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Our
Man on the Hound
I knew my hoped for adventure would instead be a horrible
disaster shortly after I stepped onto the bus in Tucson. It was
merely a stopover already packed full of America's unfriendly,
unhappy and unclean. As we slowly rolled toward El Paso I wondered,
between my neighbors ungodly snores, if perhaps I should have
splurged on that plane ticket after all.
Things got better - for a while - in Texas, where I got my own row,
and the dreaded stinkers were far in the back. I quickly figured out
a strategy that helped during my journey. Sit in the front so when
you have to change busses, which happened at least every four hours,
you can be the first one out and first in line for the prized seat
on the next ride. There are no manners, no giving your seat to women
or children, every person for themselves. There are no prisoners
taken on the hound.
As we changed busses throughout Kansas, Missouri and Nebraska, the
seats kept getting smaller and the busses kept getting fuller. By
the time we arrived in Sioux City, Iowa, I was seriously considering
walking the rest of the way. Finally I arrived in Sioux Falls, South
Dakota where I was picked up by my sister Katie and driven the three
hours to Aberdeen. I will never ride a Greyhound again and this is
the last time I will talk about this unpleasant incident.
- OMITF
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