I'm sitting waiting in the Houston, TX Greyhound bus station. It's noisy and grey, busy with apathetic emloyees and a sea of travellers laden with lethargy. Hispanic and african-american men comprise the majority of the travellers, and I'm hearing phrases like "dem bags", "wot you doin' dog?" "Lordy, I is tired, girl!" and other such stereotypical soundbites. (I'll demonstrate when I get home.)
I've never seen so many big people. Obese, some, but a lot are just really tall. Maybe I've been living like an amazonian in short-statured Mexico for too long, but you know the saying, everything's bigger in Texas. (I just saw an amiable african-american man wander past in a Malcolm X t-shirt.)
No one is taking much notice of me.
Don't they realise it's my first time in Texas? Acting out the ultimate scenario of American folklore? Waiting among strangers all pooling tense anticipation, the kind borne from the promise of lengthy hours ulfolding across an unforgiving landscape, all collectively suspended from work, duty, family, life.
We each travel alone, evaluating our journey alone, reaching the destination together but alone, linked momentarily in a Greyhound Bus. Emblazened on its side an unignorable advertisement for the hopes and dreams of a transient generation.
"Go West, young man!" is the cry of the roaming vagabonds that breathe life into bus stations such as these ...
I get wistful in a room with only a laptop and a wireless internet connection to entertain me.
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