Austin, TX to San Jose, Costa Rica 10-12-10

          The night before my flight Donahue and I stayed in a hotel in Austin right next to the airport.  I had to be at the airport at 4 AM, so a hotel made sense.  As I waited for the flight, I was still struck by the distinct contrasts from bus stations to airports.  The plane was clean, white, and cool.  The bus had been dirty, stuffy, and steaming hot. After hours of waiting around I was airborne.  I had been planning this trip for 8 months.  I was happy to see the states in my rearview mirror.  

As we flew, I was accompanied by a couple flying to CR for their honeymoon.  They were polite and conversational.  I thought of the stark contrast between our two trips.  They were going to a resort catering to white tourists.  They´d stay in some all-inclusive resort, speak English, eating American food, dancing to American music, watching American television and never get out and see the real Central America.  Nevertheless It was nice to have occasional conversation on this 4.5 hour flight.

                The whole first hour I was eagerly anticipating my first glimpse of the ocean.  I had never flown over a large body of water before.  It came soon enough, but it was a tad disappointing because the clouds and the enormous wing of the plane were doing a pretty good job of obscuring my view.  I didn´t care.  Just knowing I was over the Caribbean water was enough for me.  After a few more hours I was pleased to see a large chain of islands off to the horizon.  The dark blue water of the sea was trimmed by bright green and teal waters along the shorelines.  There were more different variations of greens and blues than I had ever seen before.  I was finally on vacation.

                The flight was long enough and soon we had landed in San Jose.  I had read from many sources that San Jose is no special place to visit.  It´s in the middle of the country and has been widely described as ¨just your ordinary city.¨  That, as I was soon to find out, was the understatement of the century.

                When I landed I was so excited.  When I got off the plane, I began to walk through the airport to get my bag. I was expecting the airport to have all these restaurants with exotic foods; coconuts, fish, mango etc.  As I followed the arrows to baggage claim I passed a sign with an arrow pointing right.  On it were four very familiar images.  They were the signs for Burger King, Papa Johns, Church´s Chicken, and Cinnabun.  That was hardly the culinary staples of Costa Rican cuisine that I had read about!

                After an awkward encounter at customs, I got my bag and headed out of the airport to find my pre-arranged shuttle to the hostel in San Jose.  Walking out the front doors I was bombarded by at least ten different people trying to grab my bag and competing for my business in their taxis.  Clenching my pack tightly, I pushed my way through to find a man named Manuel with a sign adorning my name.  I hopped in the van and so did two others and we were off.

                I could tell right away that these guys were from here.  Their tans screamed of it.  One was a Gringo named Mike.  He was from Oklahoma and had been here on and off for 8 years.  The other was a native Costa Rican named Chris.  Costa Rican´s call themselves Ticos.  Chris was most certainly a Tico.  Chris and Mike suggested I visit a small beach village called Playa Samara.  I didn´t even know where the hell it was.  It sounded nice enough.  I hadn´t picked a destination yet.  My plan was to go to this hostel for maybe a day or two and find people to tag along with.  As the shuttle continued on, we went through San Jose. 

                San Jose is unlike any mental images you may have of Costa Rica.  It´s not green, it´s not bright, and it´s hardly colorful.  It´s grey, it´s dark, and it´s seedy.  My sense of smell was constantly on the defensive; fighting off the alternating bouquet´s of bus fumes, garbage baking in the sun, and burning tires (apparently a popular pastime in San Jose).  There was an orchestra of honking horns, screeching tires, and rumbling motorcycles.   It was a potholed concrete jungle.  In some ways it was much like the inner cities of the states and in other ways it was entirely unlike the states.  On the awnings of many buildings you could find large shards of broken glass glued in place to deter would-be burglars.  The more successful homes and establishments were fortunate enough to adorn the trim of their properties with razor-wire…very homey.

                Driving through the inner-city, our driver continued on.  I probably would have paid him another 20 dollars just to blow through every stop sign and red light on the way.  I just wanted to get to the hostel.  Before I knew it, we were there.  We didn´t drive through the inner city to get there, the hostel was IN the inner city.  I knew I was a far cry from the small peaceful world of Montana.

                 After showing our passports to the polite security guard at the door we were allowed in.  The hostel was actually a large facility…really a number of facilities.  It had a TV room with dvd´s to play, an internet room with several computers, a kitchen to make your own meals, dining area, foosball table, bar, pool, and restaurant.  It had everything a weary traveler might need.  Right now, all I needed was a bed and a few minutes to gather my thoughts.

