American Diner Tour and General Thoughts About America: A Cowboy and A Fucking Long Greyhound
No diners, just chocolate bars and chips
I arrived at the Union Terminal (New Orlean’s bus station) at 8:45am. A fifteen minute walk from Leni’s Diner, it was surrounded by freeways and not much else. Aside from a few folk milling around the building with duffle bags, the only movement was the cars driving by. The building itself looked like something which might have been grand when it was first built in 1954. Today, though it was intact, it was pretty neglected - which made the well maintained topiary out the front even more surprising. The bus was half an hour late, which I now know is actually not too bad for a Greyhound. I was the last person to board and sat next to man whose wife and kid were in the two seats over the aisle. I asked if he wanted to switch to be next to them and he responded: no Inglés. So we sat in silence, driving over the coast of Louisiana, both of us looking out the window to avoid conversation. The road was mostly built on concrete pillars in the bay. My Spanish speaking friends disembarked an hour or so later at Biloxi, and I took the window seat.
The first bus change was at Mobile, Alabama. It was a real dead-end sort of a place. Most of the towns we passed through seemed this way from the bus, at least. The Mobile station appeared as though every surface was tiled some dull shade of blue, except the cashiers counter which was stainless steel. The whole place reeked of bleach. I could imagine in the Southern summer the fumes would be stifling.
At Mobile we were supposed to have a two hour stop between 12:20 and 2:20 to switch buses. After some confusion over the time difference (I think, actually I’m still not really sure what happened), it appeared on the departures board we only had half an hour. It wasn’t enough time to get a real meal, so I went to the vending machine and bought some snacks. My lunch and dinner would be two jumbo reeses cups, an oatmeal creme pie, a packet of ruffles and a pack of potato skins. Half an hour came and went, we were still sitting in the terminal, the other travellers also getting restless. It seemed like the bus might be a while, so I went outside to have a cigarette. I needed to stave off the hunger left by my vending machine meal, and maybe there would be someone to have a yarn. I asked an old guy sitting down if he had a lighter, and he asked where I was from in return, and if I got here by boat. I said no, a plane. And he replied: I know, I ain’t no dumbass. He never sat still, was always adjusting one thing or twisting another. He reckoned there was a burger joint down the road. Up until now I hadn’t had trouble understanding Americans, but I had to ask him to repeat a few things. I gleaned that he was going home to Phoenix, Arizona, though he hated it there because it was too hot. We were chatting about the weather and where I had been so far, when a man in black sunglasses and a cowboy hat turned around to chime in. He said something about the greyhound always being late.
I’m not sure if he was a real cowboy, but he reckoned that he was heading back to Georgia where his Mum had a land holding to claim, and was going to start a ranch breeding quarter horses for rodeos. He was a funny character, really talkative and forthcoming with information, but stood with the machismo of an uncertain teen - though he must have been about 38-40. He and his cowgirl counterpart wore their stetsons for the entire ride. Only once did I see his lifted slightly to wipe his forehead. Underneath was a flat, cartoonish black head of hair plastered to his scalp. I mentioned I’d be going all the way to Miami, so the cowboy gave me some advice: don’t go to Little Havana, he said, I was in a bar down there and got shot at for no reason. I don’t really know how you get shot at for no reason, but for the purpose of the story I took his word.
So, we were out the back of the Mobile bus station, the cowboy was talking about guns, and the old guy sitting down was fidgeting. It was about 1:45pm and the crickets were buzzing. I was looking out over the sea of cars in the Walmart parking lot calculating whether the risk of missing the bus was worth it for a meal. I chickened out with the possibility of being stuck in Mobile, Alabama, with no plan, no car and no gun. The bus didn’t arrive till 4pm.
Waiting in line to board I met a lesbian couple who lived in New Orleans - a Brazilian, and a chef from Jersey. The Brazilian also had a Jersey accent because that’d been her first stop in the U.S. 20 years ago. They had a funny dynamic. The Brazilian was chatty and would run her mouth about this or that, and her girlfriend would interrupt every now and then to say, that’s not how it happened - then look my way rolling her eyes. She was a quiet contrast to the Brazilian, who also gave me recommendations for Miami - the burger king on ocean drive which is the only burger king that sells beer, and Mangoes - which her quiet other half chimed in to say was a tourist trap with dancing ladies - to which the Brazilian said: and what’s wrong with that? And laughed.
