Amy Walz is a soccer coach and editor of Goal-Colorado competitive youth soccer magazine. She has stayed in youth hostels anywhere between California and Colorado and in Sydney Australia. Her local favorite is Antonito, Colorado, where a bed and homecooked meal go for $9 a night.
When I arrived in California, the friends I came to visit shrank in disgust when they learned how I made the trip. I took the Greyhound bus from Colorado to California. Yeah it would have been easier to fly. For only about $400 more, I could have hopped on a nice safe airplane, but I doubt I would have a mandatory twenty hours of sleeping opportunity. There were a few incident, like eating a pizza with a hair in it and spending the night in the Denver bus station, but the point is I got where I was going.
I began my excursion in cheap(er) travel by taking a shuttle from my home to Denver airport, then catching a short bus ride with one other passenger, to arrive at the downtown Denver bus station. This would be the least crowded segment of my trip. It was about what I expected, people jammed in all over the place on a Thursday evening. Initially, I felt overdressed in my tennis shoes with socks, khaki pants and polo shirt. Most of the other passengers looked, how I would usually appear, as though they had just rolled out of bed. I would soon find out why. There are those people at the beginning of their trips, and then there are those in the middle, and those who are at the end.
The bulk of the Denver station is a large square waiting area, with five or so glass doors on either side. Each door has a large number, destinations printed above, and a string of people and luggage, stacked up behind it. The lines are pretty much impenetrable, out of the fear anyone thinks you are cutting in front of someone who has been waiting several hours. So there are about six of these lines. When I find the end of my line, I try to ask if this is the bus to California, but although we all wait, nobody is too sure.
My decent attire, and position midway back in the line, make the six inch floor space in front of me, a great place for people to cut between the lines. Whole families, and harried travelers continually hop over my luggage. Some people move back and forth through the station with a random sense of urgency about something the rest of us are unaware of. I finally get tired of moving a step forward to keep my space in line, and a step back to let people pass through. I shift this responsibility to the lady behind me in the Tweetie Bird shirt. I just move forward so much, that it is easier to cut behind me.
Apparently the instructions were to arrive forty-five minutes ahead of time. This is what I overhear from the lady behind me. She is the one wearing black stretch pants which stop at the knee, and a large white t-shirt emblazoned with Tweetie Bird and the plea "Please be nice to me." Her teenage son, in cutoffs, sneakers and shoulder length hair, looks like a Hanson double. The man in front of me does not appear friendly. We continue to wait, and I consider if this is really the best way to get across the country. At almost an hour and a half past our scheduled leave time, the line jerks forward, and we shove our luggage to the door.
A word about the luggage. I think the rule is to get on the bus, it must be the oldest, most taped up, tied up, beaten up suitcase, backpack or duffel bag you own. Once again I feel out of place with my two soccer duffel bags, one in bright green which I got for free, and the other which has the Adidas logo nearly washed off. I will remember to look more shabby on my return trip, so as not to draw attention.
"There is gonna be another bus," says the man in front of me, assuredly. We speculate on how many passengers a bus can hold. Fifty? We board the second bus, which is mostly overflow, and half empty. It seems at 25, I am barely older than our bus driver. As we pull out, he assures us we will be early to Grand Junction. He then proceeds to have a lengthy conversation with the college student in the first row. "Stay in college, or you might end up doing what I do," he says. I am happy to have two seats, and instantly fall asleep. My thoughts are to sleep while its dark, and there is nothing to see anyway. There are overhead lights, but rarely does anyone use them. The other passengers seem excited to finally be started, and they chatter for most of the ride. Several times we pull off for a ten minute rest break. This is an interesting event. At the first sign of an exit, all the smokers grip the edge of their seats. When we stop they rush to the front of the bus, and stand outside smoking, until the bus driver gets back into the bus.
At the next rest stop, we pull up to a convenience store, where once again the smokers rush the front of the bus, and the others run inside to buy candy and pop. When we reboard, shortly into the midnight hours, the smell of smoke and salty potato chips, curls into the air. I hear the crunch of chips as I drift back to sleep. When I awake during the twisty mountain ride, I see light whiz by the side of the bus at an alarming rate. Our driver has promised to get us to Grand Junction a half hour early, beating the other bus which left before us. As the bus whips through the mountain pass I feel as though we are on the Space Mountain roller coaster at Disneyland. Several loose cans and bottles clack loudly along the floor obtaining nearly total distance back to front with each turn. I change sleeping positions, and settle in, until we arrive.