I had previously arranged for a dorm room bed.  I knew I would have roommates, but that was sort of the point.  And I wasn’t going to have to worry about my property because the website said I would have a locker to myself.  When I got in the room, I found six bunk beds and a few random bags on the floor.  No one was in the room.  I sat my stuff down and began to determine how best to unpack.  Under a bed next to mine was a small suitcase half open.  It looked remarkably small for a person traveling internationally.  The case had enough room for just a couple shirts and pants.  Hanging out of it was a nearly empty bottle of liquor.

          
I looked around for the locker to store my bag, and it was then that I discovered my first hostel locker.  It was no locker, it was something LIKE a locker but it was no locker.  It was a small metal box the size of a shoe box.  I couldn´t fit a fraction of my belongings in that tiny thing!  I put my passport, camera and a few other items in there and locked it.  Everything else was at the mercy of my neighbors.   

¨Oh well,¨ I said.

¨I guess this is what I signed up for.¨

                About that time the door began to rattle and someone was coming into the room.  My heart skipped a beat as I wondered what the person may be like.  In entered a tan white guy all of six foot tall.  We said hello and he plopped down on the bed with the suitcase I had noticed earlier.  He introduced himself as Nigel.  We exchanged pleasantries, and he mentioned he was going to the grocery store.  I knew I had to eat cheap on this trip if it was going to last for the ten weeks I had planned on, so this was a good chance to start that habit early.  I accepted his invitation and we were off.

                As we went outside it began to rain really hard.  Soon, I realized that Nigel had no idea where this grocery store was.  That was okay with me. I wanted to look around a little bit.  We must have walked for 45 minutes before we found the store.  Inside, everything was priced in Costa Rican Colones.  I still didn´t know what the current rate was for Dollars to Colones.  I grabbed a few small items and we headed to the register.  Nigel had under budgeted and asked me to borrow 500 Colones.  For all I knew this could have been 20 Dollars American.  I grabbed it from my pocket and was happy to oblige.  Soon enough we were headed back out into the storm.

                The rain poured down unlike any rain I had ever seen.  There were no rain drops.  It was a constant barrage of heavy streams of water.  I had went to great lengths to prepare my ¨waterproof¨ jacket before this trip.  I sprayed it several times; treating it to enhance the waterproofing properties.  It was already failing.  My jacket was Colorado and Montana waterproof, but it was not jungle waterproof.  My clothes underneath were already getting soaked.  My shoes slipped on the wet concrete and a number of times I nearly fell on my ass.  Nigel asked me if I had heard about the earthquake last week. 

¨No, I said.¨

¨Yea it was pretty bad.  It registered at a 5.9 on the Richter Scale.¨

I was astonished.  I had read more books than I could count on one hand, been to enumerable websites, and talked to leagues of people; no one had mentioned anything about earthquakes.  Instantly, my mind began to race with images of Haiti.  I didn´t know what to do in an earthquake.  Do I stay inside, or go outside?  Do I stand under a doorway, or inside a hallway?  I didn´t know.  I became overwhelmed with all the possible What-If´s.  I started to feel far from home.

We got back to the hostel, and began to prepare our food in the communal kitchen.  There were people from at least ten countries.  Those around the kitchen were very friendly.  Me, Nigel, and a woman from Tennessee struck up conversation.  I can´t recall her name, so I´m going to call her Tennessee.  As Nigel and I cooked, Tennessee began to engage us more and more.  She hovered over us as we cooked.  I overheard her talking to another person about a ¨guns deal¨ she was working on.  I never did figure out what it was all about, but I´ll never forget her saying ¨He´s got a room full of these guns and no one to move them.¨  Part of me thought she was full of shit, but how could I tell?  I was starting to feel farther and farther away from home.

                We finally sat down for dinner and Nigel and Tennessee continued to banter about their travels.  Nigel had been out of the states for over a decade teaching English abroad all over the world.  Tennessee had been to 27 countries.  They began to banter about a number of things I had no way of contributing to.  Nigel shared the story of some jungle virus he got in Southeast Asia that translates in English to Bone Crusher.  It hurts so bad that you feel like your bones are being crushed.  Tennessee shared several she had gotten.   The conversation transitioned to drugs.  These guys had done every drug on the planet, and some I had never even heard of.  I started to feel pretty uncomfortable with these people.  I stared at the food we had slaved over for the last hour.  I couldn´t eat it.  The food was good, but I had no appetite.  I was tired, dehydrated and alone.  In a hostel full of people, I was alone.

                I sat and interacted for a while but soon politely made my exit.  For the next hours I was like a lost puppy walking to the various places in the hostel trying to meet people.  Everyone was in groups.  There were The Svens; a Norwegian group of 4 men.  They boisterously played foosball and howled and grunted around like they owned the place.  They even had a secret handshake.  Not my cup of tea.  There were groups like that all over the place, but none seemed very approachable. 

