Traveling alone is an adventure in and of itself, but
only if you allow it to become one. Being the poor post grad I am, I was
thrifty in my transportation purchases on a recent trip to Boston. My first leg
of the trip involved the bus2nyc [yes that's the companies legitimate name], which
was a charter bus set up more like Ryan Air, cheaply getting you to your
destination with the chance of death you're willing to risk for a lower price
tag. Add in the smell of unwashed human beings and the discomfort of 9 hours on
a bus and you've got bus2nyc [or Sky Horse Bus, another bus option from
Columbus to Chinatown – pick your poison].
Only the experienced bus traveler can understand the feelings
of odd contortions in which you will position yourself in order to get at least
an hour of sleep that is unless you run with our narcotic brethren or can
afford a neck pillow, then by all means you'll get a wonderful night sleep. However,
the less fortunate (and non-drug addicted) normal folk, twist, turn, flip,
bend, and crouch into any position possible.
The guy behind me in the saggy and at the same time
skinny jeans [How these came into style somewhat baffles me. The waist can't
seem to stay on, but don't worry because if it falls, the knee and calf are tight
enough to hold the rest up] may have been a performer for Cirque du Soleil with
his impressive show of two-seat contortions. Every time I awoke changing
positions [mainly due to the sweat I had perspired from putting effort into my
comfort], I would turn and see him, happily asleep behind me, one leg on the
floor, one on the ceiling, knees to his chest and chin lightly resting on top.
Where his arms went I never got a decent enough glance
for fear he might have seen me observing his posture [hoping to somewhat imitate
it in a less contorted manner if at all possible]. I finally became so
exhausted it didn't matter how I was positioned because my brain did turn off.
No narcotics or neck pillow necessary. However, my back and neck would later complain
about how abusive I was. Lately we seem to be having relationship issues
anyway, so my chiropractor says. He serves as more of a counselor in our
relationship and every once and a while the masseuse will take over to
temporarily quell any tension.
As I walked the 40 plus blocks from Chinatown to the
Hudson Yards on 30th, I admired the beautiful weather, the massive
construction projects underway and the lack of obese Americans. It's a nice
change of pace here in New York. If you want to get any where on time you have
to walk. Taking a taxi should only be done for those long ventures - something
I could have done, but actively chose not to with a 30 lb bag strapped to my
side, jacket in one hand and phone in the other. Once I started to sweat all I
could think about was the poor soul who would have to sit next to me on the
MegaBus to Boston.
I hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before and arrived
at Chinatown around 9 am with a little over an hour to
get to the bus stop. Checking different walking routes on my phone it seemed
the trip would only take an hour. Maybe I would have time to get to McDonalds
and grab an iced coffee.
My hopes were destroyed when I reminded myself of my
past escapades to a coffee shop in New York [rhymes with Darthbucks]. No matter
how much I tried not to, I was dripping my face off by the time I got to the
counter to order. The second I start to sweat I just don't stop. It's a nervous
habit. “Do they see me sweating? Shit, they totally do. Crap. Now I'm sweating
more. Lemme run into the bathroom and wash my face with as much cold water as
possible then dry it off in hopes of reducing the evidence.” No use. There was
no time. This sweaty Midwesterner needed to get to Boston whether his stomach
liked it or not. I'd rather save the least bit of my dignity than order an iced
coffee with room for sweat.
Instead of worrying about how much time I had left until
the bus departed or if the bus was going to be there or if I had missed it or
was going in the wrong direction, I played a game with myself. It started off
to be, Can These People See Me Looking At
Them? I'm a people-watcher at heart - lifeguarding for four years I've
learned to be pretty good at it.
Can These People
See Me Looking At Them? quickly turned into Guy or Girl. Hopefully
you can guess what the rules were for this game. Most of my subjects started
out as obviously male or female, some less human looking than others. Every now
and then certain individuals would catch my eye. I was lucky enough to have one
walk right in front of me for a block, (s)he turned right in front of me and
continued walking so I wasn't able to get an immediate glimpse of his/her face.
Short, dark, Pharrell hat with a floppy feminine brim, scarf, purple shawl-like
thing, glasses, a dangly skirt, and heeled boots that only came up to the
ankle. The legs were cleanly shaven, with goose bumps covering most of the
calves. These were the kicker for me. There was no butt and as far as I could
tell not much of a chest, but what was it about these calves? They weren't
feminine. I can't say feminine calves are skinny, because I've seen many that
are beautiful and muscular and others that are solid cylinders – cankles from
ankle to knee. (S)he turned away down a street that wasn't on my route to the
bus stop, so I unfortunately lost that round. Androgynous Persons 1, Me 0.
One other specialty of traveling for long periods is
hygiene. Yours and everyone else's. Not all humans have the same practices. I
for one am probably on the far end of the cleaner [more anal] side of the
spectrum. Teeth brushed? Mouthwash? Deodorant? Well, I'm not sure what I smell
like right now, but I'm very confident it's not what I would want to be
smelling like for long. Sweaty nether-region, unbrushed teeth and non-reapplied
pits. Watch out Boston. This boys gonna be addin some smell to your city.
The real issue I have though, is the consideration of
others. Maybe the woman behind me couldn't help it. Maybe she has chronically
bad breath, maybe my nose is just hypersensitive [which is often the case]. The
second she opened her mouth to start talking to someone on the other end of the
phone, the smell of who knows what wafted from her mouth. Something died in
there. That had to be it. It wasn't old coffee breath. No, this was straight up
death. Rigor mortis was probably already setting in on the poor thing that died
within the depths of this ironically pretty girl's mouth. But just as quick at
the conversation started, it ended. I better keep my mouth shut too. A lot has
probably died in there in the past few hours.
Half an hour before we arrived in Boston, she did the
unthinkable. I should've given her more credit. She popped the most sweetly
mint smelling piece of gum into her mouth and filled the air with a light fresh
scent. My mouth could benefit from that.
