"Leave the Driving to Us" Part 2

“Leave the Driving to Us” Part 2

The Albany bus terminal was a welcome break in the journey.  That is if one considers a break to be standing in line for a half hour while a bus gets cleaned and prepped for the journey to New York City.  I couldn't find any person trustworthy enough (there were still seven or eight of those ex-cons milling around) to watch my duffle bag and I didn't want to lose my place in line so bladder relief had to wait.

Finally we were allowed on the bus and in short order were heading south out of Albany.  I was sitting directly behind the driver again, which is my preferred spot.  My hope is that someday they’ll give me a turn behind the wheel.  So far though, they haven’t.  On this part of the trip we had a full bus and a lovely young lady was seated next to me.  She had a really fine and fragrant sub sandwich that she consumed in a very lady-like way.  Just as the driver wouldn't give me a chance to drive, my seatmate wouldn't share her sandwich.  But the young woman and I did exchange a few words.  I believe she said “May I sit here?”  Of course I replied in the affirmative.  Then one time she sneezed and I said “Bless you.”  She said “Thank you.”  When I asked for a piece of her sandwich (since we were getting along so well) she said “No” in a very kind way.  That was it.  She followed her training about speaking to strangers in a rigid way.

Here are a couple things I learned about modern buses; they are quite powerful and can do eighty miles per hour without any strain, they have old fashioned bathrooms (though with chemical toilets) that are quite similar to a rolling outhouse, they have cruise control.  I also learned that I am incapable of voiding my bladder while rolling along at eighty miles per hour.  It must be psychological.  I don’t have that problem on airplanes.  Maybe I’m scarred by the hundreds of times my father told me I’d have to “hold it” until we got another eighty miles down the road.  Or maybe the resemblance of bus bathrooms to outhouses put me off my game.

The driver of this bus was a pleasant young Hispanic fellow who knew how to navigate traffic.  I thought that if he was an airline pilot he’d have no patience for a holding pattern and would somehow be first in line to land or take off every time.  He managed, time and again, to squeeze that forty-five foot vehicle into a space that only looked long enough for a four door Prius and never, ever chipped the paint from a bumper.  Of course car drivers do tend to feel intimidated when one of these coaches starts to insinuate itself into a line of traffic.

As we neared the New York - New Jersey border I noticed that the ex-cons were using the bathroom quite a lot.  It soon became apparent that they were in there sneaking smokes.  Our driver got on his little announcing microphone and said that the law strictly prohibited smoking on the bus and that it would be considered a parole violation which would necessitate a brief stop at Riker’s Island jail if he caught anyone else breaking the law.  Everyone laughed but the smokers quit their sneaky ways.

The bus crossed into New Jersey and pulled into a bus stop in the town of Ridgefield.  Once again all the smokers jumped off the bus and lit up.  Several passengers, including my seat-mate, got off at this stop, apparently finding Jersey more welcoming than the prospect of New York City’s Port Authority.  A couple of the former jailbirds stayed in Ridgefield as well.  Soon we were back on the road again and heading into the morass of traffic that constitutes an everyday commute into the Big Apple.  I pity the commuters.

Our driver was a regular Mario Andretti as he navigated the expressways and tunnels that brought us ever closer to our finish line.  When one path closed up the driver found an alternate that I never would have spotted.  And if there was no open road he somehow forged a whole new lane.  Other vehicles behind us began following the guy like he was Moses crossing the Red Sea.  Even if they weren't going to the Port Authority they were attracted by the idea of motion on an island of stagnation. 

In no time at all we were dumped into the special Hell that is the Port Authority Bus Terminal.  Two hundred twenty three departure gates, stores, restaurants and thousands of certifiably insane people populate this massive building.  On this Memorial Day weekend the place was jammed with people trying to travel to destinations all over the eastern seaboard.  And these crowds were complemented by thousands more who were trying to get away from that same area.  It was chaos and my traveling day was about to get more complicated.

Part 3, The Final Chapter, is coming soon.