                I happened upon a guy from Burbank, California.  He had been staying at the Hostel for over a year because he had come to get free dental work at the local university.  He was so skinny, I wondered if he had been eating enough.  His cheeks were sunk in and his greasy hair suggested he hadn´t seen the inside of a shower since he got there.  As I tried to make conversation with him, I was approached by a man from India.  He sat down with us.  We had been talking about film when he came over.  He asked if we liked the Resident Evil movies.  Neither of us had seen any of them.  So, India spent the next ten minutes telling us how it was the greatest cinematic feat since The Godfather.  Nothing we said could get him off his tangent.  Who WAS this guy?!!  After struggling to change the topic for another ten minutes I discovered that he had actually been living on the Caribbean side of CR for several years now.  He had moved into the hostel a few months ago for ¨a change.¨ 

¨What change,¨ I wondered.

¨How bad was his life that he moved into this shit-hole to have a change?¨

                With every encounter I was feeling more and more alone.  Maybe this wasn´t right for me.  I thought back to the honeymoon couple I met on the plane.  Right now they were in a nice resort with safe surroundings, and their every need catered to by a legion of English-speaking staff.  Meanwhile here I was in a hostel of lost souls exchanging stories of drugs, viruses, and Resident Evil.  I missed home.  I wanted to crawl in a corner and disappear.  Or better yet, magically teleport home.

                I sat down at a computer and emailed a good friend from Vegas.  She had extended an open invitation for me to stay with her last summer.  I thought maybe I should just trade in my return ticket and go to Vegas for a while.  That would be a nice consolation prize.  I told her how bad it was.  I asked her if the offer was still on the table.  I was ashamed to even be asking.  It was like admitting defeat.  I thought this trip would be fun.  I would backpack around to hostels and see an exotic part of the world.  I thought it would be so exciting to get outside my comfort zone and explore other cultures.  Now, here I was surrounded by different cultures and all I wanted was my bed and my friends.

                I sent the email and looked for a website for the local airport.  There, I found that there were flights to the pacific coast the next day.  Originally I had said that I wouldn´t use planes in Central Amreica.  I was going to take the buses because they were so cheap.  But,now, I didn´t care.  I didn´t want to have anything to do with the people or the buses.  I wanted a seat on the first thing smoking out of San Jose.  I found a flight for a beach town called Tamarindo the next morning.  It was a hundred dollars, but considering my current setting, I would have paid ten times that to get the hell out of this decrepit environment.  I looked in my travel book, and Tamarindo was well rated.  I asked the receptionist to arrange a taxi for me first thing the next morning.

                I walked back through the hostel to my room.  There was no one there.  I closed the blinds, took three Tylenol PM´s and laid awake in bed waiting for the medicine to kick in.  I placed my pack under my feet like a footrest so that no one could take it while I slept.  Finally, I fell asleep, and began the least restful night of sleep of my entire life.  The next morning, I awoke at dawn.  I jumped in the communal shower with no hot water, and then got dressed.  I went downstairs where I still couldn´t eat anything so I sat and waited for the taxi. 

                The driver dropped me off at the airport and I headed in to buy a ticket.  It was the wrong airport.  He took me to the international airport, but I needed the domestic airport.  With my 30 pound pack sturdily fastened on my back I left the airport to begin my journey across town.  Finally, I made it to the right airport and still in plenty of time to make my flight.  I bought my ticket, watched Latin CNN as I waited, and soon we were boarding.  As the plane took off, I couldn´t have felt more relieved.  I might as well have been escaping from prison.  I was happy to see San Jose in my rearview mirror.  Behind me lay concrete, potholes, diesel fumes, and garbage littered streets.  Ahead of me lay white sand beaches, coconuts, and seashells.  I couldn´t wait for the people, experiences and stories that lay ahead.

Denver, CO to Temple TX

10-7-10           

“It was the best of times, and it was the worst of times.”

                                                                                                --Charles Dickens

            I arrived in Temple, Texas this evening to a warm greeting from a friend of mine named Donahue.  The journey there, however, was something entirely unusual.  I hadn’t planned on writing anything more on this blog until my journey in Central America begins next Tuesday.  Well, unbeknownst to me, it began last night at a Greyhound bus station in Denver. 

            I had decided in August that I would bus down to visit him, and then fly to Costa Rica out of Austin.  I didn’t want to take my car because upon my return I’d have to drive it back to Colorado in December weather.  “No.” I said.  “Taking a bus down there is a lot easier.  Then I’ll just fly back to Denver in December.” 

