Greyhound Policies and Procedures

I have a theory about the Greyhound bus system: No one who works for Greyhound wants to work for Greyhound. And no one who rides Greyhound wants to ride Greyhound.

One of my friends back home has ridden the buses extensively and calls the company The Dirty Dog. And with good reason. Every seat is stained, there’s barely enough legroom to keep from putting your knees into the seat in front of you, air conditioning vents are often broken and stuck open (I had to stuff a sock in one to keep from freezing on the trip from San Antonio to Houston), most riders look and smell like they haven’t showered in a few days, and customer service appears to be nowhere on the company’s list of priorities. In fact, you’re inconveniencing the employees by purchasing a ticket.

Of the seven buses I’ve been on in the past two weeks, I’ve met exactly two ‘friendly’ drivers (I use the term in its loosest sense) and one friendly baggage handler. All ticket agents apparently hate their lives, and most drivers hate people. One driver in particular, on the trip from Houston to New Orleans, heard a comment from a rider that set her off. I was in the back of the bus, and missed the comment, but heard the driver’s response. As we pulled out of a stop in Beaumont, Texas, she came on the loudspeaker and shouted, “Well, somebody had to be in charge, and today it happened to be me! If you don’t follow the rules, you don’t ride!”

Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of assholes riding Greyhound buses and it’s understandable that drivers would put up their defenses. (One intoxicated rider on the bus from New Orleans to Mobile couldn’t keep his peanut gallery locked up, so the driver promptly sent him back a few rows, where he could annoy other people. “Oh … fat, white and rich,” he inexplicably sighed as we entered Gulfport, Miss. “Let’s go Red Sox!” he repeatedly chanted for no apparent reason.) But when a driver is nasty right from the start, it invites further assholishness from riders, and doesn’t do much for the already tarnished company image.

In observing the behavior of Greyhound workers during the past fortnight, I’ve come up with what I believe to be The Dirty Dog’s policies and procedures for employees:

- Always be quick to anger and slow to help

- Remember: You work for Greyhound. Your life sucks. Take it out on the riders.

- Answer rider questions in the most confusing manner possible

- Smiling is forbidden among ticket agents

- Drivers must address all patrons with disdain, no matter their age, race, health conditions or economic class. It helps to think of riders as unwanted little bastard children that you’re forced to tolerate because you married their wealthy mother.

- Interior bus temperature shall never exceed 50 degrees Fahrenheit

- Timeliness is not important

- Nor is technology. If buses in South America are more modern than ours, who cares? As long as we don’t have any competition, we can operate shoddy equipment.

- Onboard bathroom must not be cleaned and maintained more than once per year

- Drivers should mumble whenever addressing customers

- If a customer asks a question, come up with any reason to snap at them, even if it’s easier to give a straightforward answer. (On the bus from Tallahassee to Tampa, a little boy up front politely asked the driver as we were pulling into a station what the next stop would be. Annoyed, she dismissed the boy, saying, “I’ll make an announcement when we start back up.” It would have been easier to say, “Tampa,” but hey, why be nice to the little bastard? This is Greyhound, after all.)

Oktoberfest in Dallas

Before sending me on my way to Austin and eventually Europe, my friend Brian showed me Dallas’s version of a European celebration. Every major city in the U.S. has one of these: Oktoberfest.

“Before you see the real thing, we’ve gotta show you the bastardized American version,” Brian joked.

He, Paul and I climbed into Brian’s Subaru Forrester – the Lezmobile, as he calls it – and headed to Addison, or what Brian refers to as the Bellevue of Dallas. It’s the suburb that all the young, semi-wealthy business school graduates move into to try and keep up with the Joneses, according to Paul and Brian. It’s also the place where pseudo-Germans set up a pavilion every September and pedal overpriced beer, so-so bratwurst and funny hats. I still regret not buying one of those hats shaped like a chicken. But I’ll probably come to my senses and get over it eventually.

After I downed my first stein of Spaten, it occurred to me that my adventures earlier that afternoon were more harmful than I’d first suspected. I’d spent half the day walking around downtown Dallas, mainly exploring Dealey Plaza and everything having to do with the JFK assassination. (The audio tour in the Sixth Floor Museum, set up where Oswald was perched, is well worth listening to. It takes a while to get through, but it’s fascinating and gives you some interesting food for thought regarding the grassy knoll.) I’d planned to be indoors more than out, but when I got lost looking for my bus to Brian’s place, my plans changed. Without  a hat or sunscreen, my shaved head began to simmer. I didn’t notice an effect until after that first beer.



View from the grassy knoll.



The Spaten was affecting me more than it should have, and I was getting thirsty. My head began to ache. I needed to rehydrate or my stomach would revolt. I soldiered on through another stein or two, passing the time with Brian and some of his cute ladyfriends.

The ride home was impossibly long. All three of us could feel our bladders expanding and preparing to pop with every bump in the road. I sipped a warm Coke I’d left in the car, just to get some hydration. I’d barely had any water that day, despite the heat and sunburn, and those factors combined with the beer were quickly catching up to me.

If I’d been less experienced with my body’s wacky hydration issues, this story would end in tragedy, with me bent over a toilet. But thankfully I was able to keep myself awake for about 2 more hours, sipping enough water to avoid dehydration.

The next morning, I bid farewell to Dallas and my new and old friends there. Brian dropped me off at the train station and I headed to Austin, where my couchsurfing host awaited.

