Filed under: College, travel | Tags: bus, cell phones, complaining, frustration, life, music, quotes, rules are meant to be broken, silence, strangers, travel
“Buses are like a box of chocolate. You never know what you’re gonna get.” – Forrest Gump, or someone like that…
All my life I have taken the bus. Before I went to school, I took the bus with my parents from the Newton Campus to Shea Stadium for Boston College football games. I went to school, and every year, I took the bus. I even took the bus senior year when I had no car and no ride. (Yes, I was mortified.) Now that I am at college, I take the bus to get around. I take it on campus, to CVS, to the mall, to go home, to go anywhere.
After all this bus riding, I have learned that a bus is, in fact, a box of chocolates. No two buses are ever alike. I have had phenomenal bus rides, complete with cool neighbors, no car sickness, and a great playlist. But I have also had God awful bus rides. ones that make you want to attack the driver, shank your neighbor, and drown yourself in the lavatory toilet at the back.
There are a lot of factors that can make or break a bus. For example, showing up early can be beneficial. I’ve been the first one in line before, so therefore, I got my pick of every seat on the bus. However, sometimes it is nice to be in the middle of the line. You get to pick your bus buddy, as opposed to the other way around. This can ensure that you don’t end up next to someone with body odor or listens to their music just a little too loudly. Usually, in either scenario, the bus ride will be rather bearable.
But if you miss the bus, like I did this weekend on an impromptu jaunt north, you should just consider yourself destined for a crappy ride.
For whatever reason, I found myself in the company of people who either A) had never ridden a bus before or B) were just plain inconsiderate. They didn’t make mistakes by accident. These people were in blatant violation of the Laws of Travel.
Here are some of the atrocities I witnessed in my weekend travels.
Bitching about the process. In Philadelphia, those headed toward New York had to go through a minor security check. They asked us if we had any drugs, alcohol, weapons, cell phone tasers, whatever. These two women in line with me gave the guard so much lip. It was unnecessary and totally against the rules. Rule #1: No complaining about anything. If you acknowledge something as a problem, it becomes a problem. You don’t want other people to get in a bad mood because you’re in a bad mood. But when you think about it, is it really that bad? It took one minute of your time, and for crying out loud, we were sitting around on benches in the middle of the night anyway. It did more good than harm, so just shut your pie hole and relax.
These women went on to also Complain about the driver. There is nothing that can be done about this one. (Actually, there is one thing you can do: drive your own car!) I know that we almost crashed into Jersey barriers, and that the bus practically flipped over when we sped through the hairpin turns before the Lincoln Tunnel. But gossiping about it and saying ‘Oh lord!’ loudly for the bus to hear, well, that accomplishes nothing.
Don’t disrespect the art of packing. While I am aware of the difficulties of packing reasonably (even I just want to throw it all in,) as well as the difficulties of sleep (my habits borderline nocturnal,) you need to follow Rule #2: Be smart. This being said, don’t carry more than two bags and don’t sleep outside. I watched this girl break a lot of rules at once. Not only did she over pack, complete with an animal print rolling suitcase, with the expansion zipper, a backpack whose seams looked like they wanted to scream out ‘TAKE SOME SHIT OUT OF HERE!’, and a sad purse, who hung limp and broken from the crook of her arm; but she also decided to throw it all on the ground and sleep on it. Luggage aside, she should’ve known Rule #37: Never sleep in Port Authority. But she had the gall to sleep on the ground, on top of her luggage! She made some novice mistakes, but God did she make me mad. Learn how to pack properly. There is no way she could’ve needed all that shit. There is no way any self-respecting person would have slept on that filthy tiled floor like a bum from the streets of New York! Were you tired from lugging all that shit around? I bet you were!
What if your mother was riding the bus with you? You would probably follow the standard conventions of life. Which is to say that you don’t make out on the bus. It is such an easy rule to follow. But the preppy couple in front of me couldn’t resist. It was as if he was leaving with the army tomorrow and they just had to get in every last passionate moment together. This violates Rule #3: Keep your shit together. I really didn’t want to watch these two make out, or snuggle, or share sweet-nothings. I’m sure that I was not the only one. I don’t feel the need to elaborate on this one… If you wouldn’t do it with Mom around, then don’t do it on a bus. (And don’t try to tell me you’ve made out in front of your mom. That’s bogus.)