            Seemed simple enough…

            As I was soon to find out, there is nothing simple about it.  There is nothing simple about multi-state bus travel.  The slogan is so simple and catchy: “I go easy, I go Greyhound.”  There is noting easy about going Greyhound.  It is a lot like the military.  It involves intense surges of Hurry-Up followed abruptly by long drawn out periods of Wait.  During this carnival you’re surrounded by people whose ideas of refinement would make Larry the Cable Guy look more like Lawrence the Monopoly Guy.  I learned this before even entering the building to the station in Denver.  It was outside on the sidewalk that I was met by a man digging his pinky-finger deep into his nose--like he had lost his car keys.   I’m not sure, but perhaps there was a $100 bill in there somewhere .  I’m talking third knuckle deep.  Whatever it was he was looking for, I sure hope he found it.

            I boarded the bus in Denver eager to start my trip.  This was the first moment where the whole trip began to seem real.  Until then, it had seemed more like an “I could do this.”  But the moment I boarded the bus, it became “I am doing this.”   I chose a seat and sat down, setting my pack on the seat next to me to mark my territory.  I had one of those smiles that you try to hold in because people will think you’re crazy.  My enthusiasm was quickly extinguished when I began to detect the smell of ass wafting through the air.  There’s just no other word I can find to describe it.  I could spend hours searching through a thesaurus and I would still come back using the very same word to relay this smell to the reader: ass. 

           

            Each Greyhound bus is set up the same.  There are two seats on either side of the aisle.  There are about 20 to the back and at the very back there is a bathroom.  Before this trip a good friend had warned me that I wanted to stay as far from the bathroom as possible.  So I made sure to get a seat in the front row.  As people boarded, I began to worry that as seats filled up, people may need to sit right beside each other.  I did not want a seatmate.  Unlike airplanes, there are no assigned seats.  So, when the last passengers board, they can basically choose who they want to sit next to.  I quickly decided to do something I had always sworn to myself that I would never do.  It was time to let the gut hang out.  In an effort to look like the least appealing seatmate possible I swallowed as much air as possible and pushed my stomach out as far is it would go.  The bigger I looked, the less seat space a potential neighbor would have.  I’m convinced I presented the least appealing option on the bus and alas it paid off.  I had both seats to myself!  Soon we were all boarded and ready to depart.  

           

            The bus driver got our attention and gave us a thorough overview of the rules.  The wera A) Don’t smoke anything, and B) Respect your fellow passengers.  I was struck by the fact that he did not say “don’t smoke cigarettes,” but rather “don’t’ smoke anything.”  My mind raced with what the “anything” might be.  He followed with a speech about what a safe, fast, and generally amazing driver he was.  Soon we were on the Interstate.  I threw on my ipod and quickly distracted myself with music.  I learned right away that the key to surviving lengthy travel is finding innovative ways to disassociate. 

            Soon enough we were in Colorado Springs.  The bus driver, still beaming from the pep talk he gave us in Denver, had somehow already gotten lost.  It took him over 30 minutes of driving around the city roads before he found the terminal.  It was only with the help of a passenger that he ever found it, or else we’d probably still be winding around the back roads of the Springs at this very moment.  All this to drop off one passenger!  Soon the passenger was off and so were we.  After another 30+ minutes passed by, yet again lost in the labyrinth of streets.  Now another passenger offered assistance, and eventually we were back on track.  By this point there had already been a series of GPS jokes.  He apparently didn’t have one.  This was the first of many areas I was to find that Greyhound cuts their costs.

            After what seemed like ages we made it to the bus station in Pueblo.   Like back in Colorado Springs: as soon as the bus stopped 2/3 of the passengers quickly piled out to squeeze in a few drags of a cigarette before they were again trapped in the metal capsule for a to-be-determined amount of time.  This was a ritual they would repeat on an hourly basis.  There were only a couple of new passengers waiting there.  This was good.  It meant that I might not have to play the seat territory game again until at least Amarillo.  Soon enough everyone re-boarded the bus and for a brief moment the smell of stale ass was exchanged for the smell of cheap cigarettes.  This was like potpourri considering the alternative.  Everyone resettled and awaited the driver’s return. 

           

            And that’s when the feature star of the trip arrived.  We began to hear the grumblings of an old man outside the bus who seemed to be yelling at the driver.  The grumblings got louder and we soon realized what he was now beginning to yell.  “Give me a damn minute.  Some black punks broke my back with a baseball bat!”  That would be the least offensive statement we were to hear from this man all night.  

           

            He was an older man of at least 70 years. He had a large protruding belly, and as he made his way up the steps we all learned that apparently he had been too busy to make the effort to buckle his belt, which was undone and hanging at his sides.  With the smell of B.O. on his clothes and the cheap whiskey on his breath he was hardly being warmly received.  He grumbled with every step.  He had a very distinctive raspy voice that suggested he had never met a cigarette he didn’t like.  He was nearly bald, but the last few absurdly long follicles had been charged with covering as much real-estate on his scalp as possible to hide this fact.  This hairdo was epic.  It is easily in my all time Top Five Best Comb-Overs. 