The old fidgety man walked past as we boarded and heckled: you coulda got a burger or two by now. I was really hungry, but I still had the Reeses cups left to eat on the bus. This leg of the journey was 4pm till 10pm.
The next major stop was Tallahasee. The cow couple switched routes toward Georgia, and I walked around looking for any sign of food. There was nothing. Walking back to the bus a tall, middle-aged man approached me and said, I’m sorry but you look like somebody from the band Queen, I just notice that type of thing because I’m a musician. I didn’t have to say much for him to continue and tell me he was heading to Nashville, where he was going to connect with some other musicians. He realised I was Australian and told me about a time he did a catering job for Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban, and how Nicole had posted them a 50 dollar tip in the mail and called to thank them for their service. He also mentioned he’d been in a cult for 15 years, and that he had a bit of a penchant for substances. We had a bit of a back and forth about music, and he asked about my stuff. Later he handed me a note with his contact and a message to Keep On Rockin and Do What You Love. He pointed out his email address contained 5150 as a reference to the police code for a mentally disturbed person. We got back on the bus and I didn’t see him again. The rest of the journey was smooth, driving overnight the bus was quiet and the road rocked me to sleep. We finally stopped at a gas station which had hot food. I burnt my mouth on a bean and cheese taco and scoffed a couple of cliff bars.
When we reached Orlando I had another bus change. This time I was late to board and so I had to sit next to a random hooded figure. Most people had their bags on the seat next to them except him. This was a pretty uncomfortable few hours. Nothing happened, but this guy had no trouble sleeping and would spread out, almost falling on me a few times. I put the arm rest between us down and lent as far into the aisle as possible. In the night a dishevelled man walked through the bus asking if anybody had water. Maybe at the beginning of the trip I would have obliged, but by now the each man for himself mentality had set in.
The Sun rose as we got closer to Fort Lauderdale - a city about an hour north of Miami. There was a lot of traffic, and now that it was getting light I could see the immense system of freeways we had probably been driving through since Orlando. We dropped off half of the bus’ population here and went on to Miami, so I moved into an empty row. The home stretch. I was exhausted and hungry, but glad to have a semblance of privacy in my own two seats.
Fifteen minutes from Miami airport and a couple of voices at the back of the bus became louder. It was the man asking for water, being confronted by another man. He had accused the water guy of taking 180 bucks in 20s from his wallet. Here it twigged to me that asking for water had probably been a guise to scope out the crowd. Their conversation quickly became threats, the water guy vehemently denying and the other man eventually raising fists. All while the bus was moving. The driver’s voice screeched through the speakers: if you don’t settle down in the back we’ll have to pull over and call the police. Police involvement was the last thing anybody on the bus wanted. The guy who had been falling on me in his sleep was chatting to himself, and said: I ain’t needed the po-po ever since my mama needed ‘em - slapping his knee every now and then for emphasis.
Most people on the bus either had something to hide, or simply hated cops. The two in arms included. There was a lot of shouting and I might have been more afraid if I wasn’t so tired. Other people on the bus were getting involved, and eventually the water guy handed back four of the 20s. Once this happened he had no leg to stand on. It was obvious the 20s were never his and the few vocal bus riders made it known. The water guy handed over the rest of the 20s and somehow everything settled down as we entered the Miami carpark.
In a wave of exhausted haste I caught a cab. I was completely ripped off by the Miami traffic. 50USD to get to my hostel, later I found out there was a bus which cost 2.25. A big part of travelling is having these little fuck-ups along the way, and so far I’d done pretty well to avoid the traps, so I chalked it up to a loss. I arrived at my hostel five hours early, they couldn’t check me in so I took my dirty, greyhound arse to the beach to get clean. My clothes stank of service station taco and sweat so I grabbed a fresh set out of my suitcase before leaving it in the locker room at the hostel. Arriving at the ocean was the grand prize, and what made the 24 hours worth it in the end. I suddenly felt very free, with no place to go for a few hours and barely any phone battery. I had been travelling data-less the entire trip so there was no way of distracting myself online. I spent most of the time until 3pm in and out of the water - only leaving to finally eat a proper meal of quiche lorraine at a French cafe on Española Way, and totally soaking in the slow waves of coastal time.
