PPL

As you can see by this abbreviation for ‘People’, I am going to try to keep this one short. There is not much more to tell, in the ‘people’ category, anyway. As I’ve commented before, I am road-weary and bone tired. Not very observant and getting rather negligent in recording impressions.

Besides, as I write this I’ve already been back in China for one month, and there are things here to talk about. So I want to summarize the final leg of my stateside trip and start talking about China again. That’s what you’re really here for, right? Me, too.

So let’s finish talking about people.

Combining the idea of China with my Greyhound experiences, I have to remark that I did not see very many Asian people on the bus, and not many out and about while visiting those various cities, either. One notable exception was a man who was Korean, seated next to an American youth that carried on and on about how much he loved the Asian lifestyle and culture. He neglected to say which Asian culture and his seatmate was far too polite to correct him as he combined all of China, Korea, Japan, Cambodia and Singapore into one lump of humanity, ascribing distinctly Chinese locations to Japan and Korean food to China.

There was the Indian family aboard the bus going to Denver. The portly patriarch snored patchily while his wife crocheted by his side. Their teenaged children sat behind them, watching movies on their laptop. At one point, during a pickup stop that was to last only as long as it took to take on passengers, the husband asked Alan, the bus driver, if his wife could go into the terminal to use the bathroom. It seems the onboard bus facilities were too distasteful for her. I agree: they are nasty.

Alan got on the P.A. system once the bus was back on the road and chastised the man publicly. And offensively. He said something to the effect that he had announced prior to stopping that no one was to get off the bus at this stop, and that the man should learn proper English because this was the United States of America, where English was spoken. I was humiliated for this man and told him, at the next rest stop, that I intended to complain about Alan. There was no need to publicly humiliate him, or make that statement, seeing as the passenger in question spoke very good English.

Other than these two – the man who was Korean and the family who was Indian, I did not see many people who were Asian until right around Washington, DC.

And then there was the twosome I dubbed ‘The Princess Couple’. These people had either no experience in the rough and tumble world or they had no knowledge that riding Greyhound can be a humbling experience. To be sure, the young man was devoted to his lady: he kept his arm around her, made sure she was covered when it got cold overnight on the bus, fed her morsels of food and waited for her outside the bathroom door. They waited until all other passengers had boarded the bus, standing apart from the crush at the door. Being last to board, they had to take seats in the back of the bus. That was obviously not pleasing to them. They returned to the front and claimed that their ticket reserved them seats number 5 and 6, when we all know there is no such thing as reserved seating on the bus. Unhappily they trekked back and took seats apart, until somebody felt sorry enough for them to change seats so they could sit together. If this were a fairy tale, they would have been the perfect couple for the lead roles.

Riding a Greyhound is not a fairy tale. It is dog eat dog aboard the Big Grey Dog. We all poked fun at our Fairy Princess Couple. I hope they were not too disillusioned at the harshness of the world.

The last remarkable character to talk about is the woman who got thrown off the bus, sometime during the wee hours of the morning. In all of my travels, all of the drivers have said that being overly loud on the bus will earn that passenger guilty of noise a spot on the highway and a chauffered ride back into town, courtesy of the local branch of Highway Patrol. I had yet to see it happen. And I didn’t really see this happen either, due to extreme sleepiness. Was she being overly garrulous or over querulous? Only the driver knows, being as he was the one bothered enough by her loquaciousness to take on the shocking act of putting her off the bus alongside the highway. There might have even been a small child traveling with her. As I said: details are sketchy because I was so very sleepy. I know it was night, I know the driver put a woman off the bus, I know she screeched in indignation and I think there was a small child involved. I went back to sleep, secure in the knowledge that no one could accuse me of being too loud. Unless snoring counts.

Besides, I don’t even know if I snore. I’m asleep while doing it, if I am in fact guilty of doing so.

One more person to talk about, but he was not aboard a bus. I met him at the terminal in Washington D.C., where again I had a layover. He stood about 6’2”, had sandy blond hair cut military style and was dressed in a striped tee shirt and jeans. He followed me outside and asked if I might have a cigarette, and then he told me his tale.

He was in Afghanistan when he got word that his mother had died a month ago. It took the Army and the Red Cross two weeks to release him of his combat obligations and return him stateside, to his port of entry – the military base he had shipped out from. After two weeks of out-processing, turning in all of his military gear, he was back on the streets and trying to get home via Greyhound. He had virtually no money to his name and unexpressed grief in his heart.

I had bought a carton of cigarettes to give away as gifts to my Chinese friends. As he told me his tale, omitting the obvious – that he would still have post traumatic stress syndrome to deal with, along with getting reacclimated back into American society, all while dealing with the loss of his mother, I thought that one of my Chinese friends is going to have to live without receiving a pack of American cigarettes. He talked on while I unzipped my duffel bag, dug around and gave him a pack. He broke down and cried. It seems my simple act of kindness touched him, reducing him to tears.

I leave you with that image. And with the thought that there are all kinds of people in America. We don’t know their story, their deeds, their pain, or their joy. All across the nation, people brush by each other daily and sometimes we see, sometimes we listen and sometimes we even make a connection.

Each of these travelers made an impression on me. Others, whose faces I recall but whose names go unknown, continue to live their lives and be remarkable in their way. At least I hope they do. They helped make this road trip a memorable experience for me.