           

            We soon named him “Brokeback” because he must have told the story about “Those Black Punks” five more times.  As Brokeback continued to yell and swear at anyone or anything he saw, the bus driver showed amazing patience.  I heard the driver tell a passenger just before we left, “He paid his dues somewhere along the way, I’m sure.” And thus we began an exercise in tolerance that would last for hours.  A cycle began that would go all night long.  At each stop, he would wait until the last possible moment, then get off the bus and light a cigarette.  The bus driver would honk the horn; which was like our recess bell, calling us back aboard.  Everyone would re-board, sit and wait.  Brokeback pretended not to hear or see any of this.  The driver would then yell at him to hurry back on board.  Brokeback would respond with obscenities and racial slurs using innovative combinations that would have made Mel Gibson proud.  Finally, after being threatened abandonment, he would put out his largely unsmoked cigarette and re-board while continuing his verbal tirade.  This was to be the routine on at least six more stops all the way to Texas. 

           

            In Lamar, even more hammered than his premier episode, he came close to being arrested at a gas station.   Stumbling into the store, he began yelling at the clerk to get a lighter for him.   He couldn’t find them.  This guy was so plastered that he couldn’t see three cases of lighters right in front of him.  There were literally hundreds of lighters right in front of him on the counter.  He was blinded by his rage.  While I sat at the only table in the gas station trying to find an outlet to charge my phone, this nonsense continued for several minutes.  Luckily I had the best seat in the house, but was far enough away to remain uninvolved.  Soon, one of the clerks said they had called the cops, and the bus driver quickly had us re-board.  The bus driver must have apologized five times.  Somehow he felt responsible for this mayhem.  I think he had regretted ever allowing him to board back in Pueblo in the first place.  The rest of us were surprised he didn’t just leave Brokeback right there in the middle of nowhere alone with his misery.

           

            Re-boarded, Brokeback stumbled to the back of the bus and clumsily fell into a seat.   I was in the front, so I didn’t hear much from him all night.  I could tell that his neighbors were antagonizing him all night long.  Occasionally I could hear an audible obscenity with his trademark raspy voice.  I found myself dozing off from time to time; catching 30 minutes of sleep here and there. 

           

            Soon, we were nearing Amarillo and I was awoken by people gathering their things like students at the end of a lecture right before the bell rings.  We were told that we all had to exit the bus and we would be re-boarding another bus soon.  We were all just happy to get off the bus.  I got off and entered the station.  Amarillo in Spanish translates to Yellow in English.  This couldn’t have been more accurate.  This station was the building that time forgot.  Everything was yellow.  Not like a happy “Good Morning World!” kind of yellow, but more like a pea-green “why did I ever try Heroin” yellow.  The tiles were yellow, the walls were yellow, the bathroom floor was yellow, and in the bad florescent lighting everyone’s skin looked…..yellow. 

           

            In spite of the fact that it was something like 4 in the morning there were people everywhere.   I am convinced there is no more diverse place on this planet than a bus station at 4 am.  It’s like Ellis Island, but with more ex-cons. 

            Amid the throngs of strangers in the terminal, I noticed that all the passengers from our bus had somehow congregated in one corner.  We were all headed onto different buses and towards different parts of the country, but in spite of that we had a grouped together again.  Without anyone saying a word, we had all gathered and found our own intimate corner of Amarillo.   Somehow, without the words being spoken, we had initiated ourselves into a community.  A social contract had been signed.  Just as I began to marvel at that fact, someone mentioned that we hadn’t seen Brokeback since we got off the bus. 

            A few minutes later, we looked out the window to see Brokeback stumbling off the bus yet more wasted than the Lamar.  After stumbling down the last step, one could easily see he was eyeing the wall of the building for his next resting spot.  There is no word to describe the actions involved in his moving to the wall outside.  If a run and a fall had a baby, whatever that move would be….that’s the move Brokeback made.  Soon he had galumphed his way to the wall and leaned on a trashcan for his life.  We couldn’t hear him from inside, but we could see he was yelling.  We joked how he had probably found a way to blame his current condition on Mexicans, Jews, or Blacks (his trinity of hatred).

            Soon an employee from the station approached him and could tell instantly that Brokeback was in no condition to travel.  You have to be in pretty bad shape for Greyhound to tell you you’re not fit to ride their bus!  That’s like McDonalds telling you you’re not fit to order a value meal.  Yet, Brokeback somehow found a way to fall into Greyhound’s category of too twisted to ride. 

