Da Bus

I started this account of my recent 800-mile bus trip on Table Talk, but I'm migrating it here.

Part 1

The drive down out of the Hills to the bus station was magical. On Thursday night the snow and fog had flocked the pine trees, and on Saturday morning the sun was out and lighting them up. The hillsides looked like they had been sponge-painted with Bob Ross' happy little trees. I had trouble keeping my eyes on the road. I'm sure that by midday the sun had burned off the flocking, but early in the morning the Hills were a fairyland. The equal of any fall color display I have seen.

After a couple of wrong turns, we located the Milo Barber Transportation Center, a modern building with buses parked out back. Now, I've ridden buses before, but you have to realize that I had flown out, starting at the Eastern Iowa Airport, and changing planes at the Lindbergh Terminal in the Twin Cities, where I had a nice taco lunch at the Maui Surf Bar. The bartender was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt -- a nice juxtaposition to the snow falling outside. Businessmen in suits were talking on cellphones about corporate meetings and tapping away on their laptops. The comforting low voice of a British woman warned, at regular intervals, "Caution. You are approaching the end of a moving walkway." Enroute attractive women in uniforms served us complimentary beverages. You know the routine.

So, heading into the waiting room of the bus depot -- filled with bus depot people sent over from central casting -- provided a stark contrast to those recent images. They guy behind the counter had obviously taken a new career path after playing the banjo in "Deliverance." Behind him, in the office, tacked to the bulletin board, was a napkin on which a cross had been drawn with red marker. Below that was a sheet from a legal pad, turned horizonal, proclaiming, "Jesus Loves You. He will Save You!" I couldn't read everything on the sheet below that, except for the word "GOD" in oversized letters in the center, with rays shooting out from it.

I had plenty of time to scope this out because the ticketing of the guy at the head of the line was apparently challenging the skills of the agent and the capabilities of the computer system. I learned from the two hispanic guys in front of me -- one of them wore a do-rag and sported a tattoo of a black widow spider and web on his neck, and the other grinned continuously -- that the guy had been at the counter for a half hour.

Eventually I got my ticket with five minutes to spare. My wife kissed me goodbye with tears in her eyes -- I later learned that it was not because we were parting, but because she was pained to leave me there in those conditions. "It's a thin line," she said.

(to be continued)