Greyhound Fever

Mon, 19 Nov 2007 01:20:59 GMT

I spent my 62nd birthday at Qualicum Beach, Vancouver Island, with three other generations of my matriarchal line: my mother Katinka, daughter Elizabeth, and granddaughter Kestrel. Such an event deserves to be memorialized.

TUESDAY, June 20, 2006:

Good day for travelling. Cool, but not too cool, no rain. The only problem was the heavy construction on the Trans-Canada highway from Nipigon westward. I got on the bus with an empty stomach because I was recovering from a gall attack, and nibbled on nutrition bars along the way.

We sat at Dorion for fifteen minutes or so until an abulance arrived. One of the passengers, en route to Thunder Bay for a cardiology appointment, had chest pain. Two female paramedics tended him, put him on oxygen, and then escorted him out of the bus to board the ambulance for Nipigon. I thought that navigating the steps of a Greyhound would be the last thing I would want to do while in cardiac distress.

I made intermittent contact with a beautiful Japanese lady and her daughter, who got on at Geraldton. The mother kept writing notes in a little book in immaculate ideograms. The daughter was writing a running description of her trip in large, enthusiastic, eminently readable English. I told her that she was a good writer, and she told me that she really enjoyed doing it. I told her that I liked writing stories too, and we found common ground. The ambulance incident was recorded as it happened.

We arrived in Thunder Bay an hour late, but with plenty of time for a bite to eat before boarding the connecting bus. It had more passengers than I expected, so I had to ask a nice young lady to move her stuff and let me be her seat mate. She was part of a party from Montreal, and had already spent two nights on the bus. "It's a big trip," she commented. I assumed they were students on a quest to see more of their home and native land, but it is more likely that they were migrant fruit pickers coming to harvest cherries in the Okanagan. I encountered two more waves of cherry pickers later in my trip. Note to self: avoid travelling by bus during the migration of the fruit-pickers.

Two policemen armed with tasers met the bus during our rest stop in Dryden. A passenger was complaining of the loss of his leather jacket with his ticket in the pocket. I thought he had zero chance of recovering it, but the jacket was found and a tall, muscular passenger was taken into custody. According to what I heard, the alleged culprit had boarded the bus earlier and made friends with everyone he could, all the while slipping stray items into his duffle bag.

We were two hours late by the time I got off at the Kenora bus terminal at 9PM. Oops -- it had been moved since my last visit to Kenora. I dragged my luggage across the highway to the pay phones at the Husky and called the Comfort Inn, the first in my list of possibilities. Good choice -- this motel was located just a block from the terminal. Just a tiny problem -- they were full. I asked if they knew of any vacancies in town, and the lady suggested Travelodge. While I had her on the line, I had the presence of mind to ask for a taxi telephone number. I phoned Travelodge to verify that they had space, and then called the taxi. I arrived in time to snagged the second-last vacant room at the Travelodge. The lady at the desk said this often happened during the construction season, and expressed her sympathy for exhausted tourists who could not find room at the inn. "I feel like taking them all home with me," she said. An American couple arrived shortly afterwards, and were informed that the only available room was a suite with a teddy bear theme. They inspected it, and decided to keep moving on in the hopes of finding something more to their liking in Dryden. I wonder where they ended up that night. According to the desk lady, Dryden was the primary site for construction crews, and Kenora was just catching the overflow.

After dragging my luggage through the pool area (which was the only way to access my room from indoors), settling in, and going to a convenience store for some juice & snacks, little time remained to admire my accommodations. I was just grateful that the bed was comfortable. I didn't even turn on the TV before I snuggled down for the night. My alarm clock was set for 3:30AM, with a wake-up request at the desk for 4 AM, just in case I failed to respond.

Wednesday, June 21

I got up on schedule at 3:30 AM. It helped a bit that I had crossed into a new time zone and it was an hour later in Hearst, where I had started out at 6AM the day before. I even managed a shower before checking out, calling a cab to take me back to the bus terminal, and having a wake-up bagel and water at Tim Horton's. I was afraid to try coffee because my stomach was still queasy.

