April 17  II 2009

Atlanta loomed large and sleepy in late night, early morning orange street lamps. Their flickering orange lights highlighted my own reflection in uv darkened bus windows as I found myself spending more and more time simply staring out of them in the hopes it would make this trip go faster.

I don’t honestly remember much of Atalanta, although I remembered the bus station. I’d been through there before several times years ago in several different bus trips. The bus station in Atlanta seemed crowded as well as protected by the broken-teeth rows of old, abandoned factory buildings. Brick buildings everywhere, including the station itself. I was never so glad to get off a bus in my life, as I did not have to sit and smell the armpits of Stinky Australian man who sat behind me, the reeking pot stank of Fifteen Scent, or listen to the quiet snores of Mr. Nap who, whilst saving me from losing my bus ticket–really shouldn’t sleep on large, fat, tired geeky white women.

Atlanta was cold. Atlanta was colder than I’d expected; living in Florida had spoiled me rotten against winter. I had thought all those past months of complaining about how hot it was might actually do the opposite and help me embrace my long distant Canadian winter blood. Alas, this was not so. My teeth began chattering the moment I trundled off the bus and onto the ramp leading inside. Atlanta, however, gave me my first hour and a half at a station to do several things. Up until that time Grayhound had herded us on a bus, then herded us off, then herded us in stations, herded us in lines immediately and then called for boarding even if our tickets said 2 or more hour layover.

There are no showers or any other facilities past a toilet, sink and mirror in every Grayhound station I can remember, so I packed smart. Let me just tell you plainly at this very momoment–after two days on a bus surrounded by coughing, sneezing, farting, drinking, smoking, snotty people there is nothing quiet so awesome as a baby wipe bath. A baby wipe bath that you scrub so hard you emerge pink and squeaky.  It was one of those moments where I realized how grateful I was to have a home with running water, a place to have a shower or bath if I wished.

I didn’t spend too long in there however, because as per usual with Grayhound, there was an immense line up for the Atlanta to St. Lois bus and by the size of the line? I knew boarding call was coming soon.

When we all trundled onto the bus, most of us were over tired, cold, exhausted and simply wanted to get back into our iron maiden chairs cleverly disguised as being bus seats. I didn’t pay much attention to the happy-go-lucky driver as I piled myself into a chair near the window and tried not to kill anyone with my uber-bag of emergency everything. As I was settling, I heard over the bus’ intercom, “Heh. Heh. Heh. ” I can only describe it as the most laid-back, cool, ‘heh’ I have ever heard in my life.  Was it possible to make ‘heh’ sound both as awesome as the Fonz’ eyyyyyyyyyy and as funkin’ as Shaq’s theme song?

It was. It so was.

“Ladies n’ gentlemen, welcome to the big daaaawwwwg buslines,” mellow and drawn out, he took his time pronouncing each word and made sure to dramatically pause here so he could say, “also known as Grayhound, heh, heh, heh. Just want to inform ya’ll that there will be no smokin’ in this here couch,” pronounced: cowch. “There will be no ingestin’ of alchoholic beverages of any time. Please don’t smoke in the bathrooms, s’bad for ya’ll anyway.

“Before we go on our trip I’d also like to take this opportunity to remind you that while we are all together on this here cowch, we’re all just tryin’ to get some place. So let’s spread some love out there in the world today.  We family, and I want ya’ll to treat one another like family. Ain’t nobody here to look after one another but each other, so remember that. Treat your fellow cowch passengers as you’d like to be treated, like y’treat your mom, your dad, your sister or loved one.  This how we do it–how we start spreadin’ the love all over the place, in little spots like this, you know? Then it’ll get bigger and spread more.

“I’ll be your driver all the way to St. Lois, if you need anything please feel free to ask. Thank you for choosin’ the heh big daaawwwg, grayhound.”

He was without a doubt, one of the coolest and best driver’s I ever remember having. He walked up and down the aisles after to talk to everyone while we waited for refueling to finish, smiled and listened to people.  When the trip got under way and it was time for some bus passengers to leave, he’d always remind them to ‘Spread th’ love,’ and thank them for riding the big dawg.

