In just a
five-year span, we drove to southern California three times and flew there once
more. Each time, we utilized a variety
of different routes to get there, return home or both. There was always such a variety of things to
see and do, and this was well before a huge population explosion transformed nearly
every separate suburb into a free-standing city.
Since it had
been nearly a decade since those trips, we decided to make a return trip.
“Let’s do
something different this time! Let’s go
by bus!”
“OK. We’re tired of spending so many nights in
Amarillo, Albuquerque and Flagstaff, anyway!”
Well, it
sounded good at the time: a)quick
arrival, b)relatively low cost, c)a relaxing, air-conditioned motor coach excursion,
and d)in the pleasant company of new-found friends!
Boy, were
WE mistaken!
On the
morning of our departure, we had relatives drop us off at the downtown
Continental Trailways station. It didn’t
take long for us to start wondering if we had made a major mistake in traveling
cross-country in this manner.
Although we
are hardly the snobbish, hoity-toity types, we couldn’t help but notice the variety
of seemy-looking characters who were waiting to board the vehicles. Not wanting to “judge a book by its cover,” we
tried to discount appearance as merely the proper attire for seasoned bus
travelers.
We should
have trusted our intuition. We were
immediately convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that this would not resemble
a romantic Olson’s, Caravan or Maupintour holiday.
One
passenger incessantly spat into a paper cup while another kept trying to borrow
money for booze. The driver had to stop
the bus, walk to the back and tell two young men to turn down the volume of
their blaring stereo.
The guy
right behind us was filling us in on one of his favorite pastimes. “Can you believe that I served five years in
jail?” he inquired. “All I did was commit armed robbery.”
If the vast
majority of people were a little too tacky for our tastes, the restaurants—and
I use that term loosely—were even more tasteless. It seemed as though Trailways’ drivers went
out of their way to stop at every decrepit, greasy spoon of an eating
establishment in the cruddiest sections of town.
Sleeping on
the bus—yes, that’s what I said—was no picnic, either. One woman (among others) made it very difficult
for everyone. She had two crying infants
named Chucky and Tony. Practically all evening, they would make loud noises in
unison, sounding like “Aay-eee-dah!
Aay-eee-dah!” I don’t think it
was the opera they were singing, but whatever it was, it kept everyone awake.
Their mother
kept saying, “Shut up or I’m going to hit you!
Shut up or I’m going to hit you!
Shut up or I’m going to hit you!”
Needless to say, she never raised a hand to either one. So, they persisted.
The
‘highlight’ of the trip, or piece de resistance, occurred in the state of
Arizona.
As I
recall, it was a pre-teenage girl who boarded the bus around Flagstaff,
Arizona, and kept running back to the restroom to vomit. Shortly after, about halfway to Phoenix, a
middle-aged man went up to the bus driver and started threatening him.
“You better
stop this bus right now!” he demanded. “You
can’t take that girl any farther. Don’t
you know that it’s illegal to transport a sick person (maybe he was referring
to himself) across state lines?”
Maybe the
guy wasn’t aware of the fact that Flagstaff and Phoenix are in the same
state. In any case, I was sitting in the
second row and started getting the idea of grabbing the man to help restrain
him when we finally stopped to refuel.
However,
the man was promptly removed from that station by authorities who took him to
find another means of transportation.
That’s
precisely what we have done for all ensuing trips. We never again even took a bus ride across
town, let alone across the country!
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