The 5AM bus was less than half-full, so I had a seat to myself to doze in. By the time I got to Brandon, Manitoba, I was feeling healthy and optimistic, and decided to have real food for lunch. A two-piece fried chicken dinner, no fries. Wow! Tasted great! I had the world by the tail until my gall bladder started retaliating around 4 PM. Just three more hours, I told myself, just tough it out for three more hours, and then you can have a nice relaxing evening in Regina and be in top shape by morning. The bus wasn't leaving until 7 AM -- piece of cake.

Around this time, the bus driver was inspired to pop Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood into the VCR. I loved that film! It made me howl with laughter a couple of times, and raised my pain threshold. Thank you, Sandra Bullock & company!!!

When I arrived at the Regina terminal, I stashed my suitcase in a locker and set out on foot with my other luggage (carry-on and duffel bag with overnight essentials). I had decided to bunk down at one of the downtown hotels, which would be more expensive, but would not require taxis. Rain started misting down.

The downtown hotels were full -- Farm Progress Show. A biiiiig show. By the time I realized that there was no room at the nearby inns, my bus had departed. I decided to walk down to a fleabag-style motel I had stayed at on a previous trip -- surely delegates to the Farm Progress Show would not patronize a place like that.

Wrong. The place was full up.

I kept walking, hoping that I would spot some other suitable haven. It was raining, but the exercise was relieving the pain in my side. I stopped at a convenience store at Victoria and Arcola and used the pay phone to phone an outlying hotel where I thought I had spotted a VACANCY sign on the way in. No luck.

One of the customers, a young man in a cowboy hat, paused on the way in. "Are you all right, Ma'am?"

I told him that I was unable to find a hotel for the night and was about to call a cab to take me back to the bus terminal to wait for the next bus. He volunteered to drive me there in his muscle truck. I told him I was sure that he was a very nice person, but my mother had told me never to accept rides from strangers. He told me he understood perfectly, and went into the store.

I tried one more hotel. Nothing available. I looked up a taxi number and dialled it.

Mr. Cowboy Hat emerged from the store, carrying a bag of milk in one hand and a carton of milk in the other. He looked at me. "Let me give you a ride."

The taxi dispatcher came on the line. Time seemed to stop for a minute. Something in my gut said I could trust this man, and I followed it. I apologized to the dispatcher and hung up.

"Somebody who buys that much milk can't be all bad," I said as my benefactor stowed my luggage in the back seat of his truck among heaps of assorted litter. Just like our vehicles. Would a Bad Guy stash all this normal-looking stuff in his truck? Fact is, I was too sick and tired and wet to be scared.

Once he had me safely in his truck, Mr. Cowboy Hat showed his true colours. He dug out his telephone directory and started making call after call in search of a room. He even phoned the bus terminal to see what time the next bus left.

"One-twenty AM!" he exclaimed. "No wonder they don't get any business." I didn't tell him that five-hour waits for a connection in the middle of the night were routine for bus passengers passing through Hearst.

He continued calling, fielding a couple of incoming business calls at the same time, and becoming more and more frustrated. "I can't believe this! Now I understand why they wouldn't let us host the Grey Cup."

I was having a little trouble believing it myself. I had always thought of Regina as a city with lots of hotels. But it was becoming increasingly apparent that I had to go with my final back-up plan -- retrieve my suitcase before the terminal closed and wait for the next bus in Robin's Donuts, thanking God for the hospitality of 24-hour coffee joints.

"Just take me back to the bus terminal," I said.

"But you'd be stuck in downtown Regina!" he protested. He had made my problem his problem, and was determined to see this to the bitter end.

He phoned a friend who rented furnished suites by the month to see if he could slip me into a vacant one for the night. His landlord friend did not pick up the phone. Undeterred, he called a friend who had recently moved from one of the suites and wheeled over to get his key. He then made arrangements for someone else to pick up the key in the morning.