It didn’t seem to matter so much that the stranger sitting next to me kept elbowing my boob, or that the bus smelled like a salad of gas and shoes–I felt like perhaps there were pockets of hope scattered around the universe, just waiting for us to spread the love and reward us. That was the first time I was able to rest my head against the bus window and get several hours of sleep. The sleep was almost as glorious as the magnificent St. Lois Arch I was greeted with, awashed in the gray morning light of a cold rainy day.

I had one more day to go before arriving at Alberta. I was full of niave hope that the trip there might finally go without a hitch.

This is part III of a series of writings pertaining to Mel’s experiences traveling four days on a greyhound bus from Florida to Canada. Miss the first post? Why not read it: here? Check out the second post here

April 16th, 2009. 2:00 am – 9:00 am.

Earlier on the 15th when we arrived at the Orlando Greyhound bus station, I was in for a mightly surprise.

For three hours on the first evening when I started my trip I was literally in heaven. The bus was sparsely populated and I had two bus seats of my own to easily stretch out across. The bus, while not being new was at least relatively clean enough and it was quiet. All that changed in Orlando.

Inside the bus station was pretty much standing room only. Every seat had been taken and lines that spanned from the Greyhound boarding doors facing the parking garage, to the front entrance door spanned the building. Children were hot, bothered, cranky and screaming from within their mothers clutches. Some of them weren’t even held within their mothers clutches, they ran willynilly within the bus terminal stepping on other peoples luggage and screaming shrilly until it bounced off white-tiled walls. There may have been an air conditioner inside the Orlando bus terminal, but the humidity from everyone packed together exhaling, sweating as well as generating body heat made it as useless. Every face of nearly every person inside was twisted in some semblance of exhaustion or outright blank, soulless, oh-god-why-the-hell-did-I-take-the-bus expression.

After what seemed like the millionth time some kid kicked over my suitcase, I decided to retreat to the outside in hopes of finding some relief from the bleak, unusual hell also known as ‘inside the bus terminal’. The outside was little better than the inside of the terminal. Lined from one end of the curved single lane drive way meant for pick ups, to the other, were yellow taxis. Weaving in between the taxis were men and women begging to use stranger’s cell phones and spare cigarettes (because every 20 pack comes with an extra 5 dontcha know!).

Nearing boarding time, I head back inside thinking I might return to the sweet, sweet cave of a sparsely populated Greyhound bus from Orlando to Atlanta, Georgia.

How I was wrong. So, so, so wrong.

The line for the Orlando to Atlanta bus? It was one of those lines from one end of the terminal to the other. By the time I got myself in the right cattle-loading-lane, I was very near the end with a handful of other stragglers that moped about at the back of the line with me.

One was a young Australian fellow who I learned shortly would be traveling with me all the way from Orlando, FL, to Calgary, Canada. With me and the Aussie at the back of the line was an immense man who was a dead ringer for Michael Clarke Duncan, right down to the laugh.  He made a quip about not fitting into the seats because he was so very tall and I made a quip about not fitting in the seats due to being very fat. He laughed, loudly, his voice definitely tipping toward basso.  As I picked up my 49 pound bag of clothing, my second over-the-shoulder back of food, supplies, books and ipod as well as my camera bag…I once again thought, aw, well, maybe things are looking up despite the line!

That brief flicker of hope was cruelly snuffed when we were sardine packed within the Orlando to Atlanta bus to full capacity. No seat was left empty, no space in the above storage compartments that was  not crammed full until it creak-groaned over every little bump. I was stuck one seat directly in front of the Aussie fellow I had met in Orlando, and my seat partner was an Arabic gentlemen who spoke perhaps a handful of words in English.

As the second night wore on, I realized that the Aussie, whom I had thought earlier I might offer him some ribbon candy to see if he’d get into my van marked: Candy–(He was cute and young. Put him on roller skates and I would have called him Meals on Wheels.) –smelled like three year old sweaty gym socks and ass cheese. The scent was wafting over me as the buses air circulation system kept blowing this unwashed, ass cheese, pit fungus scent like a drill directly up my nose holes. To make things worse, every time he lifted his arms a wave of death would arise out of the dark cesspools he called armpits. I literally spent the next two hours until the Aussie went to sleep (where he finally  lowered his arms… ) struggling not to gag loudly. The icing on the cake was that the Arabic fellow who seated himself next to me fell asleep. He fell asleep on me.

