Back at the bus station, it was a familiar waiting game. I sat there in relative silence, smoking occasionally and trying to tolerate the kids running unattended through out the place. The young woman from earlier was still there with her pile of luggage after returning from a trip to the same coffee shop Chris and I had visited. We didn’t speak until the bus was almost ready to board and when it was obvious she was clueless as to which bus she was to board. To her credit, the customer service in Omaha was typical Greyhound: shitty, and having no less than six full bags did not help her, so I offered some help finding out along the way that she was taking the same bus I was, toward Denver, or her way to Oregon.
Once on the 9pm bus, we sat across from each other and began chatting. Inga was 24, and counter my assumption that she was either moving or homeless, I learned that she had actually been hitching… with all that shit! I was amazed. She had begun in Oregon, and hitched a series of rides, primarily with truckers all the way to New Hampshire where she had apparently been beaten up by one of her rides when she refused to have sex with him. Inga told me that the trucker had left her some place she could not remember (sounded like Philadelphia) only remembering that the police had let her sleep at the police station, saying that if she stayed there, she would end up dead. She went on to tell that her next ride had promised to take her all the way home, where she hoped to see her kids, but dropped her at the bus station after buying her a ticket after another coital- refusal had led to arguments across Iowa. When I told her that we had been at the Iowa 80 that week, she laughed and said she remembered seeing us sitting there when they themselves had stopped there. I instantly remembered the arguing couple I had vaguely noticed, realized it had been her, and had to laugh myself.
Inga’s story was rather pathetic. She had been married and had children, but after her separation had apparently gotten involved in dealing. Through some now- lost chain of events, she had lost custody of her kids and there had been a raid at her home leading to the arrest of two Mexican- connected suppliers. She told me that the police had told her that if she cooperated there would be no charges, but instead she chose to hit the road. Her ex- husband had no interest in letting her see her kids, and she had no idea if there were warrants waiting for her when she got home, saying only that the all- familiar ID checks had turned up nothing while she was gone.
It was an interesting ride to Denver. We sat in the back of the bus looking at pictures, chatting, and half- watching Wild Hogs on the Trailways DVD player.
She had quite a different demeanor on the bus than she had given off while sitting silently at the terminal. She became quite talkative, seeming grateful for the fact that our new companionship was shielding her from the other men on the bus. That became more apparent when we stopped around 1am for dinner, and she became visibly irritated at the amusing (to me!), lewd comments!
She told me she was planning to head off again, to wherever, after she had gotten a clear indication of her situation in Oregon. I wondered to myself about how this would all play out, if it were all true, and of course about her kids. The people I have met, rather they are traveling or not, usually have a narrative that needs its final chapters written. We all have a story; I figured this was hers and it was not my place to judge. We began to chat superficially about re- connecting when I got to the Pacific Northwest, and sharing the trail for a bit. It would obviously be easier for me to get rides with a cute, young blonde in tow, but the notion of being a truck stop bodyguard did not exactly appeal to me!
We eventually dozed off waking at about 7am Sunday to the familiar sights of the I-70/ I-25 interchange in downtown Denver, then my old friend: Coors Field. My layover was two- hours while Inga’s was nearly five, so we spent the next 90- minutes drinking coffee, smoking, and chatting. Chris’ train had been an hour behind schedule, but he did indeed show up just as I was getting ready to board the Americanos line to Santa Fe. We chatted briefly as I introduced them, and left those two to chat as I headed south. I was interested to hear Chris’ take on Inga knowing that I was probably much able to relate with her background than Chris may be.
Settling into the Spanish- speaking Americanos bus, it occurred to me that I had missed these sorts of characters you meet on the bus. One of the coolest rides ever was to Asheville, NC in 2005 when I met a bonafide philosopher AND a couple who were practicing dumpster diving/ road kill eating anarchists, all within 10- minutes!
I managed to stay awake thru Pueblo until the lack of sleep over the last few days hit me with a hammer.
I slept all the way to Santa Fe, and in fact almost missed my stop. Americanos drivers speak little English, so I barely deciphered “Santa Fe” as I awoke shocked that I had slept all the way through. Shalain picked me up a few minutes later, and I was finally able to exhale a bit and begin to enjoy a much- needed, extended interlude.