           

            The employee asked for his ticket.  Brokeback straightened up and leaned against the wall so that he could free his hands up to fish into his pockets.  Every few seconds he had to pull a hand out to again brace himself against the wall.  It was a delicate balance between trying to appear sober, using his hands to find his ticket, and yet still not fall.  It was like some sort of drunkard ballet.  Of course, he couldn’t find it.  The employee somewhat forcefully grabbed him by the upper arm and began to escort him somewhere down the sidewalk. 

           

            That’s when several from our newly formed community sprang into action.  Two of the men who had been antagonizing him all night in the back of the bus jumped out the doors and went over to help Brokeback!  One of them ran back onto our bus trying to find his ticket, while the other tried to schmooze the employee into leaving him alone.  This was a huge surprise to me.  The one who ran on the bus was Latino, and the one trying to smooth talk the employee was black; the two subjects of most of Brokeback’s tirades!  Somehow that didn’t matter.  He was a part of our newly formed community, and thus we apparently had a responsibility to him.  I didn’t think so.  He had shown no regard for any of us.  As far as I was concerned he could go sober up in jail and receive a sample of the mistreatment he showed everyone else.  But to some in our corner of the terminal, none of that mattered.  I was touched by this generous act of humanity.  Everything was yellow in Amarillo but there were no yellow-bellies.  I was touched by the forgiveness these two men displayed. 

           

            Despite their best efforts, Brokeback was eventually taken away by the police.  Soon enough, things began to quiet down in the terminal.  It’s a shame to think that he was so drunk that when he woke up today he probably didn’t even remember the unbelievable acts of kindness the “Mexicans” and “Blacks” had shown him the night before.  Eventually the laughter dissipated as one-by-one people began to split up heading to their various gates.  A part of me felt strange when we split up.  It was becoming familiar, maybe even comfortable.

            Now I was thrust into to a new bus and a new group of strangers.  It felt like I was entering the Denver bus station all over again.  In line waiting for my next bus to Dallas, I was surrounded by an even more absurd cast of characters.  There was a woman who had no shoes on, and stood behind me for a short while breathing on the back of my neck.  I wasn’t about to lose my place in line because the farther up in line you are the better your seating options are when you board.  She was deeply involved in a conversation about why Broadway shows were better than films.  Curiously, I turned around to see whom she had been talking to when I realized there was no one else behind me but her.  She had been talking to herself the whole time.  I turned around facing the front again just hoping to ignore her antics. 

            Distracting myself with thoughts of the white sand and blue waters that awaited me soon, I tried to disassociate once again.  To my left was a doorway.  Just past the doorway were a couple vending machines.  Just next to the machines were a few vacant outlets being used by two people charging their phones while several others looked in like starved hyenas.   Everyone wanted their phones charged so they could Facebook, text and call friends to disassociate like I had learned to do hours earlier.  I felt confident knowing I had charged up my phone while Brokeback ran interference with his lighter escapades back in Lamar.  Just to the right of the salivating hyenas was a man all of five foot tall.  He must have been about 35 years old and when he removed his hat it revealed a receding hairline.  In fact it was revealed quite often because “Disco Stu” as I have named him was engaged in a provocative dance.  In his dance, he put his hat on and off with a stylistic flair that only Disco Stu could. 

           

            Apparently he was unaware that he was: A) thirty-five, B) in a bus station at 4 am, or C) a terrible dancer.  While blaring some shameful excuse for music on his phone, his dance entailed taking his hat on and off, spinning it, and some weird arm movements like he was trying to brush off thousands of fire ants.  All the while he would occasionally stop, check himself out in the reflection of the window, and finish with a big spin.  Suddenly I was hopeful that this oddity might be on my bus to entertain me until Dallas.  But then just as suddenly I was frightened at the possibility this one-man circus could just as easily be my seatmate.  Suddenly Disco Stu was not so cool to me anymore. 

            Again I reserved myself to facing forward in line and ignoring the oddities.  I began to overhear a conversation between a couple guys at the front of the line next to ours.  They were exchanging experiences from having just gotten paroled.  At first I thought they meant they had gotten paroled recently.  But then I realized they meant just paroled….as in just that last morning!  Apparently Greyhound is the regular mode of transportation used by correctional facilities to ship off released inmates.  I had never thought about it before but that makes sense for obvious reasons.  They each had oversized white t-shirts on with equally oversized baggy blue jeans.  One of them was wearing those trademark lace-less shoes you see on the prison shows.  They’re kind of like Keds but with no laces.  With them they carried mesh bags like the ones that onions come in at the grocery stores.  They were mesh so that, presumably in prison they could not hide anything in them.  One of them, named Tony, was headed home to Houston to get married to “the woman of my dreams.”  As he described her, Tony displayed the brightest smile I saw on the entire trip.