I spent the next mind-numbing moments attempting to pretzel-fold my fat ass into a wafer thin greyhound seat and jostling Mr. Nap beside me so I could get comfortable. I didn’t get a wink of sleep. Every time I thought I would, the bus stopped, Mr. Nap fell asleep and slid over until his unconscious body hit mine–or someone decided to sneeze and not cover their mouths whilst doing so, spraying the people nearest them with a soup of spitsnot. To make attempts at sleep a bit more interesting at night; every single stop the bus made to pick up someone or drop them off the bus driver flicked on the lights. Now, I understand why they have to do this. Some schmuck would probably sue Greyhound if they ever tripped in the dark and got themselves a hang nail on the way down. But I am not sure those of you unfamiliar with traveling a bus at night, understand just how special these lights are. At night, these lights are like a thousand white-hot melty plastic stir-sticks jabbing into your eye to tickle or dislodge pieces of your brain stem.  They are retina raping lights! And every stop the bus driver flicked them on for seconds to illuminate the newest member of this ride to hell on their way to their seat.  One of these pupil violating stops picked up a half-drunk, horse faced beauty with limp brown hair.

The moment she stepped on the bus she was so goddamn loud you could literally hear her thinking. She settled down in her seat, which as fate would cackle about it, was one row away from being directly across from mine and behind Michael Clarke Duncan Clone’s seat. In the span of an hour, the entire bus learned this woman’s sex life, how much she liked to drink, where she lived, what she thought about “ignorant fucks who walk down the aisle with their elbows out,” and what kind of underwear she was wearing. As time appeared to limp like a freshly struck-by-a-car deer toward morning, I had visions of strangling her dancing in my head. Delicious, slow motion visions.  At 1:30 am when the bus had stopped at a convenience store, she informed the entire bus she was not fucking sleeping, no way then trundled on in to purchase an arm load of energy drinks. As everyone boarded again, they settled in some semblance of quiet.   I assume Crazy Loud Lady could not abide silence of any kind because At 2:00 am precisely she burst into “99 BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL! 99 BOTTLES OF BEER! TAKE ONE DOWN, PASS IT AROUND, 98 BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL.” To which, the Huge Michael Clarke Duncan look alike lead the majority of the bus in a hearty:  shut the fuck up, it’s two in the morning! I felt the sting of proud tears prick my eyelids as I once again attempted to sleep snapped in half against the window.

I couldn’t do it–I couldn’t grasp hold of this beautiful, illusive creature called sleep so I dug around in the carry on bag I had stuffed full of random-bus-things  for twenty minutes in the dark to find some of the cashews I was sure I had packed. On a whim, and because Arabic Mr. Nap was still awake, I offered him some cashews to eat. I think he said no thank you, and I continued to juggle the thought of committing seppaku on a packed bus.

I’m glad I offered Mr. Nap the Cashews. As we reached Atlanta and the lights clicked on for the last time, I was in a hurry to get the fuck off that bus. I wanted to stretch my legs, run around in the strange, alien cold that Atlanta had and get away from Crazy Loud Mouth Lady and Mr. Nap. As I was almost ready to step into the aisle with all my bags and leave the bus, Mr. Nap took hold of my elbow and pointed to the floor. In heavily accented English he said, “Is that your ticket?” In a panic I whirled about and look down. Sure enough! It was my ticket laying on the floor. It had fallen out of my bag with my earlier squirrel-digging when I was looking for my cashews.  I swooped down and picked it up in a hurry and thanked him profusely.

So day 2 of my 4 day Greyhound ordeal was nearing to a close and I had already learned two valuable lessons:

• Don’t give Crazy Loud Ladies energy drinks and
• remember to offer cashews to whomever naps on you encase you drop your ticket.

This trip was looking more and more fanfuckingtastic as it went!

