Westward Bound: The Great Greyhound Adventure of 2007, part 1

I’ve left out a lot of the boring details about planning the trip. I know that you all wanted to read every bit of minutia that had an impact on the journey, but it’s pretty boring. With this in mind, let it suffice that I tell you what I packed, as it may give you a pretty accurate image of the type of person who would choose to take a bus cross country:

external frame backpack – so I seem as much like a Man on a Journey as I can. This would prove to be not my best idea, as it was very big, and very hard to put on and take off.

clothes – obviously I brought clothes – several t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, a pair of shorts, and a change of shoes. (also socks and underwear…duh)

a tent – we had plans to stay in a few KOAs along the way. This is cheap, and therefore ideal. So we decided to bring our own lodging to keep expenses down.

food – we didn’t want to spend any more money than we had to at restaurants and such, so we packed a lot of food. – most of it was tuna pouches, dried fruit, crackers, a jar of peanut butter (which would not survive, i’ll get to that later) cans of chicken salad, beef jerky, and these little parfait cups we got from Costco.

a nalgene bottle – you know…for drinking stuff.

mp3 player – I anticipated some times where this might, MIGHT come in handy.

books books books – I brought a ton of books. In fact one of my carry on bags was devoted almost entirely to books I had brought. I will mention which book I read on what part of the trip…if I can remember.

and that’s it… oh and a sleeping bag. … and that’s it.

All of that could probably stand to be included in the prologue, but I’m lazy, so there it remains.

With all of that out of the way, I shall begin…at the beginning, and rather unceremoniously at that:

We pulled into the Greyhound station, located on Dorchester Road. For those of you who don’t live in the Charleston area, I’ll give a bit of advise about Dorchester Road. Don’t. Go. On. Dorchester Road. You should avoid this area whenever you can. Unless you need to visit the Hayloft (a gentleman’s club), Generation XXX (it’s not a sweets shop…though they may actually have candy there), or stay at the Howard Johnson, there is no reason to go on Dorchester Road, at least around the Interstate. Alas, this is where our journey must begin, and it does not speak well of what the status of other greyhound stations will be or the locales where they will reside. Of course, I am very excited.

We get inside the station. It’s dimly lit, slightly grimy, and it generally gives you the desire to wash your hands often. We approach the counter to purchase our passes that will be the gateway to this great nation of ours. The attendant seems slightly confused, and it becomes apparent that he does not sell many passes to people to ride greyhound an unlimited number of times within a two week time frame. After a little time, he figures everything out, and, on his computer, which resembles the one used by Matthew Broderick in “War Games,” types in our information,  and prints out our passes, as well as our first ticket – to Lexington, KY by way of Atlanta, GA.

Our friendly Greyhound attendant informs us that our passes are irreplaceable, and that we should keep them safe the whole time, lest we be stranded somewhere in Nowhere, USA. This is nice of him to tell us this, but now, of course, I am cursed to be constantly checking my pocket to make sure I have my pass. This ritual will be conducted about every 30 minutes throughout the trip…even in my sleep….especially in my sleep.

We sit down and wait for the bus that will take us to Atlanta. I take my seat next to a young couple, who are heading up to Myrtle Beach. The man resembles a rough mix between Kevin Federline and the lead singer from Smash Mouth. He is wearing a wife beater t-shirt, black, underneath a camouflage buttoned shirt. He has on an Atlanta Braves baseball cap. The woman, who is either his girlfriend or his wife, is clearly very pregnant. She is very petite and is one of those women who, when pregnant, is still in exactly the same shape as she was before, with the main exception of a giant belly housing a baby. She has her blonde hair pulled back tight in a pony tail – it is very clear that she has had it dyed.

The flies in the Charleston station are nearly unbearable. The seats are generally uncomfortable, and, being July 6th in South Carolina, there is no respite from the heat outside, save from some ceiling fans, which seem to be acting in existential futility. I look around and notice a sign prohibiting, among other things, the following: knives, explosives, guns, brass knuckles, drugs, alcohol, and suspicious items. To a normal person (i.e. my companion on this journey) this does not bode well that there needs to be so large a sign to ensure that no one is stabbed, shot, or blown up on the bus. I however, simply chalk it up to part of the “experience.”

