We all have romantic notions of travel. Often it's best to keep them this way. Reality can pinprick those dreams. Mine was a Greyhound tour of the States. For years I'd thought about it; the interesting characters I'd meet along the way, a smeary window on America.
Last year, I had to change planes in Atlanta, so I stopped for a week and joined the Greyhound squad. It was hugely lacking in romance. In a country ruled by the car, those who travel by Greyhound do it through necessity. It’s obvious, but my romantic notions didn’t factor in economic reality. The buses are often dirty and late and the terminals are in the scummy part of town, full of tired and irritable folk. I saw a fair amount of aimless aggression.
The redeeming feature of Greyhound travel is Pac-Man. Every terminal has one. I scored 50,000 in Athens, beat it in Augusta and by the time I got to Macon I had a crowd of impressed onlookers. I also had repetitive strain injury.
As for the characters, well it wasn’t what I expected. There's a kind of social bubble on the journey which you wouldn’t get on our more prissy isle. Much Chatter across aisles and lots of head swiveling as the conversations gain impetus and expand in numbers.
Two people spring to mind. A 19 year old Army kid struck up a conversation. He was proud of his country and wanted to tell me about it. He asked me what currency we used in England. I showed him a five pound note and he recognized the Queen. "Cool." He was like a blank canvas.
The other memory is Eric. Now, Eric seemed an intelligent man. Our taste in books was similar even if our taste in music was polls apart. What can you say when someone says they like Carcass? We swapped e-mail addresses. I wish I hadn't. I read the first three thousand word e-mail he wrote about his whole life. But not the second one a day later. Nor the one that started I HATE THE WORLD.
I stopped in Athens, Georgia for a while. I was heading for Savannah, but you can’t get there from here. It was in Athens that I hit the magic ton on Pac-Man and realised I was enjoying the stopovers more than the journeys.
Originally posted September 28th, 2004
Showing posts with label USA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label USA. Show all posts
Thursday, 22 March 2007
Florida 1982
As the aircraft lifted into the afternoon skies, I craned my neck to see Miami below. I'd begged for the window seat and bagsied it before my sister. She sulked as a ten year old does. At two years her senior I was entitled to the privilege. Despite securing the seat with a view all I could see was wing. I silently reproached my father for this oversight. He should have known.
I gazed at the two huge engines and was surprised when one exploded. The fuselage rocked and my dad said "shit" and looked alarmed. I tugged his sleeve and pointed to the engine; a stream of green and blush smoke trailed behind.
The captain made an announcement, "A little trouble with Number 2 engine...nothing to worry about…this is a 747 it can fly on 3 engines…our journey will continue." His voice was reassurance itself. If he added that he was going to blow the other three engines and glide back to London, it wouldn’t have raised a murmur.
Except, we had stopped climbing and appeared to be circling off the Florida coast. Ten minutes later the captain was back and all traces of reassurance were gone. "Back to Miami…dump fuel…emergency landing." I guess there was more, but panic took over and everyone shouted at once. For twenty minutes the plane completed endless laps, jettisoning fuel from the wing tips. A lady passed out, then a man. As a twelve-year-old kid, my frame off reference was narrow. I’d spent the holiday negotiating my way around Pac-Man machines and had just been to see ET. The reality for me was something between a game and a movie. Another passenger passed out. Not a great movie.
The captain made a final announcement, which was pretty much “Don’t Panic”. The runway loomed up as we approached the airport. A woman behind me bit the crown from her tooth and screamed in pain. My mum said “we’re going to die” then repeated it over and over as a kind of mantra. Her prediction was wide of the mark. We hit the ground hard and bounced up again. Stomachs were playing catch up. The overhead lockers flew open and luggage rained down. Then the wheels hit again and stayed put. Fire trucks and ambulances roared alongside; a hundred flashing lights of blue and orange. We slowed and everyone whooped and hollered their approval. Apart from the woman with the crownless tooth. She was wishing for the place to crash and her misery to end. Our stomachs taxied to meet us.
Disappointedly we didn’t get to use the emergency chutes. Pan-AM herded us onto a later flight; a flight characterised by empty seats. To compensate for the ‘delay’, every passenger received free earphones. I let my sister take the window seat.
I gazed at the two huge engines and was surprised when one exploded. The fuselage rocked and my dad said "shit" and looked alarmed. I tugged his sleeve and pointed to the engine; a stream of green and blush smoke trailed behind.
The captain made an announcement, "A little trouble with Number 2 engine...nothing to worry about…this is a 747 it can fly on 3 engines…our journey will continue." His voice was reassurance itself. If he added that he was going to blow the other three engines and glide back to London, it wouldn’t have raised a murmur.
