8:00 am- We pulled in at 6:15 am into a lavish spread of a terminal. I suppose this one is brand new because it has everything that Reno lacks, except for The Avengers. There's a light snow falling around us, drifting in from the clouds, much like some of my fellow passengers.
I ended up talking to Banjo for a good bit. He's a freight train hopper, one of the last of his kind, pursuing the American Dream and fulfilling the manifest destiny of going west. He bought the banjo he carries from a heroin junkie in The Tenderloin of San Francisco for an oddly specific amount of $29. We connected over having our dogs sit beside us while we strum our instruments and our affinity for being outside.
8:18 am- The surprise of the morning: we're heading back to Salt Lake City Greyhound Terminal because, according to the bus driver, "something ain't right."
8:25 am- We're back. I was a little bummed to discover we weren't traveling through The Rockies; we're traversing through multiple points in Wyoming instead.
8:45 am- We're rolling out. I was just reading the news about about federal department, like NASS and US Parks Service, complied to shut down their official Twitter accounts due to Trump’s order. It brings pride to my eye to find out that several departments are opening "Unofficial" Twitter accounts for real news and real facts. The American spirit is one of defiance and remains indomitable in the face of injustice.
2:05 pm- Man, I've been sleeping better on this trip than I thought! Wyoming is a picaresque state with snow covered mountains galore. I always thought it was a Prairie state.
Thursday, January 26, 2017
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Reno to Salt Lake City
6:50pm- We pulled into Reno Greyhound Terminal, and immediately, I felt a sense of stomach-churning dread. I wearily staggered through the terminal and was confronted by a scene of social distress. I wasn't too concerned though, because my next bus was leaving for Salt Lake City in 10 minutes.
The very first sight I saw was a sign across the room for Reno Police's Homeless Services. I started thinking about how great of an idea that was until I looked around. Most terminals have a concession stand where one can buy overpriced snacks. In Reno, it was completely gutted, as if someone had recently set fire to the stand to completely destroy any trace. In exchange, the area was swept up, painted, and remained lifeless with the concession sign and pictures of hot dogs and flapjacks left as a reminder of what once was.
The downtrodden passengers appeared to be mesmerized by what was playing on TV, The Avengers, I think. All I remember was seeing a dramatically choreographed fight scene, with guns blazing, explosions abound, roundhouse kicks that would make Chuck Norris tear with joy, and tight clothes on ridiculously good-looking people.
That's when I really noticed who I'd be riding with for the next twelve hours of my overnight life. Clearly, I entered the station of hard times. I figured, let me walk to the defunct pay phone, lean my back against the wall and keep my eyes open. Remember that junkie with the tattooed face, holding a banjo over his left shoulder like a twangy club, and clutching a leash with a fluffy Husky attached at the end? Well, he had plenty of friends in this station.
Banjo dropped his gear and dog with a strong-out lady methhead, and he went to use the bathroom. At this point, I'm fairly certain Methhead walked past me and went outside to the five or six guys hovering at the entrance smoking weed, wispy swirls of happiness floating into the night sky, and tried selling them this Husky. As I watched this, it dawned on me that the Greyhound horror stories were born in Reno, Nevada.
Typically, I feel Greyhound riders fall into several categories: those leaving or turning themselves into prison, military personnel, college kids, the infirm, thrifty travelers, druggies, and the last-chancers. The prison folk honestly couldn't have been more compassionate individuals. They exhibited a sound ethical code and demonstrated just actions. For example, one college kid had his book bag on the adjacent chair. A passenger came and asked if he could sit down. The seated college kid told the passenger no and to find another seat. One gentleman, who told me he was traveling across country to Arizona to turn himself in, told the college kid to move his bag, otherwise he'd have a burlier, no-nonsense companion, complete with handlebar moustache, for at least two states, one being Texas, to contend with. Because of Handlebar's intervention, College promptly moved his bag.
Now, at any given station, you have a healthy mix of passengers. That wasn't the case in Reno. It seemed like I would be riding with majority druggie/last-chancer population. Overnight. To Salt Lake City. I hope the irony is not lost.
Back to my chosen reality. I turned my head forward and saw three more characters of concern...and got in line front of them to increase my chances for a restful night. One guy was a tall stoner from California with a severe overbite of rotten, browned teeth that looked like had been smoking, weed and other, for forty of his twenty-seven years of life. He opened his stained, smoky jacket, and pulled out his bus ticket that stunk like weed...as in, he reeked so badly, even I could smell pot from his tickets.
