As always, Greyhound was running late. The driver had tried through the 
night to recapture lost time by driving like a crazed lunatic, and we arrived in Atlanta at about 7:45. The terminal was better than I expected, rather clean at least by their standards, had a decent snack bar, and most importantly—coffee.
I loaded up on the caffeine, and after about an hour I went to investigate the public transit system that I would use to meet up with Ken later in the day. I figured I would get a grip on it, and then explore Atlanta if the weather and now tropical storm Fay held off. I thought of getting a picture of MLK’s Ebenezer Baptist church, and then going to the CNN building for a picture of their sign—with me flipping it off. Always making statements…
The MARTA station was next to Greyhound’s, but I had to buy the $1.75 ticket just to get through the security doors to the map. Ken’s vague directions on the location of the truck stop made next to no sense, at least on the map. The one thing that he had told me that I could find, Forest Park, is on the extreme south end of the metro. The train (not subway) did not appear to drop me near I-75, let alone a T/A. I called Shalain to see if I could get a little Internet- guidance on T/A's locations, and in the end the only one in Atlanta was NOT in Atlanta at all, but 30- miles south of the city and FAR from being “right next to where the subway drops you off.” This was mildly disturbing, but Ken had promised to call early that morning. I guessed it would be easy enough to recalibrate a connection point when we talked so I went back to Greyhound, continued to charge my phone to the taste of overpriced coffee, and waited.
As a precaution, I also had asked Shalain price the tickets from Atlanta to Albuquerque and Santa Fe, as well as compare prices and arrival times with schedules leaving Nashville. Greyhound has cut its service, presumably due to the price of gas, so you need to be careful about checking itineraries, or risk 12- hour layovers in places like El Paso,
Amarillo, Wichita Falls, Raton, or worse yet... Utah!
If I chose to go all the way to Santa Fe: a five- hour layover in Albuquerque to go 60 miles up I-25, the main route to Denver!. In addition, since I had bought the ticket to Atlanta, I was now going to need to return the backpack to REI if I booked a ticket to New Mexico—thus arrival times became an issue. To avoid an unnecessary drive BACK to Albuquerque, and more unneeded expense, I needed a schedule that got me into New Mexico during business hours AND at a time that where Shalain could pick me up. Leaving from Atlanta offered none of these; the bus either got in at six in the morning, where I would have either to sit all day, or endure the five- hour layover to get to Santa Fe… only to make the return trip to get to REI!
Gotta love the Greyhound!
The Nashville schedule was more direct. One transfer in St. Louis, and scheduled to arrive in Albuquerque at four in the afternoon. The problem was that I had already missed it for Monday, so I would to buy the 1:15 ticket from Atlanta to Nashville and wait there from 5pm until 11am Tuesday morning, or rely on Kim to put me up for another night. I hoped I would still hear from Ken and it would not come to that.
The phone was still charging, and it had begun to rain quite heavily (Fay), so I nixed exploring Atlanta. I was preoccupied with what was going to happen with Ken, and what I would do if things fell through. I was sure I would at least hear from him soon, so I chose to remain in the terminal, hang out, and see what developed.
I met a couple of interesting people here; one young person from Honduras who was returning there from New York City, where he said he had been living for a number of years. He was thoroughly grooming himself in the restroom, haircut and all, and not- so- cleverly trying to work me for money, getting none.
I then chatted with a woman who had been on my bus from Greensboro, a very gregarious black lady who reminded me of Whoopi Goldberg, although she looked nothing like her. She appeared to be in her 40’s and told me that she was returning to Louisiana from New York City after meeting with her lawyer. She was suing a hospital for $30 million after falling and breaking her wrist there.
$30 million for that? No.
When the same hospital performed surgery to repair it, they screwed it up, and ultimately they had to fuse her wrist and she has no mobility left.
“I’m gonna be a rich bitch!” she said.
She had also had a stroke (unrelated), but somehow managed to make her recovery stories seem amusing. I enjoyed chatting with her immensely, and told her about the people I had met over the past few months, and how this was by far the most common theme. “Stick it up their asses!” I told her, and that I hoped she got every penny from these bastards, and then some. I never got her name, but as she was leaving to board her bus, she unexpectedly handed me $5, “for food.” I am not exactly sure why she did, but I took it. It was close to noon, still no Ken, and the prospect of buying more Dirty Dog tickets made me think I may need every cent.