Except, we had stopped climbing and appeared to be circling off the Florida coast. Ten minutes later the captain was back and all traces of reassurance were gone. "Back to Miami…dump fuel…emergency landing." I guess there was more, but panic took over and everyone shouted at once. For twenty minutes the plane completed endless laps, jettisoning fuel from the wing tips. A lady passed out, then a man. As a twelve-year-old kid, my frame off reference was narrow. I’d spent the holiday negotiating my way around Pac-Man machines and had just been to see ET. The reality for me was something between a game and a movie. Another passenger passed out. Not a great movie.
The captain made a final announcement, which was pretty much “Don’t Panic”. The runway loomed up as we approached the airport. A woman behind me bit the crown from her tooth and screamed in pain. My mum said “we’re going to die” then repeated it over and over as a kind of mantra. Her prediction was wide of the mark. We hit the ground hard and bounced up again. Stomachs were playing catch up. The overhead lockers flew open and luggage rained down. Then the wheels hit again and stayed put. Fire trucks and ambulances roared alongside; a hundred flashing lights of blue and orange. We slowed and everyone whooped and hollered their approval. Apart from the woman with the crownless tooth. She was wishing for the place to crash and her misery to end. Our stomachs taxied to meet us.
Disappointedly we didn’t get to use the emergency chutes. Pan-AM herded us onto a later flight; a flight characterised by empty seats. To compensate for the ‘delay’, every passenger received free earphones. I let my sister take the window seat.
Southern USA 2003
Rainy Nights in Georgia
There is a simple way to get to Central America and then there's the way that goes via Spain and the south eastern states of America. I chose the less direct route.
I left Europe in a sunny haze and touched down (or deplaned as the Americans say) in a torrent of rain in Atlanta. I delighted the guy sat next to me by spilling hot coffee into his lap. However much I apologised, we were never going to be friends. It took forever to clear the immigration controls at the airport. After a couple of hours they concluded that I was probably not a terrorist, 'Too clumsy'.
Atlanta was a huge urban sprawl, so I caught a Greyhound bus to Athens, Georgia. I've long had a romantic vision of traveling around the States by Greyhound. The reality is less appealing; the buses are often dirty and late and the terminals are in the scummy part of town, full of loners muttering to themselves. I blended in seamlessly.
The redeeming feature of Greyhound travel is the Pac-Man arcade game. Every terminal has one! I scored 50,000 in Athens, beat it in Augusta and by the time I got to Savannah I was topping 90,000 and had a crowd of impressed onlookers. I also had severe blisters, repetitive strain injury and was going blind. I took a break and booked into a hotel in downtown Athens.
Athens is basically the University of Georgia surrounded by a perfect circle of dorm towns. Although only 100 miles distant, it was half a world away from Atlanta. I could tell it was a university town because I was the only one about at 10.30 in the morning. Sadly, I was also the only one getting ready for bed at 10.30 at night. Athens was a chronic town to catch up on your sleep. I went to find the river and ended up in Weaver D's cafe. Their Automatic for the People sign was appropriated by some local residents for one of their albums a few years back.
What made the town for me was its residential districts. In England suburbia has derogatory implications but in Athens, the houses are full of character. I picked up some maps and legends and discovered pastel painted properties, framed by manicured lawns and arcaded porches. I would have liked to stay longer but I was running out of time. I looked for a bus to Savannah but you can't get there from here, so I took the Greyhound over the border into Aiken, South Carolina.
The man at the Aiken bus terminal said, "I went to England once. Do you know Swindon?" I said I did and hoped he didn't think all of England was like that. I went downtown on Saturday night, looking for adventure. I found a beer hall, ordered a Budweiser and sat at the bar to watch some all American sports on widescreen. Instead the TV was showing cricket. The owner of the bar turned out to be from south London and had a fanatical love for the game, much to the consternation of the locals. There is no better definition of bewilderment than an American watching cricket; "So you're telling me this game goes on all day?" "Yep, this is a short one, test matches last five days." "FIVE whole days?" "Yep, and even then, it's often a draw." "What? After FIVE days? Is this a sport or a punishment?"
I joined several conversations hoping to hear some reactionary southern stereotypes, but everyone I met was a liberal, albeit with Elvis accents and unsightly mullets. "Mike, I'm sorry we're not the rednecks you were looking for" said one. I found myself talking to a retired colonel, but even he voted Democrat.
Aiken was a pretty town and epitomised southern hospitality. I read the papers, ate all I could at the all you can eat buffet and even said, "uh-huh" with an Elvis inflection. There was even a prom dress shop straight out of a John Hughes movie. Everyone lived in huge houses that appeared to be auditioning for parts in the Gone with the Wind. I was sad to leave Aiken, but pleased to have my preconceptions shattered.
