Bus Trip

After four years in Colorado, I was homesick for my family back east and for the north country itself. I longed to see the fields that would still be green instead of beige, with trees turning brilliant shades of red and orange instead of only yellow.

My in-laws offered to pay for a plane ticket, way out of reach on my budget, and while I appreciated the offer, I wanted to pull my own weight. The train was also too pricey, so I bought a bus pass for nearly nothing and headed home, travelling for several days, night and day, sleeping in my seat and dragging myself and my suitcase off at every stop to use the station’s roomy bathroom instead of the cramped one in the back of the bus.

Passengers were allowed to smoke at that time, and while I was trying to quit, there was no designated section for those still committed to their habits. One night, I was startled awake and reached up to turn on the overhead light. Having felt a tug on my purse, I observed the man sitting next to me withdrawing his hand from its strap. Next, he pulled out a clear glass tube and a Zippo lighter, igniting something inside the tube that burned bright while inhaling the fumes.

I changed seats.

Another time, in Chicago or Pittsburgh (I don’t remember which), a young traveler about my own age started a genial conversation in the station and then said enthusiastically, “Hey, let’s get some air—let’s walk around the block!” I declined, and she loudly swore and called me names, drawing fellow travelers’ attention as I walked away.

When I reached my destination, it felt like I had really been somewhere and seen some things instead of just sitting for 1,700 miles. I have no memory of the return trip out west, other than the peanut butter sandwiches my mother had thoughtfully forced on me at the station.

I became an old hand at bus travel as the green fields outside my window faded, unnoticed—back to beige.