Go Greyhound

Go Greyhound

My mom can’t do airports.  Ok, she can do them, she just doesn’t like to.  For example, she doesn’t get how to go through those body scanning machines.  Something about “stand still with your hands up” just doesn’t click in her mind.  Instead, she places her feet on the designated spot and then shakes her hips and her head.  God knows what she looks like to the TSA agent assessing her screen shot.

Other things bug her about airport travel too.  Like, she can’t bring her own liquids aboard a flight. She’s elderly now, and she never knows what is going to help cure whatever cramp, ache, or sore ails her.  It might be a Coca Cola, or a bottle of water, or a children’s juice box of Pedialyte. If she can’t bring that stuff through airport security, she feels like she can die at any moment.  (And she knows she can’t buy Pedialyte at any airport).

Inconveniences like these are why she likes taking Greyhound.  She doesn’t mind that everyone says that only recently released felons take Greyhound.  She doesn’t mind that it takes over eight hours to get anywhere.

Today, she went from San Francisco to Los Angeles on what she said was her best trip yet. When I asked why, she answered, “The bus left on time and the bus driver started by giving very clear instructions, ‘This is my bus.  If you smoke pot on this bus, I will kick you off, so don’t smoke pot on my bus.'”

Somehow, those instructions were easier to follow, than anything TSA says.


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