In Grand Junction, its nearly 3:30 am, and we all must disboard, to allow the crew to clean up the bus. "You should have known I'd be here early," says our bus driver to the station attendant. He instructs us to pick up everything off the floor, because we might lose it if we leave it there. Hobbling around the station is an elderly man who looks as if he has just gotten up early to catch the bus. Somewhere I have lost a day of time, because to me it is night, and to him it is the next day.
After nearly an hour, we reboard. When I wake up with the early morning sun, from the surroundings, I calculate we are somewhere in Utah. The passengers, a bit groggy, begin to wonder when we will stop. Do we stop for breakfast, or will we be eating at the next gas station? The funny thing about the rest stops is that the bus drivers will make it sound as though they are giving us the passengers a break, as if we are in the middle of back-breaking manual labor. "We'll give you a fifteen minute rest break." Aren't we resting while we are on the bus?
Somewhere around Cedar City, we are given an hour and fifteen minute "rest," and breakfast stop, at the "El Bambi" restaurant in Cedar City. We shuffle in, not really sure if this is where we want to eat, but then again, not having a choice. I am not sure whether I should leave my things, or take them with me. Some people stay on the bus. Like most, I have no idea when we are stopping, so I decide to eat now. I notice most people take their money, and leave their coats and backpacks. Much like a youth hostel, if someone takes your stuff, its not like you won't have a pretty good idea who it was, by the fact only so many of you are there.
The bus schedule is printed on the white board near the kitchen. We are the first to arrive this morning, and the employees seem cranky. I sit down at the counter, my left elbow nudging the beef jerky rack. I order coffee and a stack of pancakes. Pancakes are cheap, not greasy, and will fill me up until who know where we might stop next. I have coffee because I feel I should be awake to eat this meal. While we are ordering, the second bus pulls in, and the staff works hard to get food to everyone. I also learn pancakes are quick. I am one of the last to order, and the first to eat. I imagine how it would be to live life working at the El Bambi, where life revolves twenty-four seven around when the next bus pulls in.
This brings me to the next exciting part. Riding on the bus is like people watching, without the chance to leave. Each stop brings a little wonder at who might get off and leave an extra seat, and who might be getting on. A stop at a lone gas station brings a Danish backpacker on board. He is on holidays and traveled from California to the Grand Canyon with another tourist by car. When the friend's car broke down, the Dane decided it best to catch the bus back to California. He noticed my watch held on my wrist by athletic tape. "Lost mine yesterday... swimming," he says. It is pleasant to talk with him and find out he is a ski instructor in Norway for half of the year, and in the summer, a welder in Denmark, where he lives. This summer he escaped early to avoid the welding job.
We are almost to our layover in Las Vegas. It will be good-bye to the man who stood in front of me in line in the Denver terminal. Shortly before we arrive to the city which he is clearly endeared to, he says "You know I am coming to visit my Dad who had a stroke... well my family was supposed to pick me up, but they have had to take him back to the hospital." I feel bad, but as usual I do not quite know what to say.
We are instructed that we can leave our carry on items on the bus as long as they are not on the floor. I consider it unwise to take this risk, and besides, what am I going to do without my snacks and my book to read. I grab everything. As we step off the bus, the immigration authorities greet each passenger. Several Hispanics are pulled to the side, and apparently detained. Later I think I overhear in Spanish, that it was seven passengers. I am not so trusting of the luggage transfer. Somehow I end up holding all my luggage while waiting to reboard, and the other passengers, the type who could very well not have any luggage, manage to have theirs transferred. My suspicions are confirmed when within five minutes the bus driver runs into the waiting area, telling us to go back and get anything we left. We will be on a different bus for the final leg of the trip.
