In the spirit of a new term and for all you weary sojourners, let's talk travel. And no crowing about how you packed your carry-ons to mimick Aunt Inocencia's stuffing of the turkey crevice. No, no, today is a time for reflection on an American institution -- the Greyhound bus.
Just to get you in the mood, I recommend two riffs on bussing: "Greyhound Bound for Nowhere" by Miranda Lambert and "Backseat of a Greyhound Bus" by Sara Evans. Of immediate interest is the curiosity that most songstresses wax philosophical from a spot on the backseat. This struck me because I always used to sit in the backseat, and, short of providing more leg room, it's a pretty lonely spot. Obviously they're missing the real story! After all, to truly experience Greyhound travel is neither to gaze longingly out the window at time suspended, nor to slowly tick off the scrap yard checklist as the bus gradually falls apart. Maybe one's claustrophobic ride is better spent somewhere in the vicinity of Row 10, catapulted straight into the midst of fellow passengers' antics. So, is Miranda ever correct in woefully crooning that taking a Greyhound is "a one-way ticket to nowhere"?
Perhaps we're actually going to the circus. In a recent Greyhound excursion, my best friend called me in an absolute fit, but I was forced to stammer: "Can I call you back -- um -- I've been mauled!" Barely a block into the bus journey, the cover of a fluorescent light fixture had fallen and bounced vehemently on my head -- only to render my $1.25 hot dog special splatter-painted on my front. So it begins.
"Someone is talking too loudly on her cell phone," a sleep-mask-clad curmudgeon named Charles gruffly complained from a seat in front of me and my pulsating head. Meanwhile, on my left, Dusty, the Arizonan large-machinery operator, pelted me with stories of his inadequate mother, and ... was I a virgin? Excuse me? Several seats ahead, an unidentified man could barely contain himself as we approached our exit into suburban mall-sprawl paradise. Excited into a frenzy over board games from his youth, he announced in the aisle: "I'm going to see him, Cousin Ned. You know, we haven't played since early '97."
In sharp contrast was Susan, the elderly woman from Brooklyn returning to her annual charity embroidery fair in rural New Hampshire. Of course Susan said she could afford to fly, but preferred this venue for interactive travel. Soon I learned that the Renaissance woman beside me was a patron of the arts, neighborhood trees and stray cats. She unraveled the most charming of tales -- surreal moments possible in the mundane and far surpassing mere circus tricks.
But maybe I'm sporting tinted specs. When prompted to reminisce about Greyhound travels, a number of friends spoke of a unique bouquet of odors and chronicled laundry lists of disturbed degenerates who infiltrated their personal space. The hardened criminal, the perverse mumbler, the compulsive knitter. To this, I'd say: Come on, could it be any more exciting? And not only that. People on Greyhounds are very willing to talk. To you.
So what is it about buses that encourage the wallet-sized, collapsible photo albums of life stories to be whipped out with such gusto and genuine enthusiasm? As Greyhounds are a means of transit, it's fair to say those on board are in a "transitional state," and here I borrow a phrase from the "Roadtrip!" episode of the radio show "This American Life." The same could be said for trains, cars, airplanes and tandem bikes, but the bus is a somewhat unique public space lacking both the suffocating intimacy of a family car, as well as the distractions of food and ambulation possible on a train or airplane. You're neither here nor there, in a downright uncomfortable seat for what many find to be an equally uncomfortable length of time.
Here we arrive at the more optimistic song lyrics on our column soundtrack. "She never thought this would be the palce where she would find her saving greace." Indeed. While I cannot exactly relate to Sara Evan's single, pregnant character arriving at an epiphany in close proximity to a sloshing toilet, I think she accurately voices many bus-goers' cloistered thoughts. Whatever the impetus for their Greyhound ride, the monotony of highway medians and engine hums almost necessitate a pondering of the journey. Most of us are naturally gregarious creatures. Why not share your musings with someone who will have no choice but to sit and listen to a gushing torrent of information from early childhood, awkward adolescence -- all as part of the process in explaining why you, yourself, are riding the bus and where you are going! Heaven forbid you might miss this process by merely whipping out the iPod earphones. (I should warn you, however, that tactic will not dissuade professional prattlers.) So the next time you hunker down in that threadbare grey bus upholstery, take advantage of your surroundings. You've got nowhere else to be.
Onwards!