He took me to a house on Angus Street. "This is a nice neighbourhood," he reassured me. He hauled my luggage upstairs and gave me a tour, apologizing for the fact that there was no food in the fridge. "I think the TV works." (It did, but the cable service had been disconnected.)

Just before he left, I asked him to make a time call for a cab in the morning.

"What's your name?"

"Christine."

"Can I take your picture?" he asked, holding up his cell phone. "To show my wife."

"Oh -- so she can see what the other woman looks like?"

"It's nice to see you smile," he said as he took his picture.

Before he rode off into the sunset, I asked him his name.

"Rod."

I told him that it meant a great deal to me to know that there are still decent people in the world. That was my non-theological way of thanking him for being my angel that night.

I walked a block to a gas station for juice. No need for food -- I was still sick.

I longed for a leisurely bath, but decided to take a shower rather than getting the tub dirty. There were no cleaning supplies, but there were sheets on the bed and towels in both bathrooms.

As I got sorted out for the night, I reflected on the possible consequences of being in a suite without the owner's knowledge. Suppose he decided to come in with friends -- that would be a re-enactment of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Suppose the neighbours saw a light and phoned the police. How was I going to explain that I had been dropped off by an anonymous benefactor named Rod?

I took a sleeping pill. My life was out of control, and all I could do was trust that things would work out for the best.

THURSDAY, June 22. No one disturbed my rest, and the cab arrived right on time. At 6:45 AM, there were 55 passengers in line for the west-bound bus, whose capacity is 55. About half of them were francophone cherry pickers bound for the Okanagan. This particular group did not impress me as favourably as the ones I had encountered before. When the re-boarding process was compIete, there were nine seats left. The bus driver (female) started boarding passengers one by one and getting them settled in their seats. She had to ask people to move to accommodate a parent with a small child. "There is another option," she announced hopefully. "The noon bus will be empty." While I was watching all this, I decided that I would abstain from the full bus experience and wait for the next one. The bus driver was very supportive of the idea. "If I were travelling, that's what I would do. It's much more comfortable to have a seat to yourself." Only problem was, the baggage handlers had already stuffed my luggage into the appropriate compartment. They were marvellously cheerful and helpful about digging it out, and volunteered to put it into the freight room for me and load it whent he time came. "It will still be our shift then," one of them told me. He pointed to his partner. "Just watch for the ugly guy in shorts."

I walked over to the Cornwall Centre, which had a surprising number of people wandering around in it, considering that most of the stores did not open until 10:30. The Great Canadian Bagel was open for business, and I risked ingesting an unbuttered bagel and juice. The mall was even spiffier than I remembered it, with shiny floors, good air flow, interesting sculpture, and ample luxury seating. Just what I needed. After a while, I wandered around the neighbourhood and visited the banking machine at the CIBC. An elderly lady was waiting for the bank to open so she could interact with a live person. She recognized me from the street, and we engaged in a discussion about the technological society and other heavy matters. By the time I got back to the Cornwall Centre, the stores were open. I bought a pillow and a romance book. I was much more settled by the time I boarded my bus, which had only 11 passengers.

A young teen-ager attached herself to me and accompanied me to Tim Horton's in Medicine Hat. Good thing, too -- I probably would never have found it without her. Getting food & stationary bathrooms on bus trips is much more of a challenge than it used to be. Terminals have reduced their hours and are often locked when the bus arrives, and many of the restaurants have been closed. I shared my sandwich with an elderly lady who was not sufficiently mobile to complete the trek in the time allotted. She was disappointed because she had been counting on having a leisurely supper at the restaurant which no longer existed. Even if it had been open, the stop-over was too short for a meal. She was touched that I would share with her. I considered her my angel, keeping me from overburdening my gall bladder. My reward was a pain-free night -- gut-pain-free, anyway. My knees were another story.