Our bus is very late coming in. We begin our trip about an hour and a half behind schedule. This is not too bad, since we have a three hour layover to look forward to in Atlanta. Here’s a quick fact you may not know about riding the bus, or rather, two facts. One, the buses are not synchronized together. If one bus is late, you better just hope that your next bus is also late, or that you have a lengthy layover that can be shortened. Two, there are no assigned seats on the bus. It is all first come, first serve, and they don’t keep track, usually, of how many people have tickets for a bus. So if you purchase a bus ticket, this does not guarantee you a specific seat… or a seat at all on this bus, if you were late getting in line.

Our bus finally arrives. We load our stuff in the storage compartments, (Also, you transport your own luggage 98% of the time) and get our seat. So far, so good. No problems, no complaints, now we just have to wait to get moving. We get moving. Our first stop is Orangeburg, and our first transfer point is Columbia. We are traveling on I-26 for this first leg. This is the worst part of the entire trip. When you’ve driven a route a million times, as I have from Charleston to Columbia, down I-26, nothing is more painful than to do it on a bus. The reason for this is that you have a preset notion of how long it takes to get from here to there, and the bus has no consideration for that notion, and will take however damn long it wants. This is fine for the rest of the trip, since I don’t care about how long certain legs will take, but this first leg is just painful.

To pass the time, I begin reading Speaker for the Dead by Orson Scott Card. As I read the book, a teenager comments on the awesomeness of my reading selection. The rapscallion does not appear to be a nerd, yet his affinity for Science Fiction says otherwise. I strike up some conversation with him regarding the book preceding SftD, Ender’s Game. He asks me if I have it with me, as he would like something to read for at least the rest of the way to Columbia. I don’t have it with me, but I dive into my giant bag of books and pull out Frank Herbert’s Dune. I have not read it yet, and was hoping to do so on the bus, but I give it to him to at least have something to read.

Nothing notably exciting happens for the rest of the trip. I read, and try to distract myself from the familiar route that seems to be taking an eternity. I do so very well, in fact, for before long we are in beautiful Columbia, SC. Now this…this is what a bus station should look like. My hope in the trip is slightly restored. It resembles a bus station and not simply a sketchy office where you can catch the bus outside. The main reason for Charleston’s delapidated bus station is that it is not an actual Greyhound station. Greyhound does not run to or through Charleston, but Southeaster Stages and Carolina Trailways do. Both of these link up with Greyhound, but it is on the former that we began our journey.

My new sci-fi friend hands me my book. He says that he is getting off here, and transferring to a bus to New York. I am not switching buses, but staying on to Atlanta, where I will switch. I take my book back, grab my pen, and write in the front of the book, my name and address. I tell him to keep the book, and if he wants to, he can mail it back to me…or not, it’s not that important. He thanks me, and departs the bus. I never see him, nor the book again.

I will end this segment here. I’m writing a lot more than I thought I would be, and I apologize if it’s too boring. Let me know and I’ll shorten it up for future posts. But before I end this part entirely, I will share with you the following conversation that occurred as we were about to leave the Columbia Station:

Bus Driver: Can I have your attention, is William Mason on the bus?
-man raises his hand-
B.D.: Sir your ticket does not take you beyond this stop, you will have to get off at this point.
Man: But..but..but, I have my ticket right here.
B.D.: And it is not good for the rest of the way, you’ll have to get off.
Man: It’s good for Atlanta though.
B.D.: Sir what’s your name?
Man: Ernie.
B.D.: What’s your last name?
Man: Oakley.
-bus driver shakes her head, mumbles, and walks off the bus.

Now this is the type of adventure I was looking for. The next post should take you through Atlanta to Lexington, KY, but I wont make any promises.

~ by aeqvitas on February 1, 2008.