is always stuck in that very position. Maybe the bus is the place he feels most comfortable because it provides him a place to rest his cockamamied head. That he lives a hard life of deformity and maybe I should smile back at him out of guilt. As he licks his lips slowly in my direction - an attempt at seduction? - I decide to eat my tofu hoagie as messily as possibly in an effort to turn him off. Turn his head. It works!

But now it's Karma who rears it's ugly head. I begin to regret the timing of my sandwich eating. I am getting sick because the man behind Not Actually Deformed Man has his shoes off, his socks off, and is peeling and flaking the skin on his feet off and onto the floor. He is perfectly well groomed from the ankle up and using Bluetooth technology to conduct business. Little do his colleagues know where his hands are! I am dry heaving (even now) - maybe too loudly, hoping he'll stop but he's too busy picking and flaking and wheeling and dealing. I earned this, perhaps. I disgusted NADM and now Toe Picker is disgusting me. How far back will this chain of events go? I fear the behavior of the passengers at the back of the bus.
We arrive one hour late and I'm surprised, given all the extra time, that Toe Picker hasn't exposed his lumbrical muscles.

The trip back is less repulsive but no better. It takes 90 minutes just to get to the New York side of the Tunnel and I'm being 'pssst'ed at nearly the entire time. The woman next to me is playing a dating game on her phone and it's depressing me beyond recognition. I can't drink the beer I snuck onto the bus because, ironically, I don't want to come off as sketchy or creepy to the other passengers. Why should I care? I am one of them. I smell like bus. I smell so much like bus and while I sit there, I vow never to do this again. I will take advantage of my expense account just like Sue Ellen Crandell consequences be damned.

On the walk home, I sadly remember that I'll be doing this again in merely three days for personal reasons. If only life had an expense account!

m & l: here's to the power of love. I cannot believe you do this every week.

the people must have something good to read on sunday

with an unprescendented resolve, I am ready to have a productive busride. With no obnoxious screenings of "Just Like Heaven" in the coach to stop me, I pick up my copy of "Democracy and Education" and do my best to command the respect of all those around me. I am here to do work, goddammit. I am here to get things done. Then, it happens.
PFFFFFPT!
what is this??! I turn around and try to find this infantile mysterio who has the audacity to make raspberry noises! My search concludes with nary a single baby on the bus. I chalk it up to a fluke-one of those rare but not all-together unheard of occasions where the wheels on the bus sound like a human's tounge applying pressure to its lips.
I begin reading. I am anxious, reading each line with great trepidation. Nothing. Two pages go by and bam! I am awoken from my academic slumber once again this time with a chuckle! I am taken off-guard. As I slowly turn around, it becomes evident that a large schizophrenic gentleman and I are both taking a trip to our nation's capitol. He appears to be having a much grander time than I, blowing bubbles and all. When I turn around, I can now hear him muttering unintelligbly. He is seated by himself. How did I miss this? How did everyone else miss this?
I become amazed that this man is not only traveling by himself but also has the capacity to purchase a $40 dollar ticket (ANOTHER INCREASE IN PRICE!).
All of these thoughts leave me after I turn around again. He looks at me dead into the eye. Hethen proceeds to stick out his tounge and blow. I put on my portable DVD player and watch episodes of "The Wire" until the only thing I hear is the fictious jive of the streets of Baltimore.

John Dewey defines communication as a process of sharing experience till it becomes a common possession. Clearly, he never rode the bus.

for tonight so that i might see

I take a later bus than anticipated due to work obligations. I take my time getting to the station-always a mistake. Due to the unpredictable nature of all things Greyhound, it is best to get there early. Case in point: turns out I checked the incorrect option when scheduling my bus and was required to print out an e-ticket instead of my preferred method of ticket retrevial, will-call. I panic. This has happened once before so I know that a customer service representative can help, but it becomes a question of whether they will.
Myself: "So where can I print out this email? Do you have any suggestions in the area?"
Customer Representative: "I think there might be a hotel around here? There's probably a library somewhere too..."
M:"Do you know the actual locations of any of these places?"
CR:"No. Try Union Station."
M:"Do they have printers available, do you know?"
CR:"No. But it's big there."

These negotiations are ardeous and going nowhere. After looking around to size up any viable options, I decide to head back to the service desk for a second opinion. It should be noted that during this entire time, I am merely feet away from an empty office with a visible computer and printer.

Myself: "Hi. I just spoke to someone else a couple of minutes ago...Is there anyway you can print out my E-Ticket? I'm really sorry but I don't know where else to do this"
CR: "Have you tried Union Station?" *
M: "No, not yet. I was wondering if there was any way you could just use that printer in that empty office over there? (Points to the office with printer that is in line of sight with the both of us)
CR: "Let me see what I can do"

Ten minutes later, my ticket is indeed printed and I am on the bus. There is no moral here. My only epiphany came while watching Down by Law, realizing that it is the third Roberto Benigni film I've watched on a bus.



*it should be noted for those of you not familar with Washington DC that getting to Union Station, the believed answer to any/all travelers woes, requires getting on the Metro one stop or at least a 20 minute walk.