Another lady, Barbara, started making the occasional comment across the aisle, and eventually I moved up for a tete-a-tete. She had recognized me from the early-bus line-up, and congratulated me on my decision not to board it. She said the cherry pickers were rowdy and the bus driver kicked some of them off the bus & forced them to walk to the next rest stop. One of them was using some sterno, which triggered Barbara's asthma. An ambulance took her to ER in Maple Creek. After treatment, she boarded the next available bus. Barbara really needed to talk about her experience in a strange hospital in a strange town, completely at the mercy of people she had never met She said she was treated very well, but her children almost had nervous breakdowns when she phoned them. Barbara is from Thunder Bay and active in Anglican Church Women. She managed to see God's hand in the whole experience, especially my decision to wait for the later bus.

11:30 PM in Calgary. Barbara's son met her, and she insisted on having our picture taken. I put my arm around her, and next thing I knew, we were in a buddy hug that looked like we had known each other for years. Travel woes have a way of bringing people closer in a hurry.

The connecting bus had a huge line-up, including another batch of cherry pickers. "This one is always crowded," the man at the desk told me. Instead of going straight through along the Trans-Canada highway, it meandered through the Okanagan. I had a pleasant seat-mate who slept fairly well, but my night was less than peaceful. Some of the young people slept on the floor and it was hell on wheels to get to the bathroom. One helpful young man lit my way through the maze with his cigarette lighter.

FRIDAY: I wondered about the logic of having a 45-minute stop in Golden, BC at 3 AM, but took advantage of the opportunity to unknot my legs. When daylight came, the mountains were just as beautiful as I remembered them. Once the cherry pickers got off, I had a peaceful tour through the Okanagan, dozing intermittently. The weather was perfect & I started feeling better and better. My only regret was that I couldn't get off and explore. The bus soon filled up again, and some passengers waiting at the bus terminals were turned asway.

The bus was late arriving in Vancouver -- that omnipresent construction again! I had 25 minutes to buy a ticket, go to the bathroom, & board the PCL coach (PCL has no onboard bathrooms). Made it, enjoyed the ferry ride, made a couple of phone calls, bought a new T-shirt. In Victoria, the driver dropped me at the Hillside bus stop, so I didn't need a cab.

I really appreciated the bed in Katinka's suite.

July 10, 2007.

They must have been drinking. There is no other explanation.

"Bob -- ol' buddy -- tsh time t' blow the old popsicle stand an' move on."

"I hear you, Horowitz, I hear you. We're getting nowhere with our dead-end jobs, and Fotheringham is one lousy SOB. But we need regular money for beer an' cigars."

"Lez go into business fer ourselves!"

"Great idea, HH. But what would we do?"

"Lessee -- drug trade is too dangerous. Too many drunks in th'hotel trade. Manufacturin' . Thazzit. Manufacturin'! Lez get a guv'ment grant an' make somethin'."

"Sounds promising. What would we make? We don't have any special skills for making things."

"How be we cut up pictures and sell 'em to people?"

"I'm not following you here, HH. Why would people want cut-up pictures?"

"So they can put 'em back together again!"

"You're saying that there are people who would pay us perfectly good money for cut-up pictures, just so they can put them back together?"

"'Xactly."

"Why would anyone do that?"

"Dunno. Why does anyone do anything?"

Bob backed out of the whole thing once he sobered up, but Harry Horowitz never did sober up long enough to grasp how ludicrous his idea was. So now his descendants are living off the fat of the land, collecting royalties for every single jigsaw puzzle that is being made in the world today . . .

I don't have a clue when the first jigsaw puzzle appeared, and who was responsible. What I do know is that there is a puzzle in progress in the common area of every floor of Ross Place except the first. This makes my trips to the roof and to the computer rather longer than one would expect -- to the point that my mother thought I might have fallen down the stairs and was lying in a pool of blood somewhere. I now observe a midnight curfew. If I am not inside the door by the stroke of midnight, she will send out the troops.

