After posting my last Fiction Friday about an adventure on Greyhound, I looked back at my writing to see if the rest of the trip felt post-worthy. Oddly enough, I found that the part about Disneyland was not as interesting as the part about Greyhound (which is not how it felt in experience!)
Don’t get me wrong: I LOVE Disneyland. Which may be the problem. I wrote like mad all day, but lots of “Loved this ride” and “That ride was great” and “PIRATES!” does not really lend itself to writing anyone else will find all that interesting.
But the ride home on Greyhound–that had more to offer. So just take my word for it that it was an amazing time in Disneyland; and then we (the slightly fictionalized “we”) got back on the Greyhound to go home…
Saturday, 10:50 am
I have definitely been waking up far too early far too often lately. Up early again today, so as to get dressed, eat breakfast, pack up and get out.
Angela drove us to the Anaheim Greyhound station, which is very tiny. One little room and a few chairs, just one door instead of numbered gates. And, saints be praised, they had an intelligible intercom system. Four Greyhound stations, and only one had announcements that could actually be understood.
I pretty much just drowsed through the hour ride to Los Angeles. I knew we must be getting closer when the neighborhood went downhill. Apologies to Los Angeles residents, but I do not like L.A. I find it interesting that in “Soaring Over California,” they show L.A. at night. They know it’s not an attractive city.
This time at Greyhound we went straight for the large information desk (because they were the only ones who knew anything last time), and asked which gate our bus was leaving from. And we’ve spent the entire layover sitting with that gate in view. No chances this time.
Weird coincidence—I just recognized a girl waiting at a gate nearby. I saw her when we were at this station on Friday. I remember her because I thought to myself that she had Evy-style hair—shaved. Evy from V for Vendetta, that is.
And she just sat down next to me. I hope she’s not into reading over shoulders.
Murphy’s Law. The bus is late. Last time it boarded twenty minutes early and we missed it. This time we’re ready and waiting, and it’s twenty minutes late. So far.
We just bumped into a girl from college. Neither Cathy nor I recognize her, but somehow she recognized us. It’s not that weird, actually, I see people around campus all the time who I recognize but don’t know, who might not recognize me. It’s a small world, though.
I wonder if that’s a phrase people said before the ride.
Sigh. I want to go home. Actually, I want to go on Peter Pan’s Flight again, and I want to see Captain Jack Sparrow again. But that won’t be happening today, so barring that, I want to go home.
Such terribly dull scenery. I described it before and, surprise, it hasn’t changed. This time I saw the sign that announced we were entering the Los Angeles National Forest, just before we hit the scrubland hills. The view was kind of neat from the edge of the hills, looking out over miles and miles of flat land, going all hazy in the distance. That may be one reason I like the ocean, though. Clearly defined horizon.
Stopped at Coalinga again. Did not get hit by a truck.
When the bus finally left L.A. this morning, it was about 45 minutes behind. We’ve made up some time.
Made it home. I spent pretty much the rest of the ride listening to music. Also, listening to the guy sitting across the aisle from me, largely because I couldn’t really help it. I exchanged no conversation with him, yet I feel I know all about his life because he spent so much time talking loudly on his cell phone, mostly to his wife. He has a dog named Tanner; he follows NASCAR racing; he’s a veteran; he spent three weeks visiting his brother in Tampa, FL, and is never taking Greyhound again because it took ten buses to get from Florida to San Francisco, and most of them were running late.
Ours was no exception. Finally got in about quarter to eight. Original time was supposed to be 7:10, so I suppose it wasn’t THAT far behind schedule.
We had to get our bags out of the bus’ cargo section, and the guy unloading insisted on seeing baggage claims. He told everyone, “We’re not in L.A.—we do our jobs here.” Cathy and I were amused. And I don’t think anyone checked in L.A.
We stopped at the Greyhound station’s bathroom (I will say for Greyhound—they have clean bathrooms), and stopped to let a boy borrow my cell phone. He was going all the way to Colorado, but somehow he got on the wrong bus earlier, looped around trying to get sorted out, and was stuck in San Francisco until 1 a.m.
I can’t quite work it out, but I suspect there would be a way to cheat Greyhound, because they seem awfully fast and loose about adjusting tickets if you tell them you missed a bus.
We stepped out of the Greyhound station into a cold and foggy night. I loved it. As Cathy said, “Better cold and clean than hot and dirty. Better fog than smog.” We were both so glad to be back in San Francisco that it was almost funny.
We caught a 31 back to campus. After Greyhound, even MUNI looked friendly.
Monday, 4:26 pm
Experimental Fiction class was particularly entertaining today. Professor Steinberg asked us where we went on spring break. I said Disneyland, and practically the next thing I knew we were having a serious discussion about whether “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride” is more modern or postmodern. We probably spent at least ten minutes of class on it. We finally decided it was more modern, because it has a linear structure and ends up with death and Hell and defeat. Very modern, in the literary sense.
Which also leaves one pondering: what would the postmodern version of “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride” look like?