Driving to Philadelphia isn’t particularly difficult. I’ve done it before with little trouble, receiving only a handful of horns and expletives for my efforts. Why I chose to opt for Greyhound last weekend is still unclear. Maybe I felt lazy. Maybe I thought I’d save gas money. Maybe I just lost my damn mind. 

Yeah. The last one. 

When I arrived at the station and bought my ticket, the cashier politely informed me I owed him $132. “Does Greyhound now have a flight deck?” I wondered, as I was merely traveling a few hours south. The answer was no, but I sucked it in and paid up anyway, just content to be relieved of any driving duties. A stress-free trip if you will. 

Quickly, I boarded and waited to begin my no-muss-no-fuss journey. And waited. More waiting ensued, surrounded by two boisterous young men, engaged in excited conversation about drug dealing motorcycle gangs and a peculiar hooded woman with a large pizza resting in her lap. And yes, she did eat it. The entire thing. These three seemed to be completely unconcerned with the quiet uproar that was spreading around the bus. After all, we had connections to make. Most of us weren’t gearing up for a fun-filled trip to Scranton, PA. The bus driver finally lumbered on after 45 minutes of, well, I’d like to think there was a kitten in a tree crisis, maybe he had to help fifty old women cross a free-way, or at the very least, take out a contender in a consuming game of Scrabble. But based on his appearance, he probably got stoned and fell asleep behind a vending machine in the lobby. He offered no explanation or apology, so I’m sticking to the latter theory.

We finally arrived in Scranton to learn that yes, we had missed our connection. This meant our journey to Philly would have to be by way of the “local” route. “Local” is a kind word for “scenic”, and “scenic” is a kind word for “hellish”. Over the river and through the woods we went, stopping at every town with a population exceeding 579. The sun began to set on what appeared to be a Vermont mountain range, at which point I admitted defeat. “Greyhound”, I whispered to myself, careful not to wake Mrs. Pizza Hut, “You really got me good.” $132 dollars to be shoved in a Satanic tin can on wheels and paraded all over the Pennsylvania countryside?  Eight, yes eight hours after the initial departure, I arrived in the city of brotherly love, but I really just wanted to smack someone across the face. Or write a strongly worded letter to customer service. 

However, after an enjoyable evening with friends, I chalked it up to a bad Greyhound day. Maybe a dam burst somewhere and compromised the entire Greyhound schedule. I’ve had bad days, too. Who was I to judge and entire company based on one poor trip? 

And then came the journey home.

The following day I found myself in Scranton once again, enduring an extended lay-over in a tiny terminal, my only entertainment being a muted viewing of Harry Potter and the Magical Whatever Thing. An attendant was also fluttering around area, repeating statements like, “Oh my!” and “Silly me!”, and making dozens of phone calls to the same effect. I didn’t care. Nevermind the fact that I had been sold another local/scenic/hellmouth ticket by mistake. I was so close to home I could taste it. 

When the bus finally arrived, I wanted to cry with relief. My fellow weary travelers and I boarded quietly, scanning for seats. Ah, seats. Something one expects to find after purchasing a ticket. But, we don’t live in a perfect world, do we?  No, we live in a world where we’re forced to de-board the last bus out of Scranton PA, while the bitchy man in the front row giggles, “Glad I got my seat!  Dayum!” 

The bus driver approached us with compassion, apologizing and telling us we could spend the night in Scranton if we liked and take the first bus out the following morning. At this point I began to feel as though Scranton was the Bermuda Triangle of travel, and if I spent an extra minute there I’d be fated to suffer an eternity roaming the Steam Town Mall looking for fire sales. The other passengers presumably felt the same, and gave the driver a look that made him glad no one was armed or marginally muscular. 

“Okay then,” he said. “You can stand.” 

And so my journey ended, bawled up in the back of the bus, leaning against the door of the restroom which smelled exactly how I felt. I never wrote my strongly worded letter, figuring it’d only end up in the hands of a customer service rep already aware of Greyhound’s endless mass of issues. Instead, I write a letter to my fellow travel companions and lazy drivers looking to venture out a state or two:

Dear friends,

Save your time.  Save your money. Save your precious sanity. Take a damn plane. 

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Tags: diatribes, travel & foreign lands // 1 Comment »