This is part II of a series of writings pertaining to Mel’s experiences traveling four days on a greyhound bus from Florida to Canada. Miss the first post? Why not read it: here?
Credit for Stock photography in this article: bingevil-stock, prognar, lordmanchae,

On April 15th, 2009 and I stepped on a bus to travel from Florida, U.S.A, to Alberta, Canada. It would take me until April 18th to reach my destination. While on the bus, I did my best to keep sporadic notes about my experiences and trip.  Come with me on this long journey of smelly people crammed into tiny seats, share my pain.

April 15th, 6:30 pm. 3 hours on bus.

Sitting in thin, cramped uncomfortable greyhound bus seats, the Melbourne Florida international airport already seemed like a distant memory with it’s garish green palm tree and blooming red flow carpet, white walls and skylights.

It was my first bus, and although it wasn’t yet crowded I had already picked up a few interesting characters which boarded with me three hours ago at Melbourne.

The first noticeable fellow bus traveller was a young man who I immediately deemed “Fifteen cent.” Fifteen cent was a pasty pale, golden blonde haired southern white boy who I firmly believe thought he was terribly gangsta. He showed up at the airport wearing a black t-shirt that fell to the tops of his knees, covering his pants which were belted somewhere around his thighs. On this shirt, cheerily in neon colors of sunshine yellow, screaming pink and baby blue were patterns in the shape of brass knuckles. Stylin‘.

He wore his hat sideways and had a lovely pencil thin neck-beard. His moustache was also pencil thin and looked like it was sketched on his upper lip with a supremely fine calligraphy pen.

Fifteen cent started talking outside the Melbourne airport and had not stopped the entire time while on the bus. He chatted with a young woman who had blonde hair fried from the bleach used to turn it platinum while her roots of her greasy black hair crouched tell-tale at the top of her head. Fifteen cent often started his conversations, loudly –so the entire bus could hear–with such world-shattering phrases as, “I was working with the crew that built that,” pointing at what seemed to be everything as we drove by it,  and, “One time, when I was so mother fuckin’ high.” According to Fifteen cent, he built half of Florida and did so while being higher than a kite. (I don’t know about you, but I think from now on I’ll be eyeballing up several of the structures around where I live suspiciously for years to come. )

The girl he spoke to and hung around ( for I suspect, the free cigarettes she kept giving him) had her own quirks. She kept getting cell-phones calls from what I assumed to be her ex, as for the first four calls she would open her cell phone to only yell into it: FUCK OFF, then hang up.  This was jarring to me at the time, because the impression I had of her was one of mousey-ness. She was small, a touch chubby wearing a white shirt decorated with little pink flowers as well as pink scroll work. I thought she looked more like the type to collect My Little Ponies instead of barking things like, “I don’t give a shit! I don’t fucking care anymore, you’ll be charged for aggravated assault and that’s fucking that, fucker! Don’t call me anymore!”

While I half paid attention to their conversation which was inane and strewn with profanities that made me sound like a good christian church going girl in comparison, I realized that I had no clue what-so-ever in how to adjust the paper thin, hard-as-a-frozen-nipple-bus seat in which I was sitting in. Whom ever had sat in it before me had left the seat in half recline and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out where the dohickeymabob thingie to fix it, near the window seat, was. Instead of doing something logical, like ask or move over the aisle seat where I could easily find the handle to adjust the seat–I decided to sit and suffer.

During these moments of feeling intensely idiotic and making a further note to investigate how this weird scorcery that is my greyhound bus seat, I hear Fifteen Cent exclaim, “That’s the mother fuckin’ Burger King Flavor!”

I remember sliding further down in my seat and putting my head into right hand.

This was only the first day of a four-day long bus trip. I knew at that moment of Fifteen Cent’s brilliant exclamation that this was going to be the longest ride of my life. 

I had three more days to go!

This entry is part one of several entries documenting my trip to Alberta via greyhound bus. Like what you’ve read so far? Feel free to hit the subscribe button here at 2phatgeeks to get entries updated via your favorite feed reader, or if you’re from live journal, feel free to add me as a friend!