Music related crimes. There are several ways to go wrong with this one. This weekend, I witnessed them all. There is always the classic ‘I listen to my music so loud that my earbuds have microexplosions every beat that cause you to hear the music too’ debacle. I listened to one woman’s second rate rap music for ninety minutes. I wasn’t sure if the old ladies nearby noticed, but I know it drove me crazy. This was a violation of Rule #7: Be aware of your surroundings. This doesn’t happen quite as often as one would think, but today was a terrible case- the lady in front of me was rocking the Dr. Dre headphones… and singing out loud. She sang well, but she also sang very LOUDLY. Although she sat in the front seat, I am sure the entire bus could hear her. An unusual first happened today: some schmuck tested out all the ringtones on their phone, trying to pick a new one. The bus was silent aside from the murmur of wind and the buses engine. But then, the phone starts singing… and after one song, it sings another, and another. At that point, I was ready to turn around, stand up and shout “HEY FUCKER KNOCK IT OFF” in my big scary voice. I didn’t, but I am sure you can imagine me actually doing this. This brings me to another set of crimes:
Phone related crimes. These crimes are the equivalent of rape and murder in the travel world. In fact, Peter Pan bus lines outright banned cell phone use on the bus because it is so disruptive. It’s just as awful as farting in an elevator. Do not talk on your phone on the bus. I repeat DO NOT TALK ON YOUR PHONE ON THE BUS. If you don’t believe me, it’s Rule #10: Don’t talk on your phone on a bus. Today, I on my four hour leg from Boston to New York, I sat next to the world’s worst bus buddy. Not only did this bitch schmuck look at me through her mascara crusted eyes as if I were swine, but for at least three of those four and a half hours, she talked on the phone. (I should have known it would be bad from the moment I asked if I could sit next to her.) She tried to be quiet, I’ll give her that. But after twenty minutes of hearing her repeat “Mhmm, mhmm” over and OVER, I wanted to smash her Blackberry against the ground and cripple her fingers in an unbelievably vile and painful way. I debated telling her how much I hated her for being “that guy” when the ride was over, but I kept my mouth shut.
The most important rule of all: Rule #100: Roll with it. Let people do what they do. Accept things for what they are. People break the travel laws, just like people break the real laws. Maybe I was destined for a less-than-awesome weekend full of bus rides, but maybe I had nothing to do with it. There were times that I wanted to hurt myself (okay, mostly others,) but sometimes it is just better to let off some steam by abusing the courtesy wifi. After all, if you can’t verbally harass them, then you might as well get even by using all the bandwidth.
Filed under: College, travel | Tags: Boston, bus, car sickness, Dunkin Donuts, Philadelphia, South Station, travel
5:57 AM – South Station Amtrak Terminal
It is about 6 AM. I just got in from Philly, over forty minutes early, even after we had to stop for a mechanic to fix some piece of rubber that was flapping both loudly and precariously on the side of the bus. Anything that arrives before schedule is a gift.
Nonetheless, however, as with just about all of my bus excursions, I feel dreadfully carsick. Although — it has mostly subsided to heart burn now, I suppose. But still, even on my walk to the adjacent terminal, I thought I was gonna die.
After the bus ride I was in the ladies room, standing on that fine line between ‘I need to take care of this’ and ‘Some sprite will do the trick’… You know how things that don’t usually bug you seem weird and exaggerated when you don’t feel well? The room smelt a little funny… as if someone spilled soap everywhere, yet they also managed to pee in the sink. It made the whole room smell like cheap piss-soap. The cockatoo store seemed to have invited itself in, chattering and squawking and making a racket. Some woman had a fog horn coming out her ass, too. It was far too loud to vomit. But what it really came down to is I’m not a quitter, so therefore I am not a puker either. (SIDENOTE: I am in no way fearful of throwing up, like some people, but I definitely wouldn’t put it on my list of top ten favorite activities.)
