Take, for example, a typical visit to my dad's house on the Oregon coast, approximately 3 1/2 hours driving time from my home in Eugene. Greyhound, in its infinite wisdom, has only one bus running this direction each day, and it leaves at 4:30 pm. (This is the only bus. If you call Greyhound's number, "Gracie, your virtual travel consultant" will tell you, after you push 28 numbers to access the information, that they have a bus at 4:30 and at 5. You must tell Gracie that she is a lying, useless hunk of microprocessor, because the five o'clock bus does not exist. Not that it will do you any good when you show up at 4:35.)
Anyway, once I figured out Greyhound's tricks, I found that this bus is late enough in the afternoon for me to put off all non-prioritized activities left over from the busy week until after class on Friday and still be able to spend a day or two with the fam. So my typical pre-trip schedule looks like this:
Wake up about 10 am. Question wholehearted embracing of college lifestyle. Stare at ceiling for half an hour.
Take that shower I didn't have time for, uh, all week. Ooops.
Drink coffee.
Don't forget to go to class. Try not to spend the whole time figuring out where the week went (What happened to Tuesday? Did I really take that midterm?)
About 2 pm: Drink more coffee. Do laundry, water plants (sorry, plants), wash accumulated dishes, respond to email, stare at the clock in alarm when I realize it's 3:30 already.
Now the traveling part. I typically pack a backpack full of clothes and personal items, a bookbag with laptop and schoolwork (forcing myself to be creative in finding excuses not to study), a large purse, and a pillow. Got to sleep on that bus.
After locking and unlocking the apartment door several times retrieving forgotten items, I struggle to reach the U-lock on my bike with the unwieldy bags slung on my person. I eventually lose my balance, give up, and take them off. Once I've freed the bike, I put them back on, another interesting feat. (I have a basket, but I feel too much like a dork when I use it. I'm going to prove that I don't need a personal gas-guzzler to get anywhere I want to go, and I'm going to do it in style. Even if I'm not cool enough for a fixie.)
And it's off. Rain doesn't bother me in my self-righteous voyage to the bus station. I can keep my pillow dry by sticking it in my jacket. Wobbly as I am, I can't risk stopping at intersection. Sorry, petroleum-enslaved drivers. I'm confiscating your right-of-way for the good of the planet. You can thank me later.
It's only nine blocks to the bus station; a pretty short bike ride. This doesn't generate quite enough Smug to get me through the rest of my low-carbon journey, so I always take care to miss the turn onto Pearl Street. This provides me with the opportunity to bring my dripping, awkward spectacle through downtown Eugene. If my cell phone rings, I'll probably answer it for good measure.
Finally, I park my faithful transportation device across the street from the Greyhound depot. I stroll in casually, breathing hard from the ride, and immediately start sweating. I try to be discrete as I peel off layers - including a pillow - in line for my ticket. Too late, I find that I blend right in with Greyhound's less-than-aromatic clientele, who stop over here en route to and from Stockton, Olympia, Ashland, Bend, and the bar across the street. Actually, I can't see them - my glasses fogged up as soon as I walked in the door. But the stale cigarette and urine odor lets me know I'm in the right place.
Finally, I get to the counter and rummage through my clothes for cash, dropping half of my stuff as I do. I assume the person taking it behind the counter is an actual Greyhound employee (taking off the glasses won't help, I'm much too nearsighted).
Standing in line to get on the bus is tricky. I don't want to be too unfriendly - the bus could (and has) suddenly break down somewhere in the remote mountains, creating a situation in which a friend or two would be useful. On the other hand, I don't want that friend now, with the added annoyances of sharing a seat and listening to endless stories about deceased pets and obscure illnesses. A reserved smile behind mysteriously fogged glasses are best in this situation, although a sneer once in a while doesn't hurt.
Boarding also requires strategy. Get on first, and the really smelly guy will usually plop down in the seat in front of me. But if I get on last, I give up all hope for a single seat. So I bide my time near the front of the line, courteously allowing the mom with the screaming baby ahead of me but cutting in suddenly ahead of the a surly teenage gangsta when the bus is about half full.
Successfully on the bus, with a seat all to myself and my worries behind me, I consider driving next time. After all, I'll have to get up at 6 am to catch the only bus going back to Eugene on Monday, and the money I just laid down for a round-trip ticket is barely less than what I would pay for gas. Then I look around at my colorful travel-mates, and outside at the storm raging before the tired driver's windshield, and think, nah. As I settle into my damp pillow, that good feeling you can only get from doing your part to save the world creeps in, and I sleep all the way to my destination.
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