Blogatron

Merry Trails to You (The Requisite Traveling Whinge)

I've had quite a Christmas. I got snowed in by a record-breaking storm, ate enough to make three strong men fall to their knees and whimper "...please...no more cookies...in the name of all that is holy!" and received so much in comparison to what I gave as to give the phrase "making out like a bandit" a new, ominously literal, meaning. I come to you with a newly intensified sugar addiction, loads of cash and goodies in pocket, and nothing to contribute but these observations from various bus rides, all of which have probably been done before and better than this. Be kind. None of my pants fit anymore!

Meditations on Traveling

Why do I always feel the need to clean the house before leaving on a trip? I have no such compulsion while I'm actually here, but as soon as I know I'm leaving overnight I need to tidy up, do all the dishes, vacuum, the works. The only explanation is that there is a teeny tiny mom living in my brain saying, "What if your bus crashes and people need to come collect your things? What if there's a fire? You want people to see you live like this?"*

What is with the snacks? I am compelled to bring food with me no matter what the length of the journey, as though instead of a 90-minute bus ride I am going a-pioneering, and must prepare for the possibility that I will be trapped in the stagecoach by wolves. Except, pioneers did not have Diet Coke, Hostess products or Cheez-Its. But this doesn't stop me from vending my little heart out whenever I get near interstate transportation.

I come from thrifty stock. I have been on many, many buses, in all types of weather. I know that buses are equipped with climate control systems, and I know that they use them. I mean, that violent gust of air coming from above and mussing my coiffure must mean something, right? Yet I don't recall a single trip where the temperature and humidity combined to create something resembling comfort. Instead I spend nearly every bus ride donning and removing approximately fifteen thousand clothing layer combinations in an effort to maintain core temperature. How do they do that?

Saturday was an amusing bus-riding day. Saturday Josh and I were to travel from Boston to Concord, New Hampshire on the first leg of our Eastern Seaboard Winter Holiday Whirlwind Tour. When we arrived at the terminal with tickets in hand, we were confronted with A Line. This was startling. I don't believe I've ever waited in line with more than five people for the bus to Concord, except for one time when I traveled at rush hour and rode with all the sleepy grumpy commuters. On this particular Saturday, however, oh so many people wanted to go to Concord. So many that people kept asking if ours was the line for New York City. So many that a Concord Trailways representative came out of his booth, goggled at us, and said "You're all going to Concord?!?" in a movie-perfect tone of befuddlement tinged with fear. So many that I got caught up in the fever and plunged headlong into the first free seat I came across, abandoning Josh to wander to the back of the bus and discover the many empty pairs of seats that would have been available to us there, had I not been so hasty. Ah well.

(It's possible that you may have to not only have been there but to have spent some time as a disaffected youth in Concord for this to be funny. I think the universal shock that all these people would want to go to Concord, like, huh? was what got me.)

I must remember to screen people more carefully instead of turning up the Stand-Offish Dial to full throttle when they try to talk to me on the bus. I overheard the single most scandal- and drama-filled conversation ever, this week, between two Instant Bus Friends. Didn't even need to crack my book. Had either of them sat next to me, I would never have known about her crazy family, crime-ridden past, or sexual exploits.

Dude. Greyhound. I know other people have bitched about this before, but: who do you think is riding the bus anyway? I am modeled on the shortish human female type, and yet it becomes increasingly difficult for even me to cram myself into the tiny amount of leg room you allow per passenger. What is going on? I am beginning to suspect that you would prefer us to stand. You could just give up the pretense and build us pens, like cattle, so we don't have room to fall over.

I could travel anywhere, for any amount of time, with the utmost serenity if it were possible to bring with me a small hyperspace portal leading to my own bathroom. Not that I'm criticizing the bathrooms of my various hosts, all of which were lovely. But my bathroom contains my Products. I know where the towels go. I understand the ins and outs of the shower. And then there's the wonderful thought of never, ever, having to decide between a bladder infection and the lurchy, smelly, damp horror that is the bus bathroom again. Oh, yeah.

*My real mom never says things like this. My inner mom is the Universal Nagging Mom and does not reflect any person, living or dead. Back

Posted by hilatron at December 27, 2002 05:15 PM