Riding the Bus with Greyhound

Greyhound: An American Tradition

Sometimes Amtrak just doesn’t cut it.  And since I’ll do just about anything to avoid driving—especially in an area unfamiliar to me—I decided to give good ‘ole Greyhound a whirl.  They typically serve more destinations than Amtrak within corridors where plane travel doesn’t make much sense.

I used to take the Greyhound somewhat regularly during my college days and came to tolerate the Boston/Albany route fairly well.  That was some time ago needless-to-say but although I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m an intrepid traveler, I am a good sport.  So I thought what the heck, Greyhound is a good way to go.  At least for this trip that was to take me from downtown D.C. to Virginia Beach, a distance of just over two hundred miles.  I didn’t need a car in VB and my return trip was arranged, so I thought I’d heed that famous slogan that says “leave the driving to us.”

My ticket was paid for and reserved the night before online.  I still had to sweat it at the ticket counter in D.C., however, where two seemingly clueless agents attended to a steady line some fifteen-people deep.  I knew I was off to a bad start when I discovered that the two automatic check in kiosks for Will Call were out of order, yet fortunately I still had ten minutes to spare which turned out to be just the right amount of time to procure my ticket.  I then took my place in line at the door marked Florida, All Points South.

Since it was after the designated departure time, I hesitated making a trip to the Ladies’ Room.  But I remembered the Greyhound Bus on-board bathrooms and decided to make a run for the restrooms nonetheless.  P.U.!  How could a Ladies’ Room reek of pee so badly?  I exclaimed to myself.  So far, the trip was off to a dismal start.

Still, I tried to maintain an upbeat attitude and noted once back in line that the station buzzed with people toting everything from garment bags and laptops to big Adidas duffle bags.  Clearly everyone here had one thing in common:  they were taking the most affordable and convenient means of transportation that took them where they needed to go.

We boarded the bus a good half hour late.  By the time I got on, I was faced with a sea of single seaters, that’s to say people that had claimed their seat and stared blankly out the window, pretending to be oblivious to the person meandering down the aisle in search of a seat.  Thankfully I claimed the last double seat available and was able to avoid the discomfort of sitting next to someone who really didn’t want me.  I began to spread out some and like the others, silently wished that no one would take the seat next to me.  Not so lucky.

I winded up with a dad and his little girl.  They moved from their place with the mom across the aisle since the little girl had just thrown up on the seat.  So, of course, I spent the next few hours wondering if that dear child might not do another whoopsy next to me (or even worse, on me!).  This is the kind of thing that could happen anywhere, right?

I decided to refrain from opening up my MacAir, my super sleek and slim Apple computer that a friend once referred to as a Gucci laptop.  I yearned to do some writing but it just didn’t seem to fit the surroundings.  Instead I read some, then nodded off like the rest of the morning travelers.

We pulled into Richmond with little time to spare for the departure to Virginia Beach.  I was sorry to learn that we would be changing buses and drivers here since I had grown somewhat fond of Lucretia, the driver on the D.C./Richmond route, that kept order with the passengers like a prison guard at Sing Sing.  She warned us all from the get-go about the penalties for the use of tobacco and alcohol on the bus and in her speech, I was surprised not to hear any mention of the prohibition of fire arms but I suppose most knew it was, of course, implied.  Lucretia scolded one woman for talking too loudly on her cell phone (yeah!) and even stopped the bus, pulled over and shook her finger at her to reprimand her face to face.  The ride to Richmond was not surprisingly trouble free.

I had already tested the Greyhound onboard restroom (toilettes, dare I say?), so my plan was to brave a station Ladies Room during the layover.  I was almost crushed to learn I didn’t have enough time and instead opted to hit the vending machines for a drink and a bag of chips.  In truth, I had had visions of picking up a healthy snack during the bus change.  (I guess it had been a long time since I had been to a Greyhound station!)  My vending machine episode turned into quite the fiasco since I had fed a $5. bill into a slot that said $1. bills.  Too bad it didn’t say $1. bills ONLY or else I would have known that the machine was not programmed to take fives.  Two good samaritans came to my rescue, so I neither starved nor died of thirst.

Nathan, the new driver, waved me aboard and this time I was amazed to climb up on to a brand new deluxe model bus that proudly boasted such features as WiFi, electricity and increased legroom.  Since I didn’t feel like going through the single seater scenarios once again, I asked the driver if the seats behind him were free.  He couldn’t have been nicer, and I rewarded him with tremendous compliments about his super snazzy bus.  “It’s only two months old,” he replied.  “We’re the only ones in the region to have them—well, along with New York,” he said.  “The rest of the country will be getting them soon.”

I cleaned up my e-mails the whole way to Virginia Beach.  No inhibitions about my Gucci laptop here.  When I strolled back to use zee Greyhound toilet I noticed a bunch of people powering away on their computers; the rest seemed to be fiddling with their cell phones.  Greyhound has gone modern, I thought to myself.  When I was low on juice, the driver even offered to plug me in to his outlet.  (There aren’t outlets in the seats just behind the driver.)  I contemplated these special features along with the ticket sleeve that was provided at check in.  Indeed flying is seeming more like the bus, however, the bus is coming out ahead of flying in more ways than most know.

My drop off turned out to be next to a fish market in Virginia Beach, not far from the Atlantic Ocean.  Nate pulled my beast of a suitcase from below the bus and assisted me with the taxi.  He wouldn’t even take a gratuity in exchange for his efforts.  “I’m just doing my job, ma’am.”  We waved goodbye, wishing each other well.  I thought about what he’d said about his new chariot.  “Never in my twenty-three years of driving have I had such a fine bus.”  Never had anyone so epitomized for me the idea of “leave the driving to us.”  Maybe I’ve rediscovered Greyhound after all.

The Star of the Greyhound Fleet