The next few weeks, while not inspiring for aspiring travel writers, would hold narratives of their own. The remainder of July into the beginning of August would be a smooth, quiet, roller coaster of introspection, plans, ideas, and one particularly shocking, disturbing development that would unexpectedly shake me to my core, and demand a fundamental re- evaluation of priorities, place, and purpose.
Once on the 9pm bus, we sat across from each other and began chatting. Inga was 24, and counter my assumption that she was either moving or homeless, I learned that she had actually been hitching… with all that shit! I was amazed. She had begun in Oregon, and hitched a series of rides, primarily with truckers all the way to New Hampshire where she had apparently been beaten up by one of her rides when she refused to have sex with him. Inga told me that the trucker had left her some place she could not remember (sounded like Philadelphia) only remembering that the police had let her sleep at the police station, saying that if she stayed there, she would end up dead. She went on to tell that her next ride had promised to take her all the way home, where she hoped to see her kids, but dropped her at the bus station after buying her a ticket after another coital- refusal had led to arguments across Iowa. When I told her that we had been at the Iowa 80 that week, she laughed and said she remembered seeing us sitting there when they themselves had stopped there. I instantly remembered the arguing couple I had vaguely noticed, realized it had been her, and had to laugh myself.
Inga’s story was rather pathetic. She had been married and had children, but after her separation had apparently gotten involved in dealing. Through some now- lost chain of events, she had lost custody of her kids and there had been a raid at her home leading to the arrest of two Mexican- connected suppliers. She told me that the police had told her that if she cooperated there would be no charges, but instead she chose to hit the road. Her ex- husband had no interest in letting her see her kids, and she had no idea if there were warrants waiting for her when she got home, saying only that the all- familiar ID checks had turned up nothing while she was gone.
It was an interesting ride to Denver. We sat in the back of the bus looking at pictures, chatting, and half- watching Wild Hogs on the Trailways DVD player.
She had quite a different demeanor on the bus than she had given off while sitting silently at the terminal. She became quite talkative, seeming grateful for the fact that our new companionship was shielding her from the other men on the bus. That became more apparent when we stopped around 1am for dinner, and she became visibly irritated at the amusing (to me!), lewd comments!She told me she was planning to head off again, to wherever, after she had gotten a clear indication of her situation in Oregon. I wondered to myself about how this would all play out, if it were all true, and of course about her kids. The people I have met, rather they are traveling or not, usually have a narrative that needs its final chapters written. We all have a story; I figured this was hers and it was not my place to judge. We began to chat superficially about re- connecting when I got to the Pacific Northwest, and sharing the trail for a bit. It would obviously be easier for me to get rides with a cute, young blonde in tow, but the notion of being a truck stop bodyguard did not exactly appeal to me!
We eventually dozed off waking at about 7am Sunday to the familiar sights of the I-70/ I-25 interchange in downtown Denver, then my old friend: Coors Field. My layover was two- hours while Inga’s was nearly five, so we spent the next 90- minutes drinking coffee, smoking, and chatting. Chris’ train had been an hour behind schedule, but he did indeed show up just as I was getting ready to board the Americanos line to Santa Fe. We chatted briefly as I introduced them, and left those two to chat as I headed south. I was interested to hear Chris’ take on Inga knowing that I was probably much able to relate with her background than Chris may be.
Settling into the Spanish- speaking Americanos bus, it occurred to me that I had missed these sorts of characters you meet on the bus. One of the coolest rides ever was to Asheville, NC in 2005 when I met a bonafide philosopher AND a couple who were practicing dumpster diving/ road kill eating anarchists, all within 10- minutes!
I managed to stay awake thru Pueblo until the lack of sleep over the last few days hit me with a hammer.
I slept all the way to Santa Fe, and in fact almost missed my stop. Americanos drivers speak little English, so I barely deciphered “Santa Fe” as I awoke shocked that I had slept all the way through. Shalain picked me up a few minutes later, and I was finally able to exhale a bit and begin to enjoy a much- needed, extended interlude.The next few weeks, while not inspiring for aspiring travel writers, would hold narratives of their own. The remainder of July into the beginning of August would be a smooth, quiet, roller coaster of introspection, plans, ideas, and one particularly shocking, disturbing development that would unexpectedly shake me to my core, and demand a fundamental re- evaluation of priorities, place, and purpose.
