Ah, the adventure of bus travel, the call of the open road! Jump into the “real” American landscape and culture, save money and minimize climate change.

Twenty hours into a 31-hour bus trip to Hollywood, I close my book and remind myself why I’ve chosen once again to travel by bus. Flying would have been so much faster and normal. But come to think of it, why do I need to justify bus travel at all; shouldn’t we have to justify the excess waste of flying? But I accept that I’ve chosen to go against the status quo, so here’s why I’m enjoying the ride:

Would the Real American Please Stand Up

The nameless esthetician sitting next to me has a serial-dating younger sister while she herself is “pretty inexperienced” in love. Lenny loves my organic hemp shirt, has enjoyed the substance for 40 years (people always assume hemp wearers are hemp smokers) and makes me promise to get stoned on the bluffs of Santa Monica this weekend. Estuardo’s returning to Oregon State architecture school, a young grandmother’s going to El Paso to help her daughter and the kids move off the army base to a new trailer park, and Lavisha and her 4 teenage kids—on their way to visit old family in Mobile Alabama —were very excited to hear that I’ve starred with Billy Bob Thornton during my made-up acting career.

Not that everyone is as fun to meet. Most are just comatose. There was a screaming match at 2 a.m. due to an overfriendly seatmate, and the loud conversation from the usual party crowd at the back went from mesmerizing to stupefying pretty quickly. But the chance to meet a diverse segment of the American population is something Greyhound should market—how about “socio-economic tourism.”

This Land is Your Land…

Continuing this Walt Whitman theme, I’m also drinking in the cross-section of the country’s geography. Good old green Washington sadly waved goodbye as Oregon opens herself up to me now like an eager old lover, strengthening me before the broad expanse of the Sacramento Valley and bald red California hills. Fisherman and immigrant farm workers and small town inn keepers wave as we roll by—well, they would have waved to Walt, anyways. I’m part of the rolling, evolving American patchwork quilt, not just stepping out of a flying tin-can time machine into a disconnected airport destination.

Oh oh, the driver looks annoyed. “Whoever just bought a six-pack at that store, I’ll give you one chance to bring it up.” There’s a long silence, and now that old guy from the back is making the walk of shame with his plastic bag. “You already downed one?!” the driver marvels as he peers into the plastic bag before taking it back to the store. Zero tolerance, but some compassion—he’s been smoking with them at every stop, so it’s hard to be the heavy now.

Carbon Tireprint

The closer we get to California, the more I notice the endless convoy of trucks bringing our seasonless fruits and veggies. I feel strongly our family’s reasons to become locavores (that’s another article), and of course another key reason for being on this bus—climate change. My share of this bus’ emissions are about 10-20% of what would have been on my shoulders if I’d flown. I may not sleep perfectly on a bus, but my conscience is at rest.

Cost

The numbers are simple: Vancouver B.C. to Los Angeles is $135, and the return on Amtrak will be $110. The cheapest return flight available was over $450. The savings pay for the growing pile of Fritos bags and pop cans that fuel our journey.

Transition

Like most parents heading out on a trip, I packed in the 10 minutes before school, while also packing the kids lunches and arranging afternoon childcare. There was no time in my cluttered life to think about the Birthing From Within workshop I’m going to, or what I want out of it, or what I have to contribute. But 31 hours in a bus gives plenty of time to change mindsets, to read the book they asked us to review, and to morph from Super Dad to super participant. And after 37 hours home on Amtrak, I’ll have processed this experience and be clear and hungry for my family again.

Are We There Yet?

“Thirty minute meal break” the driver calls as he rushes off for his smoke fix. I stand in the middle of a stark, flat former-farmland gazing at the grazing options. Five (five!) fast-food chains surround us like neon prison walls, scaring the stars away as they demand us to spend and consume and glut glut glut glut. Lavisha’s kids are thrilled, while I gulp and remember that this is the America I’ve come to have a taste of for a while, even if it’s sometimes hard to stomach.

Reality Check

My back is killing, I’m almost out of my organic fruit bar stash, I haven’t really slept in 2 days, and they’ve paved paradise to put up this parking lot. It’s not all glorious or comfortable, but it’s real. Real America, real life, and for this brief 31 hours I’m a real part of it.