July 18, 2006

I'm not sleeping in any more. I'm waking up at 5:30, mentally planning travel routes.

I took possession of my rental car yesterday, and my blood pressure has been up twenty points ever since. It's my first SUV -- a Ford Escape -- and I feel very upscale driving it. To counter that, there is the paranoia that something may go wrong, go wrong, go wrong . . . This is the Year of the Accident, after all.

I'll be better in a couple of days. It takes me four outings on four consecutive days to develop confidence behind the wheel. Yesterday, I drove from the airport to James Bay Square in Victoria, got slightly off course on the way home, but managed to get where I was going. Today, I ventured to Hillside Mall to stock up on bulky/heavy items -- case lots of tissues, paper towels, pop and bottled water. Thanks to my 5:30 AM ruminations, I made it back without a hitch.

While I was shopping, my mother was downtown alone getting her regular blood test at the lab. I felt it was better not to insist on coming along. I've been sticking to her like glue for the past three weeks, and it won't be long until she has to cope by herself again. Perhaps, for her, this is like my trial runs with the vehicle.

It's hard to let her go. I want to watch over her. She probably felt the same way when I went to school, to university, to my first job, to marriage, to motherhood. What kept us both going was her absolute conviction that I would do a great job of directing my own life.

I need to give her that same confidence now. Go for it, Katinka!

July 20, 2006.

The four generations of the matriarchal line are together! Look out, world!

Tomorrow we will shop for exotic patterns and party supplies, get our picture taken, and feed the seals at Oak Bay Marina. Saturday, we pack up the SUV and head off to the Sand Pebbles Inn at Qualicum Beach. Sunday, we will have The Great Celebration of Life. In the excitement, I will probably forget all about the fact that I am 62 and still have not mastered the Ultimate Wisdom of All Things.

On Monday, the youngest participant will be turned over to her other grandmother, leaving us free to sleep in and do other things that the ancient ones like to do. We will return to Ross Place on Wednesday.

I feel all warm and fuzzy, like a grandmother should. My mother is re-living her labour, which started on Thursday, July 20, 1944 and culminated on July 23. My "baby", Elizabeth, is exhausted. Kestrel is -- Kestrel, a fountain of life and love for us all.

July 21, 2006

Hmmm -- let's see what I can remember. I'm not sure there is enough blood flowing to my brain at this time. Breakfast at 8 (Kestrel woke up at 5:30, since she is from another time zone). City bus to Douglas and Pandora to scrutinize and purchase some of the merchandise in Gala Fabrics. After a while, Kestrel & I went across the street to Field's to buy necessities like a sun hat and a new purse for her, a T-shirt for grandpa, swimming shoes, a night light, sunscreen just so we won't run out, Kindersurprise eggs for all (these were horrendously deformed by the time we got them home and into the fridge), and party supplies: 2 water pistols, 2 bubble sets, a sparkly party torch (I think we should have gotten 4 of those so we could have an after-dark torchlight parade -- they are amazing!) There was probably a partridge in a pear tree as well, but I must have mislaid it.

Next stop -- the all-you-can eat lunch buffet at the Japanese restaurant at Douglas and Gorge. This has to be one of Victoria's best-kept secret -- unlimited food (including sushi) for 90 minutes for $10, and they don't even charge extra for the green tea.

Then it was time to load everybody into the car and head to Oak Bay Marina to feed the seals and have a reviving snack. Next, our photo shoot at Town and Country Mall. We were ten minutes late because I got lost -- we would have been much later without Elizabeth's expert navigation advice.

By the time the photo shoot was over, Kestrel was past being able to sit quietly for a formal meal, so she and her Mom relaxed until I had finished dinner with Katinka, and then we went back to the MacDonald's across from T&C. The elaborate Playland there saved the evening and helped Kestrel work off some of her energy. However, she was still up for a walk beside the ocean near Beacon Hill Park.

