Greyhound Chronicles: Notes on 21st Century America December 2006 - February 2007
The red line outlines my bus route, starting in Marietta, GA before heading north to Nashville, TN. I rode14,026 miles on Greyhound buses in 67 days through 39 states. The blue line indicates my trial run from Athens, GA to Phoenix, AZ (my first Greyhound Bus experience – 46 hours, 2,014 miles), where I met a friend (who thought I was nuts) and drove to San Diego, CA and then walked into Tijuana, Mexico through a turnstyle, but that story will come later.
In the beginning…December 7, 2006 (65th anniversary of Pearl Harbor) before being dropped off at the bus station. I felt like I had to get into character. Or perhaps I watched “Easy Rider” too many times. Anyway, I didn’t bring much with me. Just a backpack and a heavy coat – which I bundled up in a sleeping bag sleeve – and that was all I needed…foot powder and a Macbook as well.
Background: What the hell am I doing?
I am here to illuminate my perspective and speak clear…English, if you please…I know no other way…
Try not to be an asshole. Seems like good advice. Inevitably there will be times where you make assumptions and judgments…learn and do better. Recognition. Guilt does nothing…Turn the page and jump through the time portal…Supernova Black Hole, whatever gets you there…
I was sick of school.
One class left, and the thought of doing endless research in the library for a project made me want to vomit.
Perhaps I can do a trip and report on my travels, I thought.
It was the summer of 2006, and I was halfway done with my master’s program in journalism at the University of Georgia. I had just gotten back from a study abroad trip in Costa Rica for a creative writing class and I needed adventure.
My old roommate had already graduated and was doing writing work for a hotel website in Phoenix, AZ.
“Come on out,” E said. “I’m here.”
“Alright, pick me up at the Greyhound station around noon on Thursday.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I’m taking a 46-hour bus ride as a trial run for an idea I have.”
“Jesus,” he said. “You’ve finally lost it.”
My friend and neighbor dropped me off at the Greyhound station in downtown Athens.
“Good luck,” he said.
I was off.
I had never ridden a Greyhound bus before, and had heard some disturbing stories from people who didn’t have the best experience. But, fuck it. You can’t trust everything you hear, especially when it comes to traveling.
The bus got to the Atlanta station sometime in the afternoon. I transferred to another bus, one that would take me to Dallas, where I would transfer again for the final leg of the journey. All bus stations seem to be strategically located in the worst part of town in every town.
I took an empty seat.
“I should have killed her.”
“What?”
“I caught my girlfriend in bed with another man a few hours ago, and I’m out,” said a young guy in the seat next to me.
“I think you chose wisely,” I told him.
“Yeah, I think leaving is better as well.”
I put my headphones on and began listening to some White Stripes as the bus honked and pulled away.
Nashville, Tennessee: December 2006
Damn near 17 years. I figure it’s about time to revisit this journey. I never got off the bus.
The night before I left I arrived to my parents’ house for one last home-cooked meal. They would drop me off at the Marietta bus station in the morning.
Anything in italics is from my original journal, which I am revisiting for the first time. I’ll be going into much more detail as I tell the story, but feel I should include some of my notes for clarity and perspective…and the sheer strangeness of stepping into my younger brain…
Journal Entry December 2006:
8:45 a.m., right on time. The white narrow door swings open – ft-tshhh. I step up and through into the Greyhound bus’ metal belly with spine chilling vibrations of entering a tomb. Death and a new beginning, as is, creation out of destruction. I tiptoe to the edge of my morning mind with visions of two future months riding America’s vast ribbons of highway. Marietta, Ga., to Nashville, Tenn., a brief four and a half hour, 244-mile haul to get me warmed up. Memories of Greyhound round one come flooding back as the blue cushioned seat rattles my mind with wheel turning vibrations. What in the hell am I doing?
People sleep as the bus roars and rumbles through dark grey clouds under cool southern wind. A pale flabby man snores, feet across the aisle. Gut hangs out jiggling under sweat-stained white T-shirt, arm bent at the elbow covering his eyes.
The first time I rode Greyhound was four months ago, in August. It was a 46 hour, 2,014- mile trial run from Athens to Phoenix. I arrived in Atlanta, after a two-hour trip from Athens, quickly realizing a long haul was to come. The Atlanta Greyhound station – a tiny, dirt-hole of misery, hopelessness and anger. It’s like a jail visitation. An interesting scene, a portal into another dimention.
“God damn it! Get outta my way man. Ouch mothafucka! W-h-y don’ya watch where you go! I swear. Fool! Almost took my baby out!” Angry grimaces and oozing violence of frustration in the sweltering Greyhound jungle. Crying children with young mothers.
Naked forests and Georgia foothills pass by my window. I try to settle in, but at six feet, it’s hard. The seats are filled with curves ideal for someone who is five foot five.
The bus makes a stop outside of Dalton, Georgia. A grey-haired Mexican man reboards with a breakfast burrito from McDonald’s. The smell of ham and eggs quickly fills the bus.
“Free Christmas Dinner at Wild West BBQ. Happy Birthday Jesus!” The red ticker lights scroll on a sign across the street.
Christian America. Religion is everywhere, and the 21st century, barely out of the womb, is steeped in blood, hatred and ignorance.
A woman gazes out in blank face, taking long drags from her cigarette, boards the bus bringing the smoke with her. A snapshot of the road-weary traveler. It is a battle.
Nashville, honky tonk, country music capital U.S.A. Southern smiles and hospitality dance in the wind, except for the homeless beggars who fill the street scene. Sullen eyes, dirt-creased faces wrapped in blankets on a cold windy day.
“Hey man, spare some change? Could you help me out? I’m trying to get a blanket.” Echoes of the Nashville homeless.
“I’m not givin’ you she-it!” a southern accent filled with venom spits back without breaking stride.
“Gawd bless you,” the homeless man replies on some kind of automatic reaction without blinking.
“Well his mamma, I just said…and I told him…” ramblings from a crazed overweight man in the pity darkness of nowhere to go. He lies on a bench wrapped in a torn, faded red blanket, oblivious to all who’s around reciting old conversations or conversations never had on his slow wait for death. Smiling faces with shopping bags chatter material heaven seeing what they want to see, nothing more. The red glittery shoes are always worn, and tapped often.
