Greyhound Bus, St. Louis to Chicago
Sometimes, we find ourselves walking the narrow lanes through Greyhound buses, and between the maneuverable wide-set seats that file us behind our fellow passenger. When the long haul deserves a pause, we are taken to a Pilot Gas Station with a holstered McDonalds, and showers for the long term travelers. We are given ten minutes to smoke our cigarettes, exercise our seat-beaten knees and purchase our paper bags of glutton. As passengers, we learn to appreciate long-winded wonders of the roads. The eternal spun concrete, the persistent groves of grass, the resilient blue sky and the exceptional small gifts: pit stops, rest stops, gas stations, and the oasis.
When I was younger, I relished these moments: the ten minute, five dollar shopping sprees which allowed me to collect ounces of salty/sugary/processed treats. Then, when I was slightly older, I took pleasure in resignation. I took delight in closing my lips, and nodded to my sisters or nieces as they went into the store to build their soon to be depleted collections. Now, I’ve struck a balance, I neither relish nor resign, I simply meet the demands of my needy stomach when it requires food, but I don’t coat it with calories unnecessarily.
When the Greyhound leaves the gas station, we teeter back toward the road. We rejoin our old observations, and laugh about how impressed we still are that an empty landscape can still appear to be so damn beautiful.