I am a huge fan of taking the bus. Mostly because it is dirt cheap. I have had meals in restaurants that were more expensive than my 500 miles of traveling on a fucking charter bus. But one would think that I hate everything that stupid bus stands for—most certainly because it makes me sick as a dog. The second we even start maneuvering through the streets of Philadelphia (Christ Almighty, it’s lateral movement as violent as that stupid Star Wars ride at Disney World,) I have to put everything down, close my eyes, fervently clutch my stomach and brace myself for the next thirty minutes. (Read: out of the city, over the bridge, and bombing along down the Jersey Turnpike at stop and go speeds that are fast enough to kill an animal but not fast enough to make the ride seem worthwhile.)
Yet I really don’t mind taking the bus. Well, at least not really.
The catch is this: I almost always forget to hold out on eating before I get on that bus. One time I ate an entire sandwich and a cookie in the five minutes between when I found my seat on the bus and when the metal bread box lurched away from its curbside parking spot. This time, I didn’t do myself much more justice. While I didn’t make it to McDick’s in time for a Shamrock Shake (they always shut the machine off too early for me,) I did walk around and find an open Dunkin Donuts. ‘Damn I can’t even remember the last time I went to Dunks,’ I thought.
“What do you want?” says the dude.
“Large iced coffee — black, please.”
If only that dude could’ve warned me that was an acidic and stupid move. But I’m none too bright. Especially when I am excited at the thought of getting the fuck out of Philly, and onto the bright horizon that is Spring Break, which has creeped up on my ass like any self-respecting mid-semester break does. (Hopefully this is an indication that summer vacation will do the same.) At this point in my journey, the past three hours comprised of finishing some reading that wasn’t assigned yet, packing a suitcase with a week’s worth of clothes, cleaning my room halfheartedly, taking a shower, eating a pizza, chatting with my good friend, and fighting with the Septa conductor.
Clearly I am awake.
So why coffee? I do not know.
Lo and behold, just as I predicted, the second that tin can lurches away from the curb, I can immediately feel everything in my throat. No, not like the time I was hungover on that Greyhound and vommed in the bathroom while the driver was giving instructions about how to ride a fucking bus. That was a class act. This was just car sick.
(SIDENOTE: If you don’t know the rules of riding a bus, you don’t deserve to be on one. Did you get kicked off the bus too many times in elementary school to figure out that there even were rules? Were you homeschooled? Did your school offer a private limousine service that picked you up at your garage door, even when it was sunny, and taxied your ass to school every day where you frolicked with other youngsters in plaid jumpers and knee socks? Yeah? Well get off the fucking bus. Just get the fuck off.)
Car sickness is kind of like being on a boat. You get nauseous in waves. It comes and it goes. Sometimes you are like “What the fuck, get me the hell OUT of this mother fucking MACHINE!” and other times you just sigh and say “Well, should’ve bought myself Dramamine while I had the chance.” But car sickness is awkward. Your inner child shouts “This sucks, complain louder,” but your rational self says “Chuck, relax. The less you think about it, the less shitty you feel. Put on your iPod.” You’re uncomfortable, but you never know exactly what your limits are until you’ve reached them — then you know. So you just sit, your face fluctuating shades of green, sighing, choking back the urge to spew, and laughing at that Dane Cook bit on getting sick that seems to replay over and over in your head. That’s car sickness.
But why the hell do we get car sick when we get out of the car, too? I find it refreshing, at least in theory, to stop breathing that recycled bus air that everyone and their sick kid has coughed, burped and breathed in, to stand up on your own two feet and to do your best to combat that mild cousin-of-the-spins feeling that you sometimes get after a long drive. But then, WHAM! You’ve taken two steps outside the bus, and all of a sudden, a tidal wave of car sickness has just crashed over you yet again. When you finally manage to grab a hold of your suitcase from the heap of luggage that is piling from the mysterious belly of the bus, you still don’t know up from down and a bottle of rum from a bottle of water. Everything makes you sick.
Toady was not one of those days that I was fortunate enough to miss out on the phantom-car car sickness.
Honest to God. I walk into the terminal, take about twenty paces and say to myself, “Fuck. I haven’t even had anything to drink and I feel hungover.”
