Thinking that the Mexican bus is substantively different from the Greyhound is mis-guided, mis-taken, mis-sing the point.
The point is never having to find your car keys, watch some crop of 20 somethings in uniformed shirts crawl under your car and poke around the dipstick and filters pretending they actually know what is happening to your piece of shit machine as you soothe your conscience on taking just one more Thanksgiving trip, heading north.
Global warming is real as you take in the sights year after year. A trip on the bus is no more uncomfortable than driving there yourself.
And you aren’t in control, trusting that the driver has better luck than you do on the absolute barren stretches between Las Vegas and Raton.
We’ve been sold a bill of goods that will never arrive, never sit by your front porch because driving your own gas powered machine is nothing more than decadent.
Perhaps I shop less, strategically pick my layers based on the time I’m going to be exposed to the elements, lessen my circle of friends I can casually drop in on, but I’m saving money, feeling the real chill of the air as it fills up my lungs, watching the sunset directly instead of through mirrors and surreptitious glances between road, speedometer, mirror, side window sunset, road…
Barren Raton Pass looms ahead as the pen grows sluggish and takes longer to shape words.
November 24, 2010