Another guy with a Cheshire grin had somehow fallen into a puddle of cheap vodka, and he was proud to be wearing a black bandana around his neck that he claimed was his sleep aid. Curious, I asked him to elaborate. Verbatim:
"Yeah, man. I soaked it in ether and I hold it over my nose until, lights out man!"
Ah. Okay. That makes sense.
The third guy, man, did I feel bad for this guy. He was a young Asian dude, about five feet tall, and he'd seen better days. This dude looked like he just fought Rocky, with his hands tied behind his back, at least two weeks ago. He had black eyes that were healing, but were once obviously swollen. I suppose his eyes could have also been recently pepper-sprayed, because they were swollen and pink, like patted ground beef right before you grill burgers.
He had a red shirt tied around his head, red shorts, red Converse sneakers, a pink t-shirt, all worn over baby blue scrubs. Visually, his puffy, swollen red eyes and blue/red attire seemed more like skin to me. His black-and-blue eyes were turning to red, and naturally he wore baby blue scrubs under red gym clothes to match that. To make it worse, he was asking each person in line if a random bag he found on the floor was garbage. After beginning in the front, and one-by-one asking each person, he decided it was no one's and emphatically slam-dunked [cue R. Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly" in slow-motion] in the garbage can by the front of the line and strutted confidently to the back.
The last action depicted that he was a courteous young man who possibly made a wrong choice somewhere, and I can only presume his predicament is due to rolling the wrong dice in Reno...
7:15pm- We boarded bus, and after changing my seat three times, once due to faulty socket issues, and twice because I gambled and didn't want to sit near any weirdos, I ended up settling in the back...and guess who I found hunched over?
That's right! You guessed it!
Methhead!!
I'm currently sitting across from the lady who's spun out on crystal meth, missing the top row of her teeth, who had been chatting everyone up about her step-son's love affair with the Avengers, which is kinda cute actually, and formerly trying to unsuccessfully sell a Husky.
I found her hunched over in the back of the bus and dry-heaving, and after I sat down, she went into the bathroom. After a vigorous coughing fit, she declared to whoever was listening to not worry, she's just pregnant...
I should have stuck with Cali Stoner...
The very first sight I saw was a sign across the room for Reno Police's Homeless Services. I started thinking about how great of an idea that was until I looked around. Most terminals have a concession stand where one can buy overpriced snacks. In Reno, it was completely gutted, as if someone had recently set fire to the stand to completely destroy any trace. In exchange, the area was swept up, painted, and remained lifeless with the concession sign and pictures of hot dogs and flapjacks left as a reminder of what once was.
The downtrodden passengers appeared to be mesmerized by what was playing on TV, The Avengers, I think. All I remember was seeing a dramatically choreographed fight scene, with guns blazing, explosions abound, roundhouse kicks that would make Chuck Norris tear with joy, and tight clothes on ridiculously good-looking people.
That's when I really noticed who I'd be riding with for the next twelve hours of my overnight life. Clearly, I entered the station of hard times. I figured, let me walk to the defunct pay phone, lean my back against the wall and keep my eyes open. Remember that junkie with the tattooed face, holding a banjo over his left shoulder like a twangy club, and clutching a leash with a fluffy Husky attached at the end? Well, he had plenty of friends in this station.
Banjo dropped his gear and dog with a strong-out lady methhead, and he went to use the bathroom. At this point, I'm fairly certain Methhead walked past me and went outside to the five or six guys hovering at the entrance smoking weed, wispy swirls of happiness floating into the night sky, and tried selling them this Husky. As I watched this, it dawned on me that the Greyhound horror stories were born in Reno, Nevada.
Typically, I feel Greyhound riders fall into several categories: those leaving or turning themselves into prison, military personnel, college kids, the infirm, thrifty travelers, druggies, and the last-chancers. The prison folk honestly couldn't have been more compassionate individuals. They exhibited a sound ethical code and demonstrated just actions. For example, one college kid had his book bag on the adjacent chair. A passenger came and asked if he could sit down. The seated college kid told the passenger no and to find another seat. One gentleman, who told me he was traveling across country to Arizona to turn himself in, told the college kid to move his bag, otherwise he'd have a burlier, no-nonsense companion, complete with handlebar moustache, for at least two states, one being Texas, to contend with. Because of Handlebar's intervention, College promptly moved his bag.
Now, at any given station, you have a healthy mix of passengers. That wasn't the case in Reno. It seemed like I would be riding with majority druggie/last-chancer population. Overnight. To Salt Lake City. I hope the irony is not lost.