I am not quite sure what it is. But it is impossible for me to feel good while in South Station. Every single time I am in South Station, I feel sick as a dog. Hungover like Sid and Nancy — after a weekend of three sold out shows, four thirty racks and two eightballs. I could show up at South Station at random and it would yield the same nausea as when I have a bus to catch.
There is nothing I can do to stop it.
I’m not sure if there is lead paint in the walls, that the French fry oil from the McDonald’s emits pathogens, or if all that exhaust from the buses just reeks havoc on your bod, but South Station literally makes me sick.
Despite the usual headaches, nausea, sleeping body parts, spins, dry mouth, and panging bladder, I still like South Station and I still like taking the bus. Nothing can beat that dirt cheap price, or that I can work with my insomniac schedule and take a ride overnight, or those random conversations with strangers that allow one to divulge his entire life story, goals, dreams, and fetishes — which are only acceptable on bus rides.
Maybe you can drink or feel like a celebrity in the air, but I enjoy the broke-college-student-deadbeat-travel-plans so much more.
Filed under: Flash Fiction, Late Night | Tags: college, dorm life, drinking, flash fiction, friends, hunting knife, kids, ridiculousness, rules are meant to be broken, stranger than fiction, travel, video
Grease and cheez whiz dribbled down their fingers as Pat, the purported king of steaks, watched them through the window.
Katie Mac and Clyde Thornton happily discussed their holidays as they attempted to finish their massive cheese steaks.
“You met a vagabond in the middle of the desert?” Katie asked in disbelief.
“Yeah, he was asleep at the top of a sand dune in the Mojave. He seemed like a pretty cool guy,” replied Clyde.
They departed the Philadelphia landmark, driving down the dirty alleyways of south Philly, the sky dusting the air with dandruffy snow. It seemed like a moment appropriate for a remixed Beatles ballad, or perhaps some Creedence Clearwater Revival. But the radio remained silent, and the two chattered on, occasionally interrupted by the creepy woman narrating the GPS directions.
South Campus seemed eerily quiet when they arrived at Villanova. Few students roamed the grassy knoll or slushy sidewalks. The street lamps illuminated the falling snow like Christmas movies often do. Clyde grabbed Katie’s luggage and followed her to the dormitory.
“You lost your wildcard. Your banner ID is 00692443, if they ask. You study biology here. You are not a freshman,” Katie coached him before they walked in the door.
“Got it,” Clyde replied. Does she honestly expect me to remember that? thought Clyde.
The automatic door swung open with its familiar malaise.
“Howdy folks,” said the security guard upon their entrance into the building. They tried to keep walking in, but the guard stopped them. “You’re going to have to sign him in,” he said to Katie, gesturing to the grizzly Clyde.
Stupid all girls dorm in a Catholic school, she cursed for the thousandth time.
“I lost my wildcard,” Clyde said. “Here’s my driver’s license.”
The security guard was not amused.
“Are you confused? I know the rules are confusing. All guests, especially males, need to be checked in,” he stated coldly.
Clyde and Katie glanced nervously at one another. Of course there’s a problem, Katie thought.
The guard took another look at Clyde, back to the identification card, back to Clyde. Begrudingly, he took out the sheet of paper and began to sign Clyde into the dormitory.
“You know,” he said with a sly ‘I know you’re lying’ tone to his deep voice, “you really don’t look like someone who goes here.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Clyde replied in disbelief.
What is that supposed to mean?
“Well, obviously I can’t know everyone. I don’t know everyone. But I know I’ve never seen you around here before, and you really just don’t look like someone who goes here.”
Really now? What the fuck has gotten into this guy?
“Wow,” they said.
“So, Mr. Thornton, where do you live around here?” The guard would not stop.
Shit, shit, shit, I didn’t tell him what dorm he lives in!
“Uh.. I live off-campus.” It was a save, or at least as quick of a save as they could get. Whatever.
“Mhmm,” nodded the guard, as he handed Clyde his ID back. The two continued to walk down the hallway, silently.
A flight of stairs and the usual fidgeting with the lock to her room, Katie exclaim “WHAT THE FUCK?” with some notable exasperation. ”I had no idea there would be so much red tape to get you in here.”
