Greyhound

Not too long ago, I took a trip to Scotland. Doing my usual 'last minute planning,' I went online in search of a train ticket to Edinburgh. Much to my delight, on the National Express website a round trip ticket was only 30 GBP (Great Britain Pounds). I checked the box for one and was brought to the check out online, when I realized that 11 hours was a very long time for an approximately 350 mile journey, especially since these trains are reputably fast. It was then that I realized this wasn't a train ticket, but instead a bus ticket, which brings me to my central thesis of the article - only two types of people ride the greyhound: Those who are complete idiots and those who incorrectly book a bus ticket thinking it's a train ticket. Evidently, I qualify for both, since I was informed prior to purchasing the ticket that it was, in fact, on a bus.

Imagine large, spacious, comfortable, reclining seats with leather upholstery. T.V's every few rows, personal headsets and a smooth, quiet journey. Now it's time to describe what it's like on a bus. Cramped (so much, in fact, that my knees were nearly rubbed raw by the reclined seat in front of me) and tiny, the seat was also wonderfully put together by some itchy, rough fabric which was hardly worthy of being carpet in a busy, country bar. There was a T.V. Although, when it doesn't produce video or sound I'm not sure what the benefit of it is, and concerning the smooth ride - A kamikaze pilot, snorting caffeine and driving the world's first airplane through a hurricane would have felt uneasy driving across the winding countryside of the U.K.

I've decided to skip the trip there, since a drooling, snoring, Irish girl who probably suffered whiplash from the amount of head bobbing (if not a concussion from how many times those bobs made contact with my shoulder) during the night trip wouldn't have a chance against my wonderful ride home. So, let it begin:

Never wanting to make anything easy, I spent my last night in Scotland doing a pub crawl, complete with several shots of scotch (and possibly a few of absinthe - it was a fuzzy night). By the time I stumbled back into my hostel - ready to convince all my roommates who I was yet to meet that I was now the Scotch drinking champion of the world, I was only four hours away from my departure time of 8:30 A.M. Fortunately for me, I anticipated the certainty of a hangover and thus adaquetly prepared. A few hours later I woke up to the Red Hot Chili peppers performing a concert from my phones headphones (which were for some reason in my ears) that would undoubtedly lead to conduction deafness within minutes if I didn't do something about it. Suddenly, I remembered my brilliant 'hangover defence' plan . . . as I removed the bag of half-eaten McDonald's from my bed (for some reason a Big Mac meal and six piece order of chicken nuggets seemed like a solution at the time). As I took out the dried contacts in my eyes and searched desparetely for my glasses (at least I was able to retain my rationality when it came to sequencing - note the sarcasm), I realized the only thing I had protected was my stomach from feeling anything but sick. I packed my things and rushed for the bus station.

Despite being hungover, I felt good when I boarded the bus and made sure to have a pair of seats to myself. However, my good feelings would soon fade. The first hour was unbearable. The winding roads, uphill and downhill were not sitting well with my deteriorating stomach. Fortunately, I managed to pass out after about an hour. An hour of sleep and I was waken by the stopping of the bus. I opened my eyes, fighting the painful sunlight shining through the window. My head ached. My neck was now kinked from the position I had been sleeping in. I watched people one by one enter the bus and look for open seats. No way was I giving my second seat up. A decent looking girl entered and made her way towards the back of the bus. I could see her eying my sight, but I was adamant that I was sitting alone. I put my headphones on and looked out the window. She took a seat a few rows behind me. One by one the seats filled up, but mine stayed empty. Success.

Or so I thought. Perhaps it's an active imagination, or maybe it was reality. The bus rocked. Again. I looked up. A man, no smaller than 330 pounds had entered. I look around, realizing that every seat on the bus is taken. Every last one except mine, that is. No! This isn't happening. I frantically search for a seat as he takes step after step after step towards me. Fuck my life. Why do things like this happen to me. He sits down and I'm immediately pressed up against the window. I want to scream. I want to cry. I consider vomiting, thinking perhaps that will make him leave. I reconsider, thinking instead that I would get kicked off the bus. I squeeze into the back of my seat, feeling defeated. I sigh. I sniff. What the hell is this? Not only am I sitting next to the fat guy, but also the smelly guy and, I would realize shortly thereafter, the snoring guy who constantly had a streak of drool running down his mouth. The hours were agonizing. I tried sleeping - not possible. I tried reading - couldn't comfortably hold a book with the lack of space I was experiencing. I knew I was stuck, literally, in this position until I got home, so I began a countdown. 8 hours, 21 minutes from the time of the stop until we were supposed to arrive back in London. It's funny how sometimes you just know that you're going to be late.

My first break from a rest stop about 3 hours after this giant had entered. There were several restaurants inside the rest stop, including a KFC, Burger King, a curry place and a sandwich shop. Take a guess where this guy ate. On a slightly more positive note, I was humored when I walked in, noticing approximately 50 people in this rest stop, 9 of whom were black - all in the line for KFC. I'm not racist - I'm just pointing out a reality. I got KFC too.

Getting back on the bus was pleasant. The smell of curry, the breakdown of the air flow. The initiation of sweating from my new friend - yeah, bad days generally just keep getting worse. I became desensitized to the smell after a short while and the bus continued on. While taking one of his many power naps on the bus, Goliath (a very unfit goliath) began going through a phase of leaning his head onto my shoulder while he was sleeping, snoring and, yes, drooling. Although I was spared any marks that I noticed, the sight of it was enough to make a pig throw up. The wheels continued turning.

Finally, after hour upon hour of travel, we made it near London and the first stop came - about an hour before getting home. Nearly half the people on the bus exited, and the man moved across the aisle to a pair of empty seats. However, after the last person stepped off, those traveling to London stepped on. A man and woman entered and the woman took the recently emptied seat next to me. I believe she began arguing with the man she was with, although I can't be certain because they were speaking in a foreign language. Nonetheless, I was able to listen to their incoherent rambling for the remaining hour and a half (yes, the bus was late). I decided it would be fun to make up my own version of their conversation since I couldn't understand them, so I chose the topic of which Dr. Suess book was the best. The lady made some great arguments for Yertle the Turtle and the Lorax, but ultimately the man's analysis of discrimination in the Sneetches proved to be too much to handle.

Again, only two types of people ride on the buses here. Perhaps I'm only a member of the former.