My final stop was Savannah, unusual in terms of American cities in that it was navigable on foot without the risk of being mown down by traffic. It poured non-stop in Savannah, but the grand pre civil war mansions and leafy squares still looked pretty in the rain. It was also an outside Hollywood studio, home to Forrest Gump, Cape Fear and Midnight in the Garden of Good & Evil. The latter sustaining a tourist industry all of its own.
I took my final Greyhound bus back to Atlanta, breaking through the magical 100,000 barrier on Pac-Man at a stopover in Macon. My hotel had a 10th floor view of the Atlanta skyline and near midnight, a spectacular storm framed it beautifully. I've only ever been to the States once before, on a family holiday to Florida in 1982. I spent most of that holiday playing Pac-Man. I obviously haven't grown up much.
There is a simple way to get to Central America and then there's the way that goes via Spain and the south eastern states of America. I chose the less direct route.
I left Europe in a sunny haze and touched down (or deplaned as the Americans say) in a torrent of rain in Atlanta. I delighted the guy sat next to me by spilling hot coffee into his lap. However much I apologised, we were never going to be friends. It took forever to clear the immigration controls at the airport. After a couple of hours they concluded that I was probably not a terrorist, 'Too clumsy'.
Atlanta was a huge urban sprawl, so I caught a Greyhound bus to Athens, Georgia. I've long had a romantic vision of traveling around the States by Greyhound. The reality is less appealing; the buses are often dirty and late and the terminals are in the scummy part of town, full of loners muttering to themselves. I blended in seamlessly.
The redeeming feature of Greyhound travel is the Pac-Man arcade game. Every terminal has one! I scored 50,000 in Athens, beat it in Augusta and by the time I got to Savannah I was topping 90,000 and had a crowd of impressed onlookers. I also had severe blisters, repetitive strain injury and was going blind. I took a break and booked into a hotel in downtown Athens.
Athens is basically the University of Georgia surrounded by a perfect circle of dorm towns. Although only 100 miles distant, it was half a world away from Atlanta. I could tell it was a university town because I was the only one about at 10.30 in the morning. Sadly, I was also the only one getting ready for bed at 10.30 at night. Athens was a chronic town to catch up on your sleep. I went to find the river and ended up in Weaver D's cafe. Their Automatic for the People sign was appropriated by some local residents for one of their albums a few years back.
What made the town for me was its residential districts. In England suburbia has derogatory implications but in Athens, the houses are full of character. I picked up some maps and legends and discovered pastel painted properties, framed by manicured lawns and arcaded porches. I would have liked to stay longer but I was running out of time. I looked for a bus to Savannah but you can't get there from here, so I took the Greyhound over the border into Aiken, South Carolina.
The man at the Aiken bus terminal said, "I went to England once. Do you know Swindon?" I said I did and hoped he didn't think all of England was like that. I went downtown on Saturday night, looking for adventure. I found a beer hall, ordered a Budweiser and sat at the bar to watch some all American sports on widescreen. Instead the TV was showing cricket. The owner of the bar turned out to be from south London and had a fanatical love for the game, much to the consternation of the locals. There is no better definition of bewilderment than an American watching cricket; "So you're telling me this game goes on all day?" "Yep, this is a short one, test matches last five days." "FIVE whole days?" "Yep, and even then, it's often a draw." "What? After FIVE days? Is this a sport or a punishment?"
I joined several conversations hoping to hear some reactionary southern stereotypes, but everyone I met was a liberal, albeit with Elvis accents and unsightly mullets. "Mike, I'm sorry we're not the rednecks you were looking for" said one. I found myself talking to a retired colonel, but even he voted Democrat.
Aiken was a pretty town and epitomised southern hospitality. I read the papers, ate all I could at the all you can eat buffet and even said, "uh-huh" with an Elvis inflection. There was even a prom dress shop straight out of a John Hughes movie. Everyone lived in huge houses that appeared to be auditioning for parts in the Gone with the Wind. I was sad to leave Aiken, but pleased to have my preconceptions shattered.
My final stop was Savannah, unusual in terms of American cities in that it was navigable on foot without the risk of being mown down by traffic. It poured non-stop in Savannah, but the grand pre civil war mansions and leafy squares still looked pretty in the rain. It was also an outside Hollywood studio, home to Forrest Gump, Cape Fear and Midnight in the Garden of Good & Evil. The latter sustaining a tourist industry all of its own.
I took my final Greyhound bus back to Atlanta, breaking through the magical 100,000 barrier on Pac-Man at a stopover in Macon. My hotel had a 10th floor view of the Atlanta skyline and near midnight, a spectacular storm framed it beautifully. I've only ever been to the States once before, on a family holiday to Florida in 1982. I spent most of that holiday playing Pac-Man. I obviously haven't grown up much.
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