            Soon we all boarded the bus for Dallas and were on our way.  Everyone sat quietly in the darkness, most sleeping until the sun came up.  Around 8 am people began chatting and I started to talk with a woman who introduced herself as Rebecca.  She was a middle-aged woman who had traveled to her former home of Pueblo recently to attend the funeral of her infant grandson.  She was on her way home to Austin.  She had old sweats on and a grocery bag full of bite size chocolate candies.  She was in such disarray because someone had stolen her luggage three weeks before on her way up at the Dallas station.  This was our next stop so my first order of business was to gather my checked bag immediately.  She was nice and we shared some laughs as the hours slugged by. 

            

           We stopped in a town ironically named Jolly Texas.  We were allowed a fifteen minute break to eat, stretch etc.  I grabbed a quick bite, and walked around outside stretching my legs as I ate.  I could tell I looked weird because I was basically doing laps around the pumps of the gas station.  I didn’t care, it was my only chance I had to move around in the last six hours.  I saw a guy from the bus standing alone near me and he nodded hello.  I walked over and we exchanged pleasantries.  His name was Craig. 

            Craig was a tall skinny white guy with stubble a few days old.  He was young, but you could tell that in his few years he had lived a lot (good or bad).  Soon, he began to confide in me that he  had come all the way from Wyoming and was headed to Alabama. 

“Alabama?”  I asked surprised.

“Yea, that’s where my kid is.  I haven’t seen her in three years.”

Already unsure of what to say, I just continued to ask questions.

“Three years huh.  How old is she now?”

Without a pause he responded, “oh she’s three years old.”

           

            Craig had not seen his child since her birth.  He was nervous about how it would go.  He said that his kid still wasn’t calling “the new guy” dad and he was relieved by that.  I could tell he was pretty nervous and I tried to relieve his nerves by making my trademark useless banter until the driver honked and cued us to re-board.

           

            Most of the trip to Dallas was uneventful, and I was thankful to have someone normal to talk with in Rebecca.  After a series of delays we finally arrived in the Dallas Terminal.  We were a half hour late, and I missed my 1:05 connector to Waco.  This meant that I was forced to sit in the terminal for two more hours if I was to catch the next bus there. 

           

            The depot was huge and there were people everywhere coming and going.  Rebecca had told me horror stories about this stop, and I was relieved that none of the types of things she described appeared to be going on at that time.  I saw several more parolees with the trademark shoes and mesh bags.  It didn’t really bother me because I was fairly comfortable that since they had just gotten out, they probably were still too fresh out to be interested in stealing my things or hurting me.  I was hardly worth it.  Suddenly my worthlessness became very valuable!

           

            Throughout all of this chaos there were very few employees.  There was a security guard and three “information” people.  Only one person was working at the ticket counter the entire time I was there.  The others appeared to be on breaks for my entire visit.  I went up to the counter and after waiting in line for 20 minutes I was given the rare privilege of asking a question.  I asked the lady if there was going to be another connector from Waco to Temple (my final destination), as I was now going to miss that out of Waco too.  She typed some buttons on her keyboard and I’m still convinced she never even typed anything real in.  She said she couldn’t see that on “her side.”  I asked her if she could call to ask someone, and she responded with a “no.”  For miss attitude, just saying “no” wasn’t nearly enough.  She had to say no with a rude tone and demeanor as if to say “stop bothering me.”

            With my question unanswered and feeling like an alienated leper, I went back in line with little faith that I would still be able to get to Temple that night.   In the corner of my eye I glanced at Craig, who was in the corner crying for some reason.  I was somewhat shocked.  He seemed like a strong guy.  Whatever he was crying for it must have been important.  Part of me felt bad for him, but I was so caught up in my own predicament I had no time to investigate.

           

            We were all standing in line when the security guard very authoritatively walked up to me and asked me where I was standing.  I paused, confused if this was some clever riddle. 

“In line?” I said.  

Angrily he replied “No you’re not!”

            I looked around at Rebecca and the others standing next to me.  We all looked at each other confused by this strange man with the gun.  No one knew what the hell he meant.

“It’s a single file line!”  Rebecca and I looked at each other astonished.  It felt like we were now in prison too.

            I wanted to mouth off so badly, but the worst thing that could happen was that they might not allow me to board the bus to freedom and finally be done with this wretched place.  I swallowed my pride and moved into a single file line.  I felt like my most basic liberties had been stripped away.  I was being chided for standing 1 foot too far to the right.  I felt like a prisoner.  I couldn’t ask questions, I couldn’t seek help, and now I couldn’t even stand in line correctly.  I felt like trash.

            The truth was that out of all the crazy characters I had interacted with in the last day, none of them were trash.  They were all people with stories to tell.  Some flawed, maybe, but who the hell isn’t.  They were all trying to get somewhere to someone, and all the while they were treated like animals.  They were men like Tony; headed home to marry the woman of his dreams.  And they were women like Rebecca; headed home after morning the death of her only grandchild.  They were kids like Craig trying to reconnect with his 3 year old daughter.  They weren’t trash.  They were human beings.  The only trash I saw on the whole trip were the people wearing “Greyhound” on their shirts.