The reality set in at about 12:30. I knew that for whatever reason, I was not hearing from Ken. I tried calling him, but it went straight to voice mail. My indecisiveness and disappointment in not reaching the coast took over so I began to mull options, none of which seemed promising. I thought about the night before and “Sherman’s March”, I entertained the thought of heading west out of Atlanta toward Alabama, Mississippi, and eventually New Mexico. I even considered hitching to Nashville to save the cash.
I then had the recognition that I was… toast. Weary. I needed to step back, take a deep breath, and evaluate everything. Trust that things are where they should be. We all have a tendency to think that “this moment” is the end- all; that we are never simply on yet another stepping- stone. Yet I had begun to see that this is exactly what these experiences are: Never ending stepping- stones— at least if I am doing things right! When I realized that this was not the ‘end’, of the whole story, but merely a chapter, I felt better about, and accepted it. (for the most part)
At 12:50, I talked to Kim, and let her know the situation, that unless Ken called in the next 10- minutes I was buying a ticket to Nashville, and would be on the road in a half- hour. She generously offered to pick me up (again!), and let me stay with her. (again!)
I gave Ken until 1:05, and then I had to act. I got the $45 ticket, and despite the outside speakers, somehow missed the boarding
announcement while outside smoking. When I returned, if not for the help of some friendly Amish folks, I would not have known that my bus was boarding! I scrambled out of the terminal, thinking I was close to missing it, only to wait another 20 minutes. This bus was late before it even left!
Viva Dirty Dog!
We finally got on the road at about 1:40, and from Atlanta all the way to
Nashville it was nothing but heavy rain, and sleep. We went through Chattanooga, ironically, I thought, and saw some of the most beautiful parts of the country, right there in Southern Tennessee. I called Kim when we arrived and we were off to the familiar surroundings that I had left not even a week before. “Really?” I thought. “Not even a week?”
I immediately showered, before I even sat down, and that was it. Rich had let Kim bring his laptop over for me to use (thanks!), so I bought tomorrow morning's ticket to Albuquerque, edited and uploaded pictures half the night, and got to bed at about 3am. Did not matter how late I stayed up; like anesthesia, sleeping makes the Dirty Dog more bearable! Especially a dog- ride lasting 30- hours!
I never heard a thing from Ken.
night to recapture lost time by driving like a crazed lunatic, and we arrived in Atlanta at about 7:45. The terminal was better than I expected, rather clean at least by their standards, had a decent snack bar, and most importantly—coffee. I loaded up on the caffeine, and after about an hour I went to investigate the public transit system that I would use to meet up with Ken later in the day. I figured I would get a grip on it, and then explore Atlanta if the weather and now tropical storm Fay held off. I thought of getting a picture of MLK’s Ebenezer Baptist church, and then going to the CNN building for a picture of their sign—with me flipping it off. Always making statements…
The MARTA station was next to Greyhound’s, but I had to buy the $1.75 ticket just to get through the security doors to the map. Ken’s vague directions on the location of the truck stop made next to no sense, at least on the map. The one thing that he had told me that I could find, Forest Park, is on the extreme south end of the metro. The train (not subway) did not appear to drop me near I-75, let alone a T/A. I called Shalain to see if I could get a little Internet- guidance on T/A's locations, and in the end the only one in Atlanta was NOT in Atlanta at all, but 30- miles south of the city and FAR from being “right next to where the subway drops you off.” This was mildly disturbing, but Ken had promised to call early that morning. I guessed it would be easy enough to recalibrate a connection point when we talked so I went back to Greyhound, continued to charge my phone to the taste of overpriced coffee, and waited.
As a precaution, I also had asked Shalain price the tickets from Atlanta to Albuquerque and Santa Fe, as well as compare prices and arrival times with schedules leaving Nashville. Greyhound has cut its service, presumably due to the price of gas, so you need to be careful about checking itineraries, or risk 12- hour layovers in places like El Paso,
Amarillo, Wichita Falls, Raton, or worse yet... Utah! If I chose to go all the way to Santa Fe: a five- hour layover in Albuquerque to go 60 miles up I-25, the main route to Denver!. In addition, since I had bought the ticket to Atlanta, I was now going to need to return the backpack to REI if I booked a ticket to New Mexico—thus arrival times became an issue. To avoid an unnecessary drive BACK to Albuquerque, and more unneeded expense, I needed a schedule that got me into New Mexico during business hours AND at a time that where Shalain could pick me up. Leaving from Atlanta offered none of these; the bus either got in at six in the morning, where I would have either to sit all day, or endure the five- hour layover to get to Santa Fe… only to make the return trip to get to REI!
