I’m not much enthused about travel.

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 Travail is a French word that eventually became the English word, travel. The meaning 

in French is, work, arduously unpleasant work. The connection of unpleasant work with travel is easy to understand. The happiest of journeys has unhappy moments. 

          The rewards of travel usually compensate for the unhappy parts, and the unhappy parts become amusing stories - usually - later on. 

          I once made a trip to visit my sister, Rhonda, in Atlanta. The drive down with my son, 

Ian and his wife, Stephanie was uneventful. The visit was enjoyable. Ian and Stephanie were scheduled to return to Cleveland within the week. 

          I decided to stay a week or so longer because I was having a good time getting to know my young nieces, Chelsea, Moriah, Hannah - and Rhonda’s cat, Wynton. 

          Rhonda claimed I corrupted Wynton by giving him half-and-half instead of the wretched skim milk she’d been feeding him. She said it was weeks before he would deign to lap the thin, blue whey Rhonda considered milk.  

         Wynton was a kitty of discriminating taste.

         Eventually I had to leave. The thought occurred to me that it might be fun to travel home by bus. I called Greyhound. 

          “Hello, how much to Cleveland? 

          “Cleveland, Tennessee”?

          “No, Cleveland, Ohio”. 

          “Mmm, don’t rightly know. Hey Jimmy, you got any idea what a bus to Cleveland costs”? 

          (muffled talk in the background) “No, he don’t know neither”. 

          “How can you not know, you’re the bus company”?

          “You must’a dialed wrong. This is Greyhound Auto Repair, we fix cars”.

          I thanked him and re-dialed. Such nice folks in the South. They tried to help me even though they weren’t in the bus business. I should have taken my dialing mistake as a sign. 

          Rhonda made a cheese sandwich for my bus-ride home. The packed bus pulled out from Atlanta about 1:00 pm. I looked forward to watching the varied Georgia countryside pass by my window. That didn’t happen. 

          I was one of the last to board. The only seat open was an aisle-seat next to a very large black lady. I could see a little bit of the sky at the top of the window. She was a very nice lady. From time-to-time she’d tell me what was passing by outside. 

          As I listened to the conversation around me I discovered the employees of the Greyhound Bus Company had gone on strike a few days earlier. I wondered who was driving the bus. 

          The black lady said, “Oh, he be a scab de fetched-up from Texas - My name, Ella Mae. What be your name”? I told her my name and situation and she told me hers. She said, “Mmm, 

I sho hope we don’t run into no troubles ‘cause o’ this strike”. Me too, I replied. 

          The going was slowed by the many fares picked-up at road-side country stops. 

  The going was also slowed because the bus had to stop at the downtown terminal 

of every town large enough to have a downtown terminal. Ah well, at least it was a chance 

to get off the bus and stretch. 

          Sometime before entering Knoxville I decided to eat my cheese sandwich. I unwrapped the wax paper to find a sodden mess. The mayonnaise had turned the bread into mush. 

          I ate the cheese anyway. 

          As we made our sluggish way through the streets of Knoxville to the central terminal protesters outside banged on the sides of the bus. Someone fired a shot that cracked one 

of the windows. The protesters resumed their assault as we exited the city. Much the same happened at every large city. 

          I overheard conversations on our long journey northward. “Well. she got the house 

and kids and I got the truck and the dog”. Ella Mae whispered confidentially in my ear, “Uh huh, 

‘spec that ‘bout all he deserved to tu get, too”! 

        So the hours passed, mile after mile after mile. In time, after a very long time, and many other unpleasant adventures, we finally got to Cleveland. 

         It took eighteen hours to get from Atlanta to Cleveland. 

          It was the last trip I ever took on a bus. 

          It wasn’t my last trip though, and it wasn’t a typical trip, even so, it comes to mind whenever I think about traveling. I’m not much enthused about travel. There’s too much travail in even the best of travels The good parts don’t often enough make-up for the bad parts.

          I’ll content myself with watching PBS travel shows on TV. 

          Many will disagree with my opinion of traveling. I wish them well.

          Bon Voyage.

By K. L. Shipley

Website: https://www.eclectisessays.com