Adventures on a Greyhound

“I’m gonna climb the mountain

Look the eagle in the eye

I won’t let fear clip my wings and tell me how high I can fly

How could I have ever believed

That love had to be so blind

When freedom was waiting, down at the station

All I had to do was make up my mind

And buy a one-way ticket on a west bound train

See how far I can go

I’m gonna go out dancing in the pouring rain

And talk to someone I don’t know

I will face the world around me

Knowing that I’m strong enough to let you go

And I will fall in love again

Because I can”

I haven’t heard this songs in years; maybe even a good decade.

But–for obvious reasons–it popped into my head last week and has not left. So in honor of said song {and because adventure calls} I booked a greyhound ticket this week from sunnyside, WA where I went to visit my friend, Kelley, for a couple of days to Portland, OR.

Now. Airplanes are one thing. Trains are another. And Greyhound buses are an entirely different thing altogether. It’s not glamorous–but someone has to do it.

There is no seat number to force you to sit within another’s American sized comfort bubble and figure out which small talk subject to land on. Weather? Travel? The stench of the bus? 

Nope, just a bunch of people with window seats and back pack companions hoping that you won’t ask to sit next to them. Most don’t even make eye contact as you’re walking past, they’re lack of connection begging you to get the point: they want their space and that means you need to find another seat. 

I, ironically, found myself seated next to a cowboy from Commerce, Ga. He had come to Seattle to meet a woman he met online. Unfortunately for him, things didn’t go quite as planned and cowboy was heading home a month early. 

I thought I was clear of weirdos, creeps, ignoramuses, and jerks until he leans over and loudly “whispers,” if you can even call it that, “get a load of that ‘it’ up there.” I asked him to repeat himself three times, his southern twang too much even for my native ears. 

As my eyes followed his gaze, I found the face of a transgendered woman a couple of rows in front of us. I was speechless as I wondered how to educate this man. 

Later, I would sit on Bertha wondering if I’d ever make it to Portland. 

Bertha was what I affectionately named this large machine that would take me to Portland. Bertha was scheduled for a four hour trip turned almost five hour trip when a couple of guys in the back started yelling at one another. 

The story goes that one man was in the restroom (smoking mind you; I know because he disappeared more than once for much longer than “lavatorially” acceptable and returned in a stinky, smoke cloud…anyhow, he was in there) and another guy dumped his bag out. 

Despite what actually happened it left our bus stopped on the side of the road, the beautiful view of the Columbia River our only solace, while the bus driver threatened to call the police and the men explained themselves. 

Nothing happened. Hands were shook. We moved on. 

I’ve been on a bus of some variety for over four hours so far. In true millennial fashion I have thanked god for outlets and free wifi, and been on my phone much–returning emails, listening to my favorite music, and catching up with friends. I haven’t been on said device the entire time though as the scenery has been amazing…and in the brain of Emily there is always much thinking to be done.

I hope you’ve had a beautiful Monday.