the way back
It had been a fun weekend: I saw some bands, ran into some friends, navigated my way through another city's transit system, and even got to do some Muppeteering. Of course, it was much more than that--I got to see Sonic Youth, Deerhunter, The Jesus Lizard, Black Lips, The Pains of Being Pure At Heart, Awesome Color, and a few more. I finally got the appeal of Dick's Drive-In after visiting their Broadway location. I tweeted my way through as much as possible, from the Travelodge to waiting for a long-delayed last bus that I feared wasn't coming. I enjoyed some of that Mexican Coca-Cola I've heard so much about. I saw so much cool stuff at the Science Fiction Museum that I longed to be able to take a few photos. Hell, I even went to the O-Deck of the Space Needle. While it wasn't as fast-paced a trip as it was the last time, I still spent a lot of time on my feet, standing while watching bands (I eventually had to leave during The Jesus Lizard's set because my legs were starting to ache, I couldn't see anything, and neither situation was conducive to show enjoyment) and walking from downtown to capitol hill. So by the time I found my way back to the Greyhound station, I'd exhausted all my fun options, and was tired and ready for my own bed.
With no nausea and no stop in Bellingham, the Greyhound trip back was calmer and faster than the one getting there. I'd packed my iPod with a departure playlist and a movie, but I soon finished the former and realized that I wasn't in the mood for the latter. So I fidgeted with the thing some more, went to the bathroom, made small talk with the person next to me, and drank the milk I'd brought on board until it was time to go through customs.
Just like the ride there, going through Canadian customs went quick and smoothly. That is, until I went to the ladies room to deposit some garbage and realized that I had to go. While I could have held it till I got back on the Greyhound, there was no way I could go to the chemtoilet again. So I hit the first stall and immediately, quickly made with the process.
"Anyone in here?" A door opened and a male voice boomed. It was my driver, I was sure of it.
"I'm still here! Be right out!" I exclaimed, but it was too late. The door was closed.
I finished up quickly, hoping to hell that he'd heard me, doing my pants up as I left the building. I saw the butt of a bus just about leaving. He hadn't heard me.
"WAIT! DON'T LEAVE ME! WAIT! WAIT!!!!" I yelled and ran, hoping to hell I was audible over engines and conversation. Just as I thought it was hopeless, the bus stopped and the door opened. I picked up the pace, got on the bus, and explained myself through panting and tears to an angry driver.
After looking the fool, I walked down the aisle to my seat, and my neighbour--who, as it turns out, was the one who saved my ass. I thanked her profusely, and we spent the rest of the ride talking about our respective cities. She was going to Vancouver on a daycation to see some friends, and wanted me to tell her if the neighbourhood she was staying in overnight was a good one. She showed me the maps she printed off Google, telling me that she wanted to get as close to downtown as possible. She was staying downtown alright, but the Patricia was probably not located in her vision of downtown. I spent the next fifteen minutes telling her that while it might seem scary, the Downtown Eastside was okay so long as you follow the key rule of "you don't bother them and they won't bother you." At the same time, I had to wonder: who books a hotel without doing their research? I like to know a little about where I'm going to be sleeping for the next night or three. Maybe I lack a sense of adventure, but something tells me that my neighbour wasn't aiming to stay in one of the freakier parts of town for tourists.
"Don't worry," I added as I traced the walking route to her hotel along the map with my finger. "There's a police station pretty close by."
After we got off the bus, I walked her out to Main Street and pointed her in the right direction. She'd be safe. She'd be alright. She was a grown adult woman, older than me. And I was in need of my bed, my cat, and a good night's sleep. So I wished her luck as we said our goodbyes. And then, I headed back to my apartment. It wasn't the Travelodge, but it'd do.
With no nausea and no stop in Bellingham, the Greyhound trip back was calmer and faster than the one getting there. I'd packed my iPod with a departure playlist and a movie, but I soon finished the former and realized that I wasn't in the mood for the latter. So I fidgeted with the thing some more, went to the bathroom, made small talk with the person next to me, and drank the milk I'd brought on board until it was time to go through customs.
Just like the ride there, going through Canadian customs went quick and smoothly. That is, until I went to the ladies room to deposit some garbage and realized that I had to go. While I could have held it till I got back on the Greyhound, there was no way I could go to the chemtoilet again. So I hit the first stall and immediately, quickly made with the process.
"Anyone in here?" A door opened and a male voice boomed. It was my driver, I was sure of it.
"I'm still here! Be right out!" I exclaimed, but it was too late. The door was closed.
I finished up quickly, hoping to hell that he'd heard me, doing my pants up as I left the building. I saw the butt of a bus just about leaving. He hadn't heard me.
"WAIT! DON'T LEAVE ME! WAIT! WAIT!!!!" I yelled and ran, hoping to hell I was audible over engines and conversation. Just as I thought it was hopeless, the bus stopped and the door opened. I picked up the pace, got on the bus, and explained myself through panting and tears to an angry driver.
After looking the fool, I walked down the aisle to my seat, and my neighbour--who, as it turns out, was the one who saved my ass. I thanked her profusely, and we spent the rest of the ride talking about our respective cities. She was going to Vancouver on a daycation to see some friends, and wanted me to tell her if the neighbourhood she was staying in overnight was a good one. She showed me the maps she printed off Google, telling me that she wanted to get as close to downtown as possible. She was staying downtown alright, but the Patricia was probably not located in her vision of downtown. I spent the next fifteen minutes telling her that while it might seem scary, the Downtown Eastside was okay so long as you follow the key rule of "you don't bother them and they won't bother you." At the same time, I had to wonder: who books a hotel without doing their research? I like to know a little about where I'm going to be sleeping for the next night or three. Maybe I lack a sense of adventure, but something tells me that my neighbour wasn't aiming to stay in one of the freakier parts of town for tourists.
"Don't worry," I added as I traced the walking route to her hotel along the map with my finger. "There's a police station pretty close by."
After we got off the bus, I walked her out to Main Street and pointed her in the right direction. She'd be safe. She'd be alright. She was a grown adult woman, older than me. And I was in need of my bed, my cat, and a good night's sleep. So I wished her luck as we said our goodbyes. And then, I headed back to my apartment. It wasn't the Travelodge, but it'd do.