Time to collapse . . . but wait! I still have to pack!! The real action doesn't start until tomorrow.

July 27, 2006

My mother and I are alone together again. The last five days sing in my soul like the afterglow of a wondrous dream -- bubbles, chocolate cake, ice cream, ocean waves, and an inflatable pink dinosaur large enough to carry an adult on its belly in pursuit of salt water adventure. Alas, there were no pirates to capture and torture, but we saw the primal rain forest and goats on the roof.

On my birthday, we had chocolate mint cake -- Kestrel's selection from the extensive assortment of fancy cakes at the Qualicum Beach supermarket. (It took us a couple of days to finish that cake, but we did it, and enjoyed every diabetic-unfriendly bite.) By way of Family Ceremony, we sat around the table while I read Robert Munsch's I'll Love You Forever. Kestrel soon learned the recurring refrain and recited it with me. I choked up a couple of times, especially at the part where the ancient mother climbs into her grown son's bedroom in the middle of the night to hold him in her lap one more time and sing to him that her love would never die. Mothers do that sort of thing, if only in their imagination.

Afterwards, we all signed the book and gave it into Kestrel's custody. I am told that she has it read to her often. It won't be long until she can read it for herself. I hope -- I wish -- I pray that none of us ever forget the bond of love that holds us together. Without the faith that we are lovable and loving, we have nothing to live for. The heart cannot be sustained by substitutes or imitations.

I am 62 now. They tell me this is not a permanent condition -- in less than a year, I will be 63.

We didn't get around to using the party torch. However, I'm sure it will get more than adequate exercise when Kestrel discovers it in her luggage.

August 4, 2006

The way home was uneventful until Lloydminster. I had a wonderful farewell lunch on the ferry (great salad bar, acceptable but not spectacular entrees, climaxed by unlimited blueberries, cream puffs, petit fours and cheese cake -- no, I didn't sample all of them!). Afterwards, I enjoyed the perfect cruising weather on the sun deck at the rear of the vessel.

I had a more modest supper at Macdonald's at Vancouver Central Station and boarded the bus around 6PM. The cherry pickers who were migrating west in June (8,000 of them, one of my seat mates informed me) are now drifting home, so Greyhound is still doing lots of business. I enjoyed the mountains immensely as darkness fell.

Lloydminster, Monday, 4:30 PM: my friend Weneen picked me up and we checked into the West Harvest Inn for two nights. The next day we did girl stuff -- shopping, eating, talking, shopping -- did I mention that we went shopping? I told Weneen to slap my hand if she saw me reaching for anything in a store, but she got involved with her own onomania. As a result of her inattention, I came back to the hotel with three bags of must-have stuff. Then I had to re-pack my suitcases to make room.

At the bus terminal on Wednesday morning, the driver informed me that Saskatoon to Regina was STC territory, so I would have to take a later bus if I wanted to travel on my Greyhound pass. He advised me that he was late, and might not connect with the Saskatoon-Regina bus. That would jeopardize my Thursday night connection in Thunder Bay -- if I didn't make it, I would have to wait for the next bus on Saturday night or prevail on my husband to come and get me (that's almost 600km one-way).

I decided to bite the bullet and buy an STC ticket. I was in Saskatoon exactly 5 minutes -- long enough to buy a ticket and jump on the STC bus, which was supposed to depart 25 minutes earlier. It was worth it -- a swift, comfortable ride, Regina non-stop.

I arrived at Regina at 4:30 PM and discovered that the next eastbound bus left at 8:50 PM. That allowed me time at the Cornwall Centre. When I got back to the bus depot, I re-packed my carry-on to accommodate my new purchases. I bought nuts & nutrition bars and batteries for my CD player. You never know when you're going to need batteries and snacks.

Passenger traffic was heavy that night. My luggage was transferred to the bus heading for Toronto (I last saw it in the open baggage compartment), but there was no room for me. I was relegated to the overflow bus, which whisked me off to Winnipeg. Bliss! A seat to myself for the night!