Dallas: Opulence and grease

Earlier Wednesday morning, Brian and I drove through the city’s massive freeways to the University of Texas at Dallas, north of town in the suburb of Richardson. Once we arrived, he loaned me his car and I drove back across the unending concrete sprawl to Arlington. There, I toured the relatively new Cowboys Stadium, a $1.4 billion testament to the old cliché that ‘everything’s bigger in Texas.’ Our tour guide even pointed out that the word ‘largest’ was one we’d be hearing a lot as we set out. ‘The largest 1080p high-definition TV screen hangs from the largest free-standing arches in the world here at Cowboys Stadium,’ he twanged. ‘Mr. Jones wanted this to be both an indoor and outdoor facility, so we have the largest sliding glass doors at either end of the stadium.’ And so forth.

After touring the players’ and cheerleaders’ locker rooms (none of the locker owners were present, unfortunately) and having my photo taken on the blue star at midfield, I headed back to pick up Brian. He drove us to a neighborhood called Preston Hollow, which he admitted he’d never heard much about until last year, when word spread that George W. Bush was moving in. The homes in Preston Hollow were as extravagant as Brian had described. Many sat on multiple acres and were three or four stories high. Nearly all were shrouded by walls and shrubbery, and constructed of stone with ornate arches and fountains. Some had guards or intimidating dogs. The word ‘palace’ is a better descriptor than ‘home’ when discussing these structures. We passed one mansion with a basketball hoop and Brian said, ‘Word on the street is that’s Dirk’s house.’ ‘Nowitski?’ I replied. ‘Yep.’

We drove down a street called Park, where Brian had heard there were some exceptionally opulent abodes. We passed statues and private ponds and tried to peer between bushes. The better obscured the homes were, the more curious it made us about the lavishness that must be on the other side. ‘With these ones behind all the trees, you know they’re hiding something just retarded back there,’ Brian said. We traveled on to Highland Park, another wealthy neighborhood, and encountered Alex Rodriguez’s former dwelling along the way. Fronted by a man-made river and a patch of trees, it appeared to be some sort of replica of the White House.

Through all the gawking, Brian and I worked up an appetite. We dined at Snuffer’s, one of his favorite burger joints in town. As we finished the cheese fries, topped with a mountain of cheddar, bacon bits and green onions, I remarked that that dish was probably the least healthy thing I’ve eaten in my life. Brian, who had commented earlier that the dish was the only one in the world that causes fries to soak up rather than put out grease, was pleased with the impression the food made on me. According to him, the purposely bad action movie we saw to wrap up the night completed a trifecta of Dallasness for the day. ‘We gawked at rich people, ate greasy food and watched a crappy movie. Welcome to Dallas.’

The next day would be a look back at Dallas history and a preview of my upcoming travels. Sort of.

Dallas: Land of exploding fruit

As the train wobbles out of Cleburne, Texas, I take advantage of the first chance I’ve had to write since arriving in this state three days ago. I’m on my way from Dallas to Austin, where I’ll meet my couchsurfing host this evening.
Dallas was a whirlwind of sightseeing, off-the-wall occurrences, grand showmanship, friendly new faces, and one familiar one. I landed around dinner time on Tuesday and left at lunch on Friday. In between those meals, I got a good taste of the city. When my plane landed, my friend’s roommate, Paul, picked me up and drove me to his little haunt in Lakewood, a district on the northeast edge of Dallas. My friend, Brian, was away at an MBA class when we arrived, so Paul rounded up some of his friends for some Tex-Mex. I was planning to pick up Paul’s tab as payment for his airport chauffeur service, but he quickly told the waitress to put my bill on his. He said it was the least he could do, since he was late to pick me up. I laughed and thanked him and said I was just glad he picked me up at all.
Over the next couple of days, I met more of Brian’s friends, most of whom he knows through his church. Each of them was just as kind and hospitable as Paul. Much of my time was spent with Brian and this group, and I never felt left out or bored.
One thing that kept us busy was the exploding farmers market. Late Wednesday night, after a few of us returned home from the gelato shop, Brian’s friend Steven got a text. A TV show was filming near downtown earlier that evening, and the crew had blown up a bunch of produce stands. The food was left there, much of it intact, and was free to any interested takers. Five of us piled into Brian’s car and headed out. A half hour later, we returned with boxes and shopping bags full of enough poblano peppers, tomatillos, watermelons and apples to feed the apartment complex for a couple weeks. It made for an entertaining and unusual end to a day that was otherwise quintessentially Dallas.

Travel itinerary so far

The first leg of my journey has changed. My friend from Bremerton is unable to drive my car home from Miami, so I decided to nix the road trip and shorten my travel time. My new itinerary is as follows.
I fly from Seattle to Dallas Sept. 14, then go via Amtrak and Greyhound through Austin, San Antonio, Houston, New Orleans, Panama City, Tampa and Miami. I've got a friend and some Couchsurfers willing to host me all through Texas. I'll book accommodations in Louisiana and Florida shortly. From Miami, I fly to London on Oct. 1. I'll be staying with friends there, then heading up to Dublin, likely via Liverpool.
Those are all the 'concrete' plans I've got so far. After Dublin, I'll most likely go through Belfast and Glasgow, then hop down to Belgium, the Netherlands and Germany before heading south toward the Mediterranean. The hope is to make it as far east as Israel and Egypt, before returning to Europe via Portugal and Spain, then making my way through France and back to London. I fly from London back to Miami Nov. 30.
I haven't yet decided how I'll get home from Miami. Part of me has a dream of going overland, to extend the trip and the amount of sights to see. But a more realistic part thinks I'll be exhausted from more than 11 weeks on the road and therefore I'll end up booking the quickest, cheapest flight home. I'll figure out those details soon enough. For now, I need to get packing.