Back to my chosen reality. I turned my head forward and saw three more characters of concern...and got in line front of them to increase my chances for a restful night. One guy was a tall stoner from California with a severe overbite of rotten, browned teeth that looked like had been smoking, weed and other, for forty of his twenty-seven years of life. He opened his stained, smoky jacket, and pulled out his bus ticket that stunk like weed...as in, he reeked so badly, even I could smell pot from his tickets.
Another guy with a Cheshire grin had somehow fallen into a puddle of cheap vodka, and he was proud to be wearing a black bandana around his neck that he claimed was his sleep aid. Curious, I asked him to elaborate. Verbatim:
"Yeah, man. I soaked it in ether and I hold it over my nose until, lights out man!"
Ah. Okay. That makes sense.
The third guy, man, did I feel bad for this guy. He was a young Asian dude, about five feet tall, and he'd seen better days. This dude looked like he just fought Rocky, with his hands tied behind his back, at least two weeks ago. He had black eyes that were healing, but were once obviously swollen. I suppose his eyes could have also been recently pepper-sprayed, because they were swollen and pink, like patted ground beef right before you grill burgers.
He had a red shirt tied around his head, red shorts, red Converse sneakers, a pink t-shirt, all worn over baby blue scrubs. Visually, his puffy, swollen red eyes and blue/red attire seemed more like skin to me. His black-and-blue eyes were turning to red, and naturally he wore baby blue scrubs under red gym clothes to match that. To make it worse, he was asking each person in line if a random bag he found on the floor was garbage. After beginning in the front, and one-by-one asking each person, he decided it was no one's and emphatically slam-dunked [cue R. Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly" in slow-motion] in the garbage can by the front of the line and strutted confidently to the back.
The last action depicted that he was a courteous young man who possibly made a wrong choice somewhere, and I can only presume his predicament is due to rolling the wrong dice in Reno...
7:15pm- We boarded bus, and after changing my seat three times, once due to faulty socket issues, and twice because I gambled and didn't want to sit near any weirdos, I ended up settling in the back...and guess who I found hunched over?
That's right! You guessed it!
Methhead!!
I'm currently sitting across from the lady who's spun out on crystal meth, missing the top row of her teeth, who had been chatting everyone up about her step-son's love affair with the Avengers, which is kinda cute actually, and formerly trying to unsuccessfully sell a Husky.
I found her hunched over in the back of the bus and dry-heaving, and after I sat down, she went into the bathroom. After a vigorous coughing fit, she declared to whoever was listening to not worry, she's just pregnant...
I should have stuck with Cali Stoner...
San Francisco to Reno
1:10 pm - Well, so far I count three dogs, one Husky, one pregnant pit bull, and one chow chow that may soon be the pit bull's lunch, and about twenty people on this bus. We're pulling out. Prayer of protection said. We're rolling out!
3:42 pm- rest stop in Sacramento, no munchies in sight, California continues to smell faintly of weed...
4:20 pm- Yup, crawling in Sacramento traffic allows us to exercise our political bug. I found this quote about Trump's draconian immigration stance quite humorous:
"If they [Trump and his administration] actually are successful in building a wall, you're probably going to have a new generation of Olympic pole vaulters come about," said de Leon, state Senate President from Los Angeles. "And they'll probably be quite successful."
It's crucial to find moments of humor during times of sorrow.
6:27 pm- Man, I just had the ultimate pleasure in driving through the Sierra Nevada mountains. I took a nap in sunny Sacramento for what couldn't have been longer than an hour, and when I woke up, I found myself in a winter Wonderland high in the mountains, covered with two or three feet of snow on the ground, peppered with happy little and seriously gigantic evergreen trees whose exhausted arms were weighed down by the fluffy stuff. The plan was to see The Rockies in Denver, but this was a lovely surprise. It's a beautiful country.
3:42 pm- rest stop in Sacramento, no munchies in sight, California continues to smell faintly of weed...
4:20 pm- Yup, crawling in Sacramento traffic allows us to exercise our political bug. I found this quote about Trump's draconian immigration stance quite humorous:
"If they [Trump and his administration] actually are successful in building a wall, you're probably going to have a new generation of Olympic pole vaulters come about," said de Leon, state Senate President from Los Angeles. "And they'll probably be quite successful."
It's crucial to find moments of humor during times of sorrow.
6:27 pm- Man, I just had the ultimate pleasure in driving through the Sierra Nevada mountains. I took a nap in sunny Sacramento for what couldn't have been longer than an hour, and when I woke up, I found myself in a winter Wonderland high in the mountains, covered with two or three feet of snow on the ground, peppered with happy little and seriously gigantic evergreen trees whose exhausted arms were weighed down by the fluffy stuff. The plan was to see The Rockies in Denver, but this was a lovely surprise. It's a beautiful country.
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