The term 'bus trip' usually doesn't sound very alluring to me. In fact, it sets my alarm bells ringing, conjuring up a vision of doddery old people being carted from sight to sight on their one-week round trip of Europe.
And yet, going by bus can prove to be a unique travel experience: When during a stay in the Canadian Rockies two years ago my friends and I decided to sniff some sea air and pay a visit to the Pacific Rim coast, the best option seemed to take a Greyhound bus. A time-honored icon of American travel, Greyhound offers a special bargain seemingly custom-fitted to the needs of undemanding, chronically underfinanced students: the Discovery Pass, valid for two weeks throughout Canada and the United States. Here's what happened on our road trip.
I had imagined our journey to Vancouver as a scenic trip through the exciting wilderness of the Rocky Mountains. Those of you familiar with the opening scene of The Shining will know the sublime scenery I was hoping for: dense forests, snow-capped peaks, ice-covered mountain lakes--rugged and awe-inspiring, yet unbelievably beautiful. Unfortunately, the service to the coast turned out to be an over-night one, limiting the potential for such a spectacular landscape experience.
However, even if there wasn't dramatic scenery, excitement there was: As we were making our to the Greyhound bus station on the night of our departure, groaning under the weight of our backpacks, we were still unaware that we'd spend a good part of that frosty February evening not on a bus, but at that very station in Rocky Mountain Hicksville. According to the timetable, our bus was scheduled to arrive at 7.30 pm. At 8.00 pm, we were still naively hopeful. Weren't we all used to these short delays? 8.30. It was getting uncomfortably cool out there on the deserted streets. 9.00. I fancied I heard a hungry howling from the surrounding hills. Jackals? Wolves?? Farewell, world--paralyzed by the cold as we were, we would make an easy prey for all kinds of starved predators. At 9.30, the bus finally arrived. Having opened the door, the driver stared down incredulously on us three red-nosed, shivering girls on the curbside. As if speaking to dim-witted children, he asked us if we hadn't known that the busses were hours behind schedule, now that the whole of Canada was pilgrimaging to the Olympics in Vancouver. Uhm...no. He sighed. "Well, girls, you are extremely lucky that three people got out at the last station. This bus is jam-packed. I even have people from Montréal in here." And so our trip could finally begin. That night I swore I would never again complain about the unpunctuality of the Austrian public transport. Cross my heart!
Sure, a fourteen-hour trip in a heavily crowded bus is foredoomed to be strenuous. But what makes it even worse is an alarmingly overweight passenger sitting next to you, especially if he is occupying the window seat. Needless to say that sleep was a vain project. I must have been a hilarious sight as I desperately tried to keep my balance during my short-lived periods of peaceful slumber, not being very keen on either snuggling up to my dear neighbor or dropping down into the central gangway. I finally gave up entirely and contented myself with watching the snow flurries in the headlights, slowly becoming mesmerized into a state of apathetic indifference.
It's safe to say that there is nothing that dulls your mind more than the exertions of a Greyhound bus trip. After hours and hours of traveling, you eventually even get used to the stuffy air, the oppressive lack of space, the snoring of your fellow travelers. The smell, however, must have been repulsive. I remember one new passenger boarding the bus in the early dawn, screwing up his face in disgust and mumbling something like, "Folks, this is really gross!" Poor guy. But at least he had spent most of the night in a warm, cozy bed. Honestly, it's still a mystery to me how anyone could travel by bus all the way from Montréal to Vancouver.
Finally arriving on the coast, we were greeted by a gloomy drizzle. Vancouver was a marvelous city, yet only a stopover on our trip. After three days of bad weather and Olympic hustle and bustle, we boarded another bus, bound for our actual destination: Vancouver Island. Still worn out by the long journey to the coast, I was less than thrilled to repeat the experience; but--what unexpected luxury--the bus was so empty that I even had two adjoining seats at my disposal. Obviously nobody was interested to go into the wilderness while the party in Vancouver was in full swing. Deeply contented, I curled up on my seat and quickly fell asleep. When I woke up and peeked out of the window, I was stunned: the rain had stopped, the dreary suburbs of the city were gone. Instead, we were driving through a landscape of almost supernatural beauty. To the right of the road, a lush green rain forest, almost tropical with its giant towering trees and clinging vines; to the left, sun-drenched sandy beaches, bordered by the vast sapphire-blue Pacific Ocean. On our drive along the coast, the bus emptied gradually, leaving us as the only passengers when we finally reached the terminus. Tofino, a retreat for surfers and escapists located in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, was largely made up of amazing wooden houses perched on the cliffs along the shoreline: it was a place of incredible magic and tranquility, a place where you could get away from it all. Ambling along Tofino's rocky beaches truly felt like being at the end of the earth.
It was this drive along the coast of Vancouver Island that makes me treasure our Greyhound experience, in spite of its inauspicious beginnings, as one of my most impressive travel memories. Sure, our trip wasn't exactly what one would call comfortable traveling, and more fastidious people might well have hit the wall on this journey. But as for me, the stunning road to Tofino more than compensated for the strains of our Rocky Mountain crossing. After all, I can still go on a comfy all-inclusive bus trip when I'm eighty.
No comments:
Post a Comment