My Love/Hate Relationship with Greyhound, OR, Why Amtrak Riders Are Sissies

In the foreword to The Road, Nathan Asch argues that bus travel is the best way to see Real America. Real America, it seems, is in fact the people, the heart of the country, “the thing in them which is so typical of them that it’s not unusual, not news to them” (Asch, The Road). It’s not the landscape and geography alone, and Caldwell even states that “the majesty of nature is a trivial sight when it is not viewed in relation to man and his activity” (Caldwell, Some American People).Caldwell, especially, expresses a deep contempt for the tourism industry, the vacations and trips of the wealthy, and the blind fools who pose as “travelers.”  A true traveler, it seems, (according to Asch, Caldwell, and even Anderson) is a wanderer, and, undoubtedly, a man who understands the people and rides amongst them on the journey. I agree with this—but why? I wanted to find out why I agree and why seeing the country by foot or freight car or bus was in fact the only way to see Real America. So I began at the bottom, with the timeless question, the endless battle—Greyhound vs. Amtrak.

As I read over these texts I thought back to the innumerable hours I have put in on the Greyhound lines in Texas, traveling I-35 and I-30. Asch says that he prefers buses when traveling because trains are formal and apparently too nice, and cars are too personal and private. Interesting argument, Mr. Asch, I mused. Intriguing, even, because as I reminisce about my past bus rides—the weary passengers, the stalwart drivers, the esteemed service—I am obliged to remember (with misty eyes) how unfailingly and incomparably vile they were. On the other hand, I rode the Amtrak once from New York City to Albany, and have relatively pleasant, happily bland feelings about that trip. So which is better? Is Mr. Asch correct? Do I need to suffer to see real America? Is the Amtrak merely a bubble of rose-colored glass whisking tourists around the country in efficient and convenient trains that often depart on time? I decided to investigate the two companies and find out.

Greyhound was founded by a Swedish immigrant named Carl Wickman and his partner Andy “Bus Andy” Anderson in 1914. They immediately score points for having a co-founder with such a creative nickname. It began in Hibbing, Minnesota, although the company was not technically incorporated as Greyhound Corporation until 1929. “Bus Andy” and Carl merely owned a “Hupmobile” and drove iron ore miners around Minnesota for 15 cents a ride. But Carl, a shrewd businessman by my estimation, stuck with it, made all sorts of fancy connections with folks at GM, and by 1927 boasted a transcontinental bus service. The Depression put him a million dollars in debt, but by 1935 Carl was raking in eight million dollar profits.

Now, in the left corner…. Amtrak! Get ready, because this story is much more boring. There are no funny nicknames involved. It was founded in 1971. It’s owned by the government. Basically, end of story.

So far, Greyhound is doing better. They have a richer history. It’s a true American history, chock full of Swedish immigrants, success stories, wealth and power, the Midwest, and iron ore miners. You just can’t get more red, white and blue.

Now, for the personal experience round: The first time I rode the Greyhound from Austin to Dallas my mother told me, “Sit next to a woman!!!” So, being a rebellious brat, of course I sat next to a man. I didn’t really mean to, but all the women gave me really dirty looks, like they knew I was trying to befriend them. The man I sat next to was shuffling something around under the seat, so I didn’t get a look at his face before I committed to my seat, but for some reason the back of his neck looked safe to me.

A rube mistake—how wrong I was. He lifted his head with a leering slurp, pulled dripping fingers out of a can of Vienna sausages, and said, “You want one?” I think I tried to say “No thank you,” but all that came out was a tiny whimper. After finishing his sausages he pulled out a pillow and began the arduous and impossible task (Asch agrees) of falling asleep on a bus. I decided to call my mother—another rube mistake.

After hanging up, Vienna Sausage Fingers asked if he could use my phone. “My girlfriend’s supposed to pick me up from the station, but she don’t know when I’m gettin’ in,” he explained. I consented. He called his girlfriend several times to no avail—she did not answer. Then he called his best friend Jake.

“Jake, you know where Amber Lee’s at? She ain’t answerin’ any of my calls!” At this point, an hour into the four hour journey, I still thought I might get my phone back. But an ominous doom sunk into the pit of my stomach as I watched my companion’s face get tighter and angrier. Exclamations and expletives were exchanged.

He hung up and handed the phone to me. I took it without a word, but I knew he was going to tell me what happened.

“That BITCH sold my car for crack!” he yelled. “AGAIN!”

 The woman with the four-month-old next to us gave me a dirty look.

“I’m sorry?” I said meekly.

“Yeah, well, I ‘preciate that, but I really need to use your phone again.”

I gave it back to him. And that was the last I saw until I pried it from his cold, ungrateful, hands in downtown Dallas, Texas, three hours later.

When I took the Amtrak to Albany, I listened to my iPod and ate peanut M&M’s from the snack car. I don’t think anyone sat next to me at all. I called my mom on the ride home, and then slept for the next two hours, completely undisturbed.

And yet, somehow, after all this… I understand why I agree with Asch and Caldwell. The Greyhound is better. It’s better because I drove four hours staring at an Interstate highway that once segregated white and black sections of Austin, a place I call home.  It’s better because knowing that history now means something instead of being just a fact. It’s better because of not being able to sleep; better for the camaraderie of being uncomfortably hot or cold or afraid of Vienna Sausage Fingers just like the people around me. It’s better for the equality not having first or second class seats creates in a group of people. It’s better because no matter how terrible it is, people still ride it, just like the iron ore miners did back in 1914. It’s better because it is, in fact, America, more than any sterilized or glamorized train or airplane could be. Because that’s what America is all about; it’s what our country was founded on—camaraderie, equality, and perseverance. Just like the wayward lover Rorty picked up on his travels across America, a man who wouldn’t be pitied and wouldn’t give up. Just like Wild and his pack of British explorers, setting out on a dubious journey in a ramshackle trailer.

So yes, Greyhound, you win. You are disgusting, uncomfortable and offensive. Your passengers are unsafe, your driving record is flawed, and many of your employees are certifiably insane—but gosh darn it, you are America!

So God Bless the USA.