When I was younger, I rode the bus a lot. Not caring to fly, and thrifty to boot, I made use of the bus lines from San Diego to Texas a lot. There were two: Trailways and Greyhound. I generally chose Trailways for routes and convenience. Now, there is less choice; you just get Greyhound.
My friends would never understand this, but I have loved riding the bus. I have had meaningful and magical experiences while riding buses. Most meaningful, when my parents were alive, "HOME" would be waiting at the other end. The trip had good connotations before we ever set off. My parents were always skeptical of my decision to make that trip by bus, but they were philosophical too, and seemed glad to see me when I descended rumpled and tired from some panting vehicle there on the border between Texas and Nowhere.
When I was ready to return, there would be more questions. Why don't you fly? Why do you have to go on the bus?, they'd ask. They probably thought I was crazy as I solemly tied my ritual rope around my suitcase in the style of the other Mexican travelers of the state of Texas.
Most of the people who rode the bus in Texas were indeed Mexican of origin at least, and I was almost always the only 'gringa' in the whole bunch. But I immediately made friends and enjoyed the general range of comradeship that long bus journeys generate. Being able to converse in Spanish helped, and people were always curious about me and wondered why I was riding the bus. Like my parents, they couldn't understand.
I'll never forget the night we were riding into Alpine, Texas. It was that magical time, my favorite time of the evening when it's still light but electric lights are coming on. Those were no electric lights that entranced us driving on that highway though--or were they? They were the famous Marfa Lights, blinking and glowing out of the dark side of the huge mountain there. They come on and they go out--and there's another one coming on over there---and another and more---big and small, they are wonderful and mysterious and nobody knows what they are. It's magic.
I remember riding, any number of times, outside El Paso with lightning storms flashing off to the east of us. These were in the distance, and there must be some place there that attracts lightning big time, because it was just predictable, they'd be there.
I remember lots of good food experiences. Getting off the bus in Laredo with a thirty minute stop, following the crowd that ran several blocks from the bus station to a chicken place that made the best fried chicken, which everyone grabbed a sack of and dashed back to the bus. The bus station in San Antonio where after years of lousy California hamburgers I finally got a fabulous ordinary Texas hamburger at the station diner counter--MANNA from heaven!!
And I remember flying back from London, getting off at Dallas, and suddenly deciding to grab a bus to Brownsville before going back to California. I did, and it was toward the end of an incredibly long day which had begun at four a.m. London time. After the bus had been chugging around in the woods a long time, I awoke to find a palpable atmosphere of excitement amongst the folks around me. The bus pulled into an insignificant looking barbecue place and everyone sprang into running mode. No pushing,though--everyone in place, hurrying to get the world's best barbecue sandwiches and giant Cokes before we zoomed out again into the night.
As I was driving to church this morning, and thanks to God that I could go to church this morning, something, who knows what, made me think of the Marfa Lights and of riding the bus and what a lot of pleasure it gave me when I was doing it. There are not too many ways that a woman of my era could legitimately and inexpensively pursue excitement, but that was one of them, and I am glad I did it. A new vista around every turn, and a huge clunking vehicle around me full of the most wonderful people in the world. Who could ask for more? YAZZYBEL
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