The Nashville schedule was more direct. One transfer in St. Louis, and scheduled to arrive in Albuquerque at four in the afternoon. The problem was that I had already missed it for Monday, so I would to buy the 1:15 ticket from Atlanta to Nashville and wait there from 5pm until 11am Tuesday morning, or rely on Kim to put me up for another night. I hoped I would still hear from Ken and it would not come to that.
The phone was still charging, and it had begun to rain quite heavily (Fay), so I nixed exploring Atlanta. I was preoccupied with what was going to happen with Ken, and what I would do if things fell through. I was sure I would at least hear from him soon, so I chose to remain in the terminal, hang out, and see what developed.
I met a couple of interesting people here; one young person from Honduras who was returning there from New York City, where he said he had been living for a number of years. He was thoroughly grooming himself in the restroom, haircut and all, and not- so- cleverly trying to work me for money, getting none.
I then chatted with a woman who had been on my bus from Greensboro, a very gregarious black lady who reminded me of Whoopi Goldberg, although she looked nothing like her. She appeared to be in her 40’s and told me that she was returning to Louisiana from New York City after meeting with her lawyer. She was suing a hospital for $30 million after falling and breaking her wrist there.
$30 million for that? No.
When the same hospital performed surgery to repair it, they screwed it up, and ultimately they had to fuse her wrist and she has no mobility left.
“I’m gonna be a rich bitch!” she said.
She had also had a stroke (unrelated), but somehow managed to make her recovery stories seem amusing. I enjoyed chatting with her immensely, and told her about the people I had met over the past few months, and how this was by far the most common theme. “Stick it up their asses!” I told her, and that I hoped she got every penny from these bastards, and then some. I never got her name, but as she was leaving to board her bus, she unexpectedly handed me $5, “for food.” I am not exactly sure why she did, but I took it. It was close to noon, still no Ken, and the prospect of buying more Dirty Dog tickets made me think I may need every cent.
The reality set in at about 12:30. I knew that for whatever reason, I was not hearing from Ken. I tried calling him, but it went straight to voice mail. My indecisiveness and disappointment in not reaching the coast took over so I began to mull options, none of which seemed promising. I thought about the night before and “Sherman’s March”, I entertained the thought of heading west out of Atlanta toward Alabama, Mississippi, and eventually New Mexico. I even considered hitching to Nashville to save the cash.
I then had the recognition that I was… toast. Weary. I needed to step back, take a deep breath, and evaluate everything. Trust that things are where they should be. We all have a tendency to think that “this moment” is the end- all; that we are never simply on yet another stepping- stone. Yet I had begun to see that this is exactly what these experiences are: Never ending stepping- stones— at least if I am doing things right! When I realized that this was not the ‘end’, of the whole story, but merely a chapter, I felt better about, and accepted it. (for the most part)
At 12:50, I talked to Kim, and let her know the situation, that unless Ken called in the next 10- minutes I was buying a ticket to Nashville, and would be on the road in a half- hour. She generously offered to pick me up (again!), and let me stay with her. (again!)
I gave Ken until 1:05, and then I had to act. I got the $45 ticket, and despite the outside speakers, somehow missed the boarding
announcement while outside smoking. When I returned, if not for the help of some friendly Amish folks, I would not have known that my bus was boarding! I scrambled out of the terminal, thinking I was close to missing it, only to wait another 20 minutes. This bus was late before it even left!Viva Dirty Dog!
We finally got on the road at about 1:40, and from Atlanta all the way to
Nashville it was nothing but heavy rain, and sleep. We went through Chattanooga, ironically, I thought, and saw some of the most beautiful parts of the country, right there in Southern Tennessee. I called Kim when we arrived and we were off to the familiar surroundings that I had left not even a week before. “Really?” I thought. “Not even a week?”I immediately showered, before I even sat down, and that was it. Rich had let Kim bring his laptop over for me to use (thanks!), so I bought tomorrow morning's ticket to Albuquerque, edited and uploaded pictures half the night, and got to bed at about 3am. Did not matter how late I stayed up; like anesthesia, sleeping makes the Dirty Dog more bearable! Especially a dog- ride lasting 30- hours!
I never heard a thing from Ken.