We arrived at the deserted Winnipeg terminal at 5AM. The next Thunder Bay/Toronto bus left at 7AM, allowing me time for breakfast at the Salisbury House restaurant, which opened at 5:30AM. Good thing I was near the head of the line!

I got a seat with lots of leg room (space for a wheel chair), and a very tired Montrealais seat-mate returning home from his stint of cherry-picking. All was right with the world until 9AM. We blew a tire as we were approaching Kenora. Changing a tire weighing several hundred pounds requires a trained professional with the right equipment, and it took time to get one to a scene. Fortunately, the weather was close to ideal. Most of us got out and rested on the grass. There were no mosquitoes -- just grasshoppers and the occasional spider. It felt good to lie in the sun after spending the night in a bus seat. Soon various groups were chatting companionably and pooling their resources. One young woman was writing what appeared to be her journal. Another one created a piece of impromptu art on the shouler of the highway with pebbles and a stray piece of orange twine. According to Psychology Today, UV rays stimulate the release of endorphins and elevate mood (to the extent that people who are used to exposure to sunlight will experience withdrawal symptoms). That might be true. People just kept getting mellower as the time passed.

By the time we got on our way again, we were two hours behind. So much for my connection at Thunder Bay!

Shortening the breaks and some aggressive driving lessened the the delay to some extent, but we were still very late. In Upsula, I asked the driver about holding my bus. She phoned the terminal and they agreed, even though I was the only passenger on my bus planning to make the transfer. (I appreciate the fact that I am at home tonight instead of being marooned in Thunder Bay. Was it worth making all those people wait? Do the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many? I'm glad Spock wasn't manning the Thunder Bay Greyhound desk last night.)

When we arrived in Thunder Bay, the bus had been waiting for 45 minutes. There wasn't a lot of time to discuss my luggage. The Hearst driver thought he had it. But when we got to Hearst, it was nowhere to be found. Not only did he arrive in Hearst late (close to 2 AM -- remember, he had to drive the bus back to TB at 6AM!), but he also had to get information from me so he could start the tracing process. To his credit, he did not tell me it was my fault. He firmly believes that travellers and their luggage belong together, on the SAME bus. May the angels smile on him.

August 6, 2007

I started worrying about my luggage last night. What if it took two weeks to catch up with me, like my mother's did the time she went to Lake Louise? She had to buy a new wardrobe for her vacation. Since she didn't have wheels, she shopped in exclusive boutiques, which raised the total cost somewhat, but also gave her LOTS of souvenirs.

What if it never came at all?

I could live without it, of course. But I don't want to.

Moral (which I keep forgetting, because this is the first time my luggage has failed to keep pace with me): DO NOT PUT CHERISHED POSSESSIONS INTO LUGGAGE TO BE CARRIED ON PUBLIC TRANSIT. Greyhound's maximum liability for loss or damage is $100 per bag.

Pack only those things you don't mind losing. That will guarantee that you won't.

(Note: That's Law #3,406 of the Perversity of Inanimate Objects. Dr. Ursa's new publishing company is planning to issue that classic right after the forensic audit.)

The good news is, I got a phone call from the bus terminal about half an hour ago, and all my stuff is now in my possession. Calloo! Callay! O frabjous day! I'm chortling in my joy.

Final note: I told the bus terminal lady that I LOVED HER and headed right over (the Hearst terminal is open for only one hour on Sundays). I reclaimed my luggage intact. It was nice to get my travelling wardrobe back. It had been a challenge to find something suitable for church that morning.

Here endeth the tale of my journey. Will I do the Greyhound thing again? Who knows? This journey helped me recall why I decided to start flying. It also helped me recall why I wanted to try the bus thing one more time. It is a vastly different experience to roll across the country instead of flying over it. The human dramas that unfold in the temporary community on wheels also provide stories to tell when I get home.

STONE SOUP: Travel

The Big Sky

Greyhound Fever