They discussed their options. Clearly, Clyde needed to get the hell out of there once midnight rolled around. That guard was watching. A couple beers later, they emerged from the room, game plan set.
*******
She looked at Katie with wide eyes, pink Blackberry pressed to her cheek, mouthing “what are you doing?”
Don’t give me that, Barbie.
Katie knew she need not explain to the curly haired visitor. That chick knew exactly what was going down.
Katie opened the window to the laundry room, gazing back at Clyde, who carried a 4.5 inch hunting knife. It looked like a murder weapon, but apparently Clyde had already checked with the police years ago if that was the case. Clearly, it was just a weapon used for breaking and entering.
“You might want to move back,” he said as he thrust the dagger into the heavy-duty screen.
Their spectator looked on for a minute, then pledged to stand outside the door to keep a look out. She kept talking on the phone with her mystery friend about pie or something tragic.
Clyde was no match for the screen. Within two minutes he had sawed a gaping hole into it, his passageway into the building. Even John Madden would’ve been rendered relatively speechless (at least for John Madden standards) by Clyde’s dexterity with the knife. “Brett Favre is a guy where, he puts on his contacts and he can see better. But this Clyde– he doesn’t need any contacts!”
Clyde hoisted himself over the ledge, hopped down, closed the window and brushed himself off. It seemed like the perfect moment for the Mission: Impossible theme song to play for the near-celebration. Katie couldn’t believe their little plan had actually worked. He was inside (not a sex joke.)
Wow, that was easier than I thought (also not a sex joke.)
Now to just get him upstairs.
Before they made their way into the hallway, Clyde noticed a rip in his shirt.
“My favorite shirt! My Mom gave me this,” he said dejectedly. (Even rule-breakers love their Mamas.)
It took a while to creep Clyde up the stairs to the dormitory room. After all, anxiety rendered Katie half a moron.
There has gotta be another set of stairs, she thought a hundred times. (After twenty minutes, she found them.)
Clyde did make his way to Katie’s for an evening of card playing, boozing, and other stories of their respective adventures. He even got to take a hot shower to wash off some of that mountain-man.
Morning crept up on them like Christmas to a Jew, but it made no difference. No one ever suspected Katie of the torn screen, and the snarky guard never came to beat Clyde’s ass. (Like anyone could do that to Clyde– kid’s like Wolverine, Batman, and the Fantastic Four rolled in one!) Clyde completed his road trip, Katie finished her calculus homework, and no one died in a freak accident involving falling library books.
It was such a good day with good feelings, it would’ve inspired Katy Perry to write a song.
Filed under: Disney Chronicles | Tags: Disney, Disney World, failure, pins, Rant, souvenirs, trading, travel, vacation
Disney isn’t exactly quiet about the ways it tries to take your money. Park tickets alone are exorbitant, never mind the food, the pictures, or anything else in those conveniently placed gift shops.
But my favorite, or least favorite, way Disney tries to rip you off/steal your money would be the pin swapping.
Talk about ridiculousness.
While I can understand how a pin might hold some sentimental value of a trip or memory or whatever, the pin I am thinking of does NOT cost $7.99, and certainly not $15.99! That pin also would not increase in coolness or sentimentality or my sense of happiness just because there are more pins around it.
The trading aspect of the pins is a little bit cool, no lies, however there is a sucker born every minute. People shell out lots of cash for those little pins! To what? Wear them on a lanyard? Show off to your nerdy friends? Use in your LARP? Let’s be honest, those damn pins are as, if not more, useless than the Mickey Ears. (At least the ears are good for Halloween costumes!)
As stupid, wasteful, and expensive as those pins are, on my vacation, I was drawn to them, because, well, they were everywhere! Seemingly every store carried pins of characters of every show, film, or media. Even the Jonas Brothers had a couple pins!! So I took pictures of the cool ones, or the ones I would spend my Monopoly money on.
After all, shouldn’t we all bring out our inner nerd?
Surprised this hasn't been a more highly marketed phrase.
Known accomplices: "Ryan Nerd Werner"
Ladies and gentlemen, this must be a joke.
