Greyhound: Behind The Myths

This has been nagging at me since I hit the Greyhound part of this trip.

Namely, before I left L.A. somebody told me that the way those in-the-know slept on Greyhound was to kneel backwards on the seat, with your ass in the air and your face on the headrest. This seemed more than a little bit unlikely to me, but there are a lot of things I know nothing about, so I accepted this statement. I have been keeping my eyes open (in the intervals between my deep sleep sitting normally on my chair, feet in the sleeping bag) and I have not seen one single person doing this.

This is disappointing.

There is actually something very soothing about sleeping on Greyhound. The perpetual motion is nice. Also, it has been suggested to me, the lack of oxygen on the bus. In the trip through North Dakota, I watched wide-awake people get on the bus at 10 a.m., and watched those same people sprawl asleep 15 minutes later.

The other issue I would like to address is the not infrequent comment that Greyhound passengers tend to be a more potentially dangerous bunch than train riders. The waitress at the bowling alley in Missoula, with whom I discussed my plans, said that she would like to take a train trip, but Greyhound . . . . Anyway, I haven't done an in-depth analysis of the issue, but I would respectfully submit that the presence of booze on the train more than makes up for any starting difference in quietness and decorum between the two groups. I have yet to hear people screaming on the bus.

On the other hand, the limited leg-room on Greyhound does make for some tension. In Seattle I watched a woman and the man in front of her get into a war of words about whether or not he should be able to recline his seat backwards. Muttered curses and sighs were the order of the day. This was more striking because the bus was not at all full, and they could have simply relocated themselves.

I'm still in Chicago; I'm taking a 12:30 a.m. bus to Duluth, because that was the most recent suggestion I got, and I am susceptible. Yesterday I went to the park and watched amateur baseball. One team was getting slaughtered; I'm told the final score was 15-1. Before their final inning, the coach was telling the losing team that they had to get some runs, they had to show they were there. They had to get some runs for the fans, if they couldn't get any for themselves, because they couldn't do anything for themselves. He said this a couple of times. I had a pork taco and a sno-cone. A red sno-cone.