From my legs, which are now blue-tinged due to the overzealous air conditioning, to my neighbor's scent invading my nostrils, (he is slipping gracefully into senility, and by gracefully I compare him generously to a fish out of water) - I have found my hell.
Some will simply call it an eleven hour trip on a Greyhound bus; I call it my Dante's Inferno, the seventh layer. It began with a "brief" one hour delay; waiting with a three-year old's intriguing questions echoing in my skull. After the bus finally showed up in that bland heater I so lovingly call Tucson, I met Her. She marched straight out of boot camp to grace us as our bus driver. So after we were all treated to her sadistic line up, I was crammed in the front row next to a man suffering from a severe case of halitosis; let's call him Mr. Lack-of-Oral-Hygiene.
Things seemed to go smoothly up to Phoenix, where there awaited me yet another one hour layover. Then, making the mistake of asking a disgruntled employee (there's one at every office, but I have discovered their hive) which shabby door would be my gate, I proceeded to get hit on for 15 minutes by a man who could have easily passed for my father, except much uglier. I crammed myself behind the vending machine trying to remind myself as to why I was putting myself through this form of destruction.
When my bus finally made its appearance (I ran to the gate, and I am NOT a runner) we had a new bus driver who left my sarcasm in the dust. I haven't been treated like a pay check since my brief stint on Miracle Mile, but she made me feel right at home. as long as I stayed in line and didn't make eye contact. I suppose she figured the longer we waited, the more her check would increase. A question I would like to pose is: How thorough are the background checks on these drivers? She was on her cell phone the entire time.while driving a freaking bus. She could have been a serial killer of some sort conferring with her accomplices, and I was entrusted in her care.
Being crammed in a death trap with 55 large, smelly people is not my idea of fun and easy travel. She drove like a bat out of hell and we were averaging 50 miles per hour. My ass went numb about every three hours, the guy next to me kept snoring, and I was dying for some fresh air - but I made it to California. From there, I suffered through darting between semis and racing mini-scooters. By the time I was about to jump into traffic and play tag with those mini-scooters, I remembered why I came. Through the thick cloud of purple smog lay that breath-taking view. Los Angeles at night - the reason I came home to the city. Oh, and there's always a friendship that will never die, and a whole lot of drinking going on!
In conclusion, don't sell your soul to Greyhound: Splurge, fly, and savor your complementary peanuts.
About the Author
Andrea Williams is a writer finally freed from the country to transcend the concrete jungle of Los Angeles. Poetry is her bag, man. She wants to become a world famous author, but would settle for ruler of the world. She's currently studying Journalism at one of the many poor people's schools we in California call Community Colleges. Alliteration rocks.
My curse is my gift. My nightmares, deep sensitivity, and emotional instability gives the best (and most uncomfortable) inspirations I could ever have. For me, art is passion - and visions are the mirror, which show my feelings and connect me with the rest of the world. Read More...
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