A Much-Delayed Travelogue
While going through and cleaning up my Circus of Brass and Bone notes, I found this partial travelogue, from my visit back to see my parents right after they returned to the States. Yes, at times I do just type whatever into whichever document happens to be open on my laptop. Usually, these snippets get properly relocated a bit sooner than this, though!
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The Greyhound station in Wichita, KS was moderately horrifying, but I rather expected that. I arrived early to get my ticket, as per instructions. There were power outlets in the back of the room, though none within reach of seats, so I sat on the floor, leaned against the wall, and worked on the read-aloud draft of episode 3 for The Circus of Brass and Bone. Nobody had cleaned that floor for quite some time. Cockroaches and dirt ringed the floor. I choose the cleanest place I could find. Generally, the station wasn't well-maintained. There was a clumsily handwritten out-of-order sign on the water fountain, and another on the handicapped bathroom specifying that it was for handicapped people ONLY. An old codger followed me to the back of the station and kept trying to talk to me, asking if I was in college. I guess it is the season for college students to be migrating, but nobody's thought me to be that young for a *while*. I said I was out of college, and he said, "Gosh, I thought you looked sixteen!" (Note: strange old men should not try talking to 16-year-old girls, either.) I guess I've just been hanging out in the wrong circles.
Then the Greyhound arrived. The driver gave a very long speech emphasizing that we should please stay on the bus except at the designated dinner stop, please, because every week people hopped off the bus and were left behind, and please, she didn't want us to be left behind, so please don't.
Ah, Kansas. Riding in the Greyhound across hours and hours of rolling plains. Hay bales and cows and small oil wells and yellow furze. The smallest variation becomes interesting. The water reservoirs (septic?) outside a countryside McDonald's, with a dozen geese enjoying a break on their flight south. A square mile or so of incongruous, out-of-place lake dotted by tree skeletons reaching up to the endless blue sky. A yellow sign warning not of deer, or pedestrians, or even Amish, but of thick clouds of black smoke (don't try to drive through them).
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The Greyhound station in Wichita, KS was moderately horrifying, but I rather expected that. I arrived early to get my ticket, as per instructions. There were power outlets in the back of the room, though none within reach of seats, so I sat on the floor, leaned against the wall, and worked on the read-aloud draft of episode 3 for The Circus of Brass and Bone. Nobody had cleaned that floor for quite some time. Cockroaches and dirt ringed the floor. I choose the cleanest place I could find. Generally, the station wasn't well-maintained. There was a clumsily handwritten out-of-order sign on the water fountain, and another on the handicapped bathroom specifying that it was for handicapped people ONLY. An old codger followed me to the back of the station and kept trying to talk to me, asking if I was in college. I guess it is the season for college students to be migrating, but nobody's thought me to be that young for a *while*. I said I was out of college, and he said, "Gosh, I thought you looked sixteen!" (Note: strange old men should not try talking to 16-year-old girls, either.) I guess I've just been hanging out in the wrong circles.
Then the Greyhound arrived. The driver gave a very long speech emphasizing that we should please stay on the bus except at the designated dinner stop, please, because every week people hopped off the bus and were left behind, and please, she didn't want us to be left behind, so please don't.
Ah, Kansas. Riding in the Greyhound across hours and hours of rolling plains. Hay bales and cows and small oil wells and yellow furze. The smallest variation becomes interesting. The water reservoirs (septic?) outside a countryside McDonald's, with a dozen geese enjoying a break on their flight south. A square mile or so of incongruous, out-of-place lake dotted by tree skeletons reaching up to the endless blue sky. A yellow sign warning not of deer, or pedestrians, or even Amish, but of thick clouds of black smoke (don't try to drive through them).