Life on the Bus – My Trip Across the Country (and Back) on Greyhound
Story and Photos by Seth Hemmelgarn

When I decided to take Greyhound to Washington, D.C., for a war protest in March, I was nervous. Everyone said the buses were crowded, smelly and filled with crazy people. One friend asked, “You're taking a knife, aren't you?”

For about the same price ($278), I could've flown or taken the train. But I like road trips, and I figured even if the seven days (roundtrip) were miserable, at least I wouldn't wonder later what it would've been like if I'd done it.

The trip was fun and, aside from a couple drama bunnies, it was trouble-free. I hadn't found any anti-war groups going to D.C. from the Bay Area, but I did a little poll of people across the country. Except for a couple guys who didn't have an opinion, everybody – regardless of their age, their sex or the color of their skin – thought our government had completely messed up in Iraq.

Landscape
I'd never ridden Greyhound before. As I waited in the San Jose station the morning I left, I was eager, and a little anxious. I wanted to take pictures of everything and talk to everybody, starting right there. But nobody else looked like they were sharing my enthusiasm, so I thought it best to cool it.

After waiting about an hour, we were off. I'd brought a huge book and a bunch of music, but I didn't feel the need to block anything out right away. I watched the strip malls and bland condos of South San Jose fade into farms and rolling hills. Those turned into the state's long, dry center and, finally, the warehouses, graffiti and traffic of Los Angeles.

On each leg of my long trip, the bus stopped several times to pick up or unload passengers, or give people a chance to get a burger or smoke. On one of our first Los Angeles stops, we picked up some new passengers. One of them sat next to me. He said he'd lived in the United States for a couple of years, but he didn't speak English well, so I got a chance to practice my Spanish, which is just good enough to make small talk. I told him I was going to Washington to protest the war. With a shy smile that indicated he was glad to hear about it, he said, “You want peace.” I said, “Yes.” We also talked about soccer a little, which he said he didn't play like he used to: “Too many hamburgers,” he told me while patting his gut.

“Rinse!”
At the Los Angeles station, I switched buses, the sun set, and the bus headed toward the desert. In Claremont, we picked up DeShawn, who said he was a pastor. He was a very unpastorly pastor. As we talked, he asked why I don't have a girlfriend. I told him I'm gay. He said homosexuality is an abomination, according to God.   I said not according to my God.

Soon, we all got off the bus for a break. When I got back on, I ended up behind DeShawn and another guy. They started complaining that an old man near us smelled bad, and they waved a mini bottle of Scope at him, shouting “Rinse!” He didn't appear to understand English, and just looked at them. I told them, meekly, to knock it off. We went back and forth a little bit. After some debate with myself, I decided to complain to the driver. Nobody else seemed to notice the guys' behavior, but I couldn't stand it.

At the next stop, when I started telling the driver, he just shook his head. “That's life on the bus,” he said. After that, I switched seats. I spent our time in Arizona and New Mexico reading and sleeping. Then we were in Texas. We drove for hours at a time with nothing but dirt, scrubland, and the big blue sky. I loved it. At night, the bus was quiet and dark, just a little sea of heads bumping along the road. Outside, semis slept with their parking lights on, huddled together like animals. I couldn't see much else.

Beyonce'
At a stop in Pecos, Texas, we saw empty-looking houses, no kids in the little yards, and nobody on the sidewalks. A young cowboy-looking guy boarded the bus. He'd been in Pecos working in natural gas production, and assured me the town was about as empty as it looked.

Eventually, we reached Arkansas, which I slept through. A man named John had been having a phone fight with his girlfriend since Los Angeles. After we got to Tennessee, he invoked Beyonce': “You know that song, ‘Everything you own to the left?' Well, that's where your shit is. To the left of the door.” He told her to go get it.

Tennessee was filled with one-story brick houses with long, chair-filled porches. Tall pine trees lined the highway. After Tennessee came Virginia. Again, I slept.

Protest and Anti-Protest
Three days after I'd started my trip, I arrived in Washington. I've done a lot of complaining to friends, family and co-workers about the state of the world, so I was eager to join thousands of other people to shout to the world that we wanted change. I'd been to a couple marches in San Francisco, which had been fun. But they were also frustrating, because I'd been surrounded by people who already agreed with me. I naively thought Washington would be different.

I realized my error at a rally before the march. We were all just shouting slogans at each other. There were hundreds of people dressed in motorcycle gear and military uniforms carrying signs that said things like “Peace through Superior Firepower” who came out to yell at us, but other than that, the streets were empty. When we got to the Pentagon, we mostly stood around and waved signs at each other. It was a Saturday, and it didn't look like there were too many people hanging out at the Pentagon to see us.

I was heartened the next day, though, to see a big picture from the march on the front page of the Washington Post . Maybe I'd been missing the point. We hadn't encountered anyone on the street whose minds we were going to change, but we'd attracted attention, which would hopefully lead to more pressure on the government.

Another highpoint was the word-of-mouth that led me to some civil disobedience at the White House (where I was one of the obedient), a visit by the mother of a wounded soldier to Nancy Pelosi's office (she wasn't there) and veterans of the Iraq war performing guerilla theater outside the Capitol building.

Abercrombie-Free
I had a good time in Washington, but I was glad to leave. I was eager to return to the diverse mix of races, personalities and destinations on the bus. And I was looking forward to having another three days where I didn't have to do anything but watch the scenery roll by.

I took a different route for the return trip. In Frederick, Maryland I met David, who looked like he could be an Abercrombie & Fitch model. But I quickly learned he didn't fit the retail zombie stereotype at all. He talked a lot about doing what he wanted, regardless of what other people thought. He was 19 – 15 years younger than me – and was embracing concepts I'm just starting to get. I admired him.

From Pennsylvania through Missouri, there was little other than fields, farms and truck stops. I slept. I met my parents in St. Louis, since they live near there and I had a layover. My parents have been a little bewildered by some of my choices, but they've seen that I've learned a lot. They were just about the only people who hadn't questioned my Greyhound trip.

Sunrise with Marcia
In Colorado and Utah, we drove through hours of beautiful, rocky mountains. At one point, a light snowfall covered everything in a thin layer of white. Several deer grazed by the road. Only one of them looked up as we passed.

Eventually, we hit the gaudy lights of Las Vegas, where I switched buses around midnight and encountered Marcia. Apparently, the driver wouldn't let her buy a lottery ticket, so she threw a tantrum that she turned off and on for the next several hours.

“Motherf!&@*$, I'm never riding Greyhound again. I oughtta beat his ass!” and so on until, finally, I couldn't take it anymore. Just before sunrise, I very politely said, “Could you keep it down a little?”

“I KNOW he didn't just say that!” she yelled at our neighbors. “Did you hear what he just said? He just told me to shut the f!&@ up!” I just laughed at her, which inspired another tirade.

Finally, after a loud, expletive-laced asthma attack, we were in Los Angeles, where Marcia happily announced her intention to chain smoke until her transfer. A few hours later, I was back in San Jose, filthy, tired, dazed and glad I'd taken the bus.

The trip reaffirmed how important it is for me to do things that make me nervous, and also get to know people it might seem I have nothing in common with.

Some of the buses had been stinky and I'd seen a couple people that might qualify as crazy. However, if I'd let my nerves get the best of me, I would've missed out on a great experience. I got to see some places I'd never been to before and I'd met some funny, smart and kind people I never would've met if I hadn't taken the trip.

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