I do not like Las Vegas to begin with, the bus station is filthy, much more so than the others. By now you are considering the possibility I am a spoiled brat, which I will say is only half way true. In the Vegas station there is the requisite Japanese backpacker curled up on the floor in the corner. Since I have all of my luggage, I take everything (my two duffel bags and backpack) into the restroom with me. I change some of my clothes, because it is at least one hundred degrees outside and I am still wearing long pants, and shoes and socks. I am beginning to understand why most of my fellow bus travelers look so weary and haggard. "Its hard traveling," said my friend Lori. She did the same trip, but with her three year old, and her sister's two teenage girls.
While sitting on my bags in front of the lockers, the Dane who has safely locked his away, stops to chat before going out to see the city. He will spend the day in Las Vegas and take the late night bus to LA. There is the young couple, who stay close to each other, and appear as though they are attempting to save money on a vacation. "This isn't fun anymore," the woman says to her boyfriend or husband. I don't think its so bad.
I switch seats to the hobbly chairs near the snack machines. I choose the last set of chairs, so I can know who is behind me, nobody. Two women sit down in the row in front of me. I didn't sit there purposely to avoid the unshaven crazy looking man who just vacated his seat to enter the restroom. Now he comes back, and wants to sit in his seat between the two women. He has left a paper bag or some belongings under the seat. The woman closest apologizes and moves, because this is exactly who she did not want to sit next to. It's kind of bizarre to see this little incident play out exactly as I knew it would.
We board the bus, with everyone again hoping it will be somewhat empty so we can each have two seats to sleep. Not true. We arrive at the Barstow bus station, and there is a rush to the hot-dog line. A sizable woman jumps off the bus, pops a cigarette in her mouth, and bolts to the restroom inside, all in one motion. She cusses with loud disgust that there is no toilet paper in her stall. How do I know this? When you get off the bus, you do whatever you are going to do, go to the bathroom, get food, or make a call, and get back on. Taking your time will get you left behind, or at least there is the threat of this. We are getting closer to downtown LA, and I am still wondering if anyone will be able to pick me up. I begin to think of backup plans, of which I do not really have any.
We arrive in the LA bus station. I am not too excited, because I know there is still nobody to pick me up, and I am about to be in big trouble. I get in line, and ask when the next bus to Santa Barbara leaves. Thankfully, it is in less than an hour, and I buy a ticket for $13 to take me the few short hours up the coast. Although I have put off the decision of what I will do about staying somewhere, I am now cruising directly through Ventura County, where there are a lot of people I could have stayed with... had they returned my calls. I do not know what to think, and am disappointed at how this part of my trip is not working out. I begin to think bitter thoughts against people who only a few months ago, insisted I would always have a place to stay.
When we get to Santa Barbara it's just after 11pm. I know exactly where we are, but am still in trouble because this bus station, which is just larger than two parking spaces, actually closes at night. I do know a friend who lives less than a mile away, but I am sure she is gone. I wonder if my only option will be to sleep on her doorstep. Probably not feasible, since it is an apartment complex. I wait for twenty minutes for the bus driver to come back out of the station, and unlock the cargo area of the bus. I need to retrieve my bags. I insist they are not in the front. "Did you see them put your bags in?" she half shouts. "Yes, and I think they are in the very back," I reply. She checks, and I am right, and she is not happy about this.
I must make a decision soon. The phones are busy, but who will I call? I had really hoped students from the local university would be on board, and I could appeal to them for a ride. No such luck. Instead, a lady cab driver is inside the tiny station asking for tape to post a sign. A passenger in her cab left a wedding present behind. The cabby knew the passenger would return, because she saw them put luggage in the locker.
"Are you driving a cab ?" I ask. I decide God is watching over me as I will likely need a cab ride somewhere, and this lady who at least looks helpful, is already here.
"Sure am, where you want to go ?"
"How far is it to the university ?" I ask.
She apparently reads my mind as thoughts race through it such as, I could lock my stuff up and walk there if its close enough. I could get a ride back the next morning to retrieve my things. "Its about twenty-five miles... too far to walk," she says. Maybe I can just have her get me to the southern edge of the campus. Thank goodness she is concerned for me, and offers me the deal of a flat rate. We both know I do not really have any other option, as it is well after 11pm.
Now the part about spending the night in the Denver bus station, and eating the pizza with extra topping. These fanciful events occurred on my return trip two weeks later. When you miss a bus, remember you are missing not just one, but all your future connections.
Part II to follow (the return trip)
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