Spoiler alert: I made it to Maine. Let's take it from the top.
At 3 this morning, I was roused by my father, at which point I discovered that my alarm had blatantly, unequivocally failed. I took this to be a terrific sign.
We set out in the pour rain (speaking of good signs) to make the 4am bus deep in the heart of Philadelphia. After following the directions of three pairs of cops, a garbage collector, and possibly a crackhead, we made the bus station at 3:53. Forgoing a heartfelt good-bye for "seeyalaterdrivesafedontdie!" as the van door shut, I hauled ass to the platform.
The driver, I found out quickly, exhibited something of a philosopher's streak:
"Do you want to take that on board?" he asked, gesturing to my colossal battlepack.
"Can I?" I asked, a glimmer of hope in my eye.
"No..." he replied, in a firm but pensive tone.
I stared at him for a second, tossed it in the hold, and got on the bus.
I didn't quite sleep. Rather, I occasionally found myself with my head lolled and my mouth agape, wondering how I got there. Me? Tired? As if.
Miraculously, my transfers went smoothly, and on the road out of Boston, I found myself amicably chatting with a pair of cute girls about the subject of lazy eyes (I confess it made more sense in context). As that subject only runs so deep, I soon found myself watching change slowly, irrevocably overtake the landscape. A few things in particular made me stop and take note.
Bear with me, here.
Perhaps due to overexposure to Stephen King in my formative years, I must confess a preconception of Maine as something of a rolling horror movie. Although so far this is hardly the case, I did notice a marquis on a church proclaiming "what we tolerate, our children will embrace..." sure, it's ambiguous. Maybe they're doing their best to tolerate gay marriage. Or maybe they're warning against their tolerating it. Of course, as discussed, my oversaturated imagination ran wild, and so I came up with...well, you know.
The bus spit me out at a roadside gas station, and I started toward Camden with 40lbs on my back and three hours of sleep in my bones.
At 3 this morning, I was roused by my father, at which point I discovered that my alarm had blatantly, unequivocally failed. I took this to be a terrific sign.
We set out in the pour rain (speaking of good signs) to make the 4am bus deep in the heart of Philadelphia. After following the directions of three pairs of cops, a garbage collector, and possibly a crackhead, we made the bus station at 3:53. Forgoing a heartfelt good-bye for "seeyalaterdrivesafedontdie!" as the van door shut, I hauled ass to the platform.
The driver, I found out quickly, exhibited something of a philosopher's streak:
"Do you want to take that on board?" he asked, gesturing to my colossal battlepack.
"Can I?" I asked, a glimmer of hope in my eye.
"No..." he replied, in a firm but pensive tone.
I stared at him for a second, tossed it in the hold, and got on the bus.
I didn't quite sleep. Rather, I occasionally found myself with my head lolled and my mouth agape, wondering how I got there. Me? Tired? As if.
Miraculously, my transfers went smoothly, and on the road out of Boston, I found myself amicably chatting with a pair of cute girls about the subject of lazy eyes (I confess it made more sense in context). As that subject only runs so deep, I soon found myself watching change slowly, irrevocably overtake the landscape. A few things in particular made me stop and take note.
- The people only became more entertaining. On the bus with me (in addition to the young lady who, despite her conviction to the contrary, did not have a lazy eye) was a free-spirited insurance investigator riding the roads from Idaho, as well as a spunky old man named Carl who recited, with inexplicable but unmistakable personal pride, the plot of the 1991 film The Fugitive.
- All roadsigns reading in miles and km, perhaps complimenting the increasing presence of Canadian flags. And here I thought I wouldn't need a passport.
- "Watch for moose on the roadway." I'm starting to like this place. Bonus points for the correct plural!
- After miles--sorry, kilometers--of uninterrupted wilderness, we rolled by a wan, decrepit shack, the signs of which proclaimed...fresh produce? Lobster rolls? Bumper-tenderized moose jerky? Nope. DirectTV. Go figure.
Bear with me, here.
Perhaps due to overexposure to Stephen King in my formative years, I must confess a preconception of Maine as something of a rolling horror movie. Although so far this is hardly the case, I did notice a marquis on a church proclaiming "what we tolerate, our children will embrace..." sure, it's ambiguous. Maybe they're doing their best to tolerate gay marriage. Or maybe they're warning against their tolerating it. Of course, as discussed, my oversaturated imagination ran wild, and so I came up with...well, you know.
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