Last spring break I did what most college kids do: organized a last minute trip to California, the cheapest way possible. This meant a rather long Greyhound ride through the great but foreign state, taking us from LA to Merced. The trip at each end of the state was just as adventurous and entertaining as imagined, but those eight or so hours on the bus left me feeling something different than I had expected.
The traveling day, arguably the most important day of the vacation, began early, racing the sun to the station. We drove past the fashion district, complete with grim factory buildings that looked like they were used for purposes grimier than even the commonly corrupt industry. After driving a bit too far, we made a u-turn and finally discovered our chariot to the north. Through a rather questionable pseudo-security check, we were soon sent on our way to join the others bound for northern destinations in a line across the dingy floor.
The process was confusing and new to me, but we eventually made it and found three seats near each other, settling into the itchy upholstery that would cradle us through to Merced. I learned quite a few things on the bus ride, as I stared absently at the pages of my book.
I looked on, in the voyeuristic manner in which I am want, noticing that on such a bus the people know each other. They have a certain familial understanding and bond. They have the foresight to become chummy with the elderly man sitting two rows ahead, so that he can watch out and make sure the bus doesn’t leave without them at the next rest stop. They are usually going somewhere of some significance; to visit family, in search of a new, better job, or maybe something less safe to talk about.
My neighbors a few rows ahead or behind reminded me of people I would run into at home, completely across the country. People I may pass while walking or driving, but would never be in the same situation as, never close enough to talk to. Some have been to jail, there’s a feminist that can’t break free from the ties of her boyfriend and some don’t speak English. Somehow, though, they all seemed to have a certain predetermined bond that I couldn’t understand nor bear to break into.
Barely looking up from the rather depressing read that I picked up for the trip, I stared at the words and listened to the stories of my neighbors for the next few hours. One had a brother in jail, one was visiting family further north and others spoke in something that just sounded like a code.
Their baggage was light, as was my own. Someone had a duffle bag, probably as old and used as my Reebok bag stuffed below the bus. But some people just carried grocery bags, tied at the top to keep the contents from spilling out like secrets.
One man a few rows behind must have noticed my habit of listening and jokingly asked me inappropriate questions. I laughed, not knowing what else to do, which pleased him and his newfound friends.
We made it to Merced without much of a hitch and the rest of the trip was great, as planned. My partners in travel may have slept through the entire bus ride, or perhaps lent their mind to watching a film. But it’s strange; the time spent in the stifling bus made me feel both closer and further from my friends and the strangers that surrounded me.