A scene: Last Tuesday, I left Myles at 2:30 to get on a 4 p.m. Greyhound Bus to New York for the Thanksgiving holiday. When we reached the Mass. Pike, we immediately met gridlock traffic from West Boston through New Haven, Conn. We finally got into the state of New York merely 40 minutes later than expected, leaving me to believe that I could still catch a 9:18 p.m. train out to Long Island, where I’d be guaranteed to spend another hour and a half on a train. However, the bus driver spent 40 more minutes getting lost in the Bronx. We pulled into Manhattan’s Port Authority at exactly 9:18 p.m., leaving me to wait for the 10:16 p.m. train to the Island. I walked into my house in Coram at midnight.
I have three problems with this scenario: 1) The fact that it took me 37,589,156.78 hours to get 250 miles; 2) I spent this time with 49 complete strangers; and 3) the overhead lights didn’t work, leaving me devoid of anything to do for these hours.
Now, I know that my travel woes are not uncommon and also mundane in comparison to those of others (My friend Clint spent six hours on Amtrak a couple of years ago due to a power failure or some garbage like that). My typical travel woes include circling Providence on a commuter plane with Glenn Close.
I’m on a tangent … I’m sorry, I’m listening to Coldplay with a room full of people as I type this.
Anyway, we return to my original topic. Why is it that traveling, no matter what distance, is always a pain in the ass? Why is it that Greyhound is the bane of my existence?
In sitting in this overcrowded bus, I found it incredible that a professional bus driver could get lost on a route one could only assume he takes at least twice a day. I was stunned he decided to take the scenic route through Whitestone, Harlem, Central Park West, the West Side Highway, etc. to get to Midtown.
My problems with taking that God-forsaken bus is that when I get within a 50-mile vicinity of either Boston or New York, I know my way around so well that it’s easier for me to tuck-and-roll to jump ship and walk than it is for me to sit and watch every traffic light turn red for miles and miles in front of me. Why can’t a bus driver have this same sense of direction?
Luckily, on my return trip Sunday, I bumped into a friend of mine and had company in sitting through the inevitable disaster that was returning to Boston the weekend after Thanksgiving. At least I had someone to talk to. At least the trip took only five hours. At least I was able to read ‘Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban,’ as the overhead lights worked this time around.
I also realize how very close I live to New England, which aggravates me even more as a traveler. I should be able to take a weekend to go home, but who the hell can be sure of how long it’ll take to get there? Moreover, who can be sure if the heinous traveling will grant you quality time at said destination. Bah!
I heard that Logan had record delays due to a lack of security personnel, so flying was out. Amtrak for no apparent reason whatsoever was twice the price it usually is, making that a moot choice. This left me with an unpredictable $50 bus ticket.
You see, Greyhound is a lot like Black Friday – everyone knows that it’s the worst place to be on the entire planet, especially after Thanksgiving, but because of the bargain, you can’t avoid it. Such was the case on Sunday. After storming onto the train into Manhattan with half of Long Island’s college-aged students for the first leg of the gruesome trip, I begrudgingly returned to the Port Authority where I was greeted by a Greyhound representative filtering in the 20-somethings through the escalator to stand in a line that wrapped around them. This is where I spotted my friend and promptly cut the rest of the line.
I’m left to wonder how much of a bargain I received. For the small price of $50, I gave Greyhound 13 hours of my life in our four-and-a-half-day break. Yes, I got from Point A to Point B, but I left a piece of my soul on that damn bus. I’m also left to wonder if God screwed up a little bit in not giving man the power to teleport.
In conclusion, I’m thankful this year that I took Greyhound, as it gave me plenty of senseless chatter to occupy my life for several days. It left me a little bit more insane, a lotta bit more skittish, and gave me one hell of a literal pain in my ass.
Brad Jones, a junior in the College of Communication, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. His email address is somaobi@msn.com.
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