            I kept telling myself in my head “I’m the customer!”  It didn’t matter.  No one cared and if I didn’t comply with their strange set of norms, I was never getting out of there.  I had become a second-class citizen traveling by second class means.  I was saddened to think that a great many people there were treated that way a lot.  With my money I could normally fly.  At the airports they treat you with much more respect.  They treat you like a customer.  But many of these people were never able to travel like that or live like that.  We were treated like rats in a cage when all we wanted to do was get to our destinations and see our family and friends; a most basic desire. 

            I wondered how long it would take being treated like a second-class citizen to start acting like one.  I was already fighting the impulse to shout obscenities.  And for a moment I had wished that Brokeback was there to help me tear into these assholes.  But he wasn’t.  Finally I boarded the bus and soon we were on our way.  The moment  the bus drove away from the station I felt like I had escaped Alcatraz.  I called Donahue and had him pick me up in Waco.  I was nervous to ask him because for the last 24 hours every request I had made was returned with a “no” and garnished by attitude.  Unlike the useless Greyhound employees, Donahue was more than happy to accommodate. 

            Two hours later I arrived at the bus station. There, waiting in his Prius was Donahue eager greet me with a smile and a joke.  When I got in his car I felt relieved.  As I entered the Prius and shut the door I felt like I had left behind me all the negative sensations and emotions of the last 24 hours.  But the memories remained.  I had felt scared, and I had felt inspired. I had felt compassion, and I had felt rage….isolation and community. 

            I wanted to convey all these experiences with him, but I was so exhausted from it that I couldn’t muster the energy.  One might wonder if given the choice would I take the bus over again.  Absolutely I would!  In that 24 hours I learned more about humanity and compassion than perhaps any other day in my life.  Behind every weary traveler you pass, there may very well be an equally stirring story.  Thank you Greyhound… money well spent.

            So, now here I am in beautiful Temple Texas.  The sun is shinning and the air is warm.  On Tuesday morning I fly out of Austin to Costa Rica.  My main source of transportation throughout the entire trip will be busses; and I wonder if the experiences could even rival the cast of Brokeback, Rebecca, Craig and Disco Stu!  I don’t know, but I can’t wait to find out.  

Genesis

On October 12th, I embark on a ten week journey across Central America.  In the process, I hope to hit every country in Central America plus Peru and Mexico.  These are the only parameters I have created for the trip.  Everything else is completely unplanned and that's how I prefer it!  I'm investigating options of what to do along the way, but am making very few set plans until I get down there.  I have, however set several goals:

1-Kayak along the bay on the Pacific side of Costa Rica
2-Bungee Jump
3-Mayyyyyyyybe ride in a Hot Air Balloon
4-Deep Sea Fishing for Tuna off the Coast
5-Ride a Sailboat
6-Watch the endangered sea turtles lay eggs along the beach
7-Hitchhike with a complete stranger
8-Snorkel the Reefs of Belize
9-Meet my Friend in the Peace Corps who is working in El Salvador
10-Drink out of a coconut on the Beach
11-Hike up to a volcanoe
12-Sleep in a hammock on the beach
13-Try to learn to surf
14-Scuba Dive into the Great Blue Hole in Belize
15-Visit the Mayan Ruins of Guatemala
16-Hike to Machu Pichu in Peru
17-Party at a disco in Panama
18-Drink a Margarita in Mexico
19-Not get raped in Nicaragua
20-Stay at an abandoned fishing village in Honduras

This list is subject to change!

Yesterday I contacted Forester Instituto Internacional; a Costa Rican based Spanish Institute.  They provide home-placements with meals and laundry service all included in a fairly reasonable package.  They have optional courses/placements in anywhere from 1-4 weeks in length.  Given my history of failed language courses, I'm thinking I need the four week program!  Weekends are left alone so that students can go out and explore the country.  The director said that when I get there in mid October they will be half way into a course.  He invited me to come in to investigate my options with private lessons.  He said, "You come in, you like it--good!  If not...maybe at least you get a cup of coffee out of it!"  He KNOWS my Achilles Heel!

At the time being, I am inclined to forecast that I'll travel through Panama and Peru in my first two weeks there, and then start classes on November 1st when a new course begins.  But again, I'm making few set plans until I have sand under my feet and a coconut drink in my hand!

One thing's for certain; if I don't learn spanish quicker than I have been with Rosetta Stone, I'm liable to accidentally end up on a boat to Cuba...only to later arrive back in the states by swimming to Florida.  Not a bad incentive to learn!