You Don't Have to Live Like a Refugee

The Chinatown Bus - Revisited

I used to be a fan of the Chinatown bus.  I used to recommend it to everybody:  affordable, reliable, user-friendly.  However, my most recent trip was too flavorful to not share it.  So here goes…
 
I book a ticket on-line the night before.  I schedule a 10am departure from 15th & K Street NW in D.C.  That will get me into NYC at around 2pm.  Perfect since I need to be to work at 4pm.  Plenty of time to grab lunch.  The ticket says, “Arrive 20 minutes early to assure your priority spot.”  I do so.  My wife drives me into the city and I’m there in plenty of time.  It’s cold outside so I sit the in mini-van until it’s about time.  Bad move.  A line has formed, but it doesn’t look too terrible.  I get in line at about 9:55am.  The bus eventually comes fifteen minutes later.  People start to calmly board the bus.  I see one elderly gentleman even tip to porter putting luggage under the bus.  However, as more and more passengers board, the “attendant” (who is not Chinese at all and who pulled up in a 1970’s gold Oldsmobile with a “Washington Deluxe” sign in his rear mirror to oversee the boarding process) has started to count heads.  I had specifically splurged on the $21 bus company to make sure I had a good trip, since my last trip was so unpleasant.  (Almost all one-way tickets are $20.)  The attendant has come to a conclusion.  “There’s one more seat.”  That seat goes to the guy in front me.  The poor college kid behind me was just dropped off by his dad.  He and I are left out in the cold.  My luck is just beginning.
 
The attendant asks for our reservation receipts.  We both produce our printed receipts.  As he pulls out a wad of cash from a manila envelope I start to wonder what exactly “reservation” means in Chinese.  He gives me $20 cash and offers to put me in a cab over the 6th & I where I can catch the “next” bus.  I told him I paid $21.  He gives me another $10 for the cab.  I guess that makes us even.  Good thing my wife is still there waiting.  I take the cash, jump back in the mini-van and my wife drives me to 6th & I where I had caught other Chinatown buses previously.  We wait.  I’m happy to have some extra time with my wife.  The kids are fine at grandma’s.  The attendant did not offer up when the next bus would be, but I remembered seeing an 11am bus on the schedule the night before.  However, at 10:55am nobody else has gathered.  The other college kid had made his way over via cab and had been waiting on the curb, but he had disappeared somewhere as well.  I go into the office with the sign above it “Chinatown Bus Office:  6th & Eye”.  I am informed that the next bus is at 12:30pm.  I know that around the block there is yet another pick-up point for another Chinatown bus company, so my wife drives through the alley way to H street.  There’s a crowd gathered at 718 H Street, so I ask one of the guys waiting when the next bus is due.  He says there’s an 11:00am bus, but he’s been told it’s full.  He wanders off down 4th Street with his luggage.  Oh, well.  I go into the office and find a very frustrated man behind a very small desk and a board covered with small pieces of paper with departure times written on them.  I find the Monday column and, sure enough, one of the pieces of paper has 11am on it.  After huffing off after one customer asked one question too many, the man returns.  This man actually is Chinese.  I ask when the next available seat might be found.  He says he doesn’t know, but there’s another bus company two blocks down.  By this time I feel my luck is improving, so I decide to check it out.
 
My wife (very patiently) drives me down to 513 H street.  Another crowd is gathered on the street.  I ask one of the women with baggage what time she’s expecting her bus.  “11:30am.”   I ask where the office is and am pointed to a door hidden behind a stairwell and nothing that I can see that would designate it as an office for any company.  I descend a small, lurid stairwell into sub-basement room.  Against the far wall there’s a Plexiglas booth with two cashiers inside.  Taped to the Plexiglas there’s a sign that says “cash only”.  Opposite the booth is a TV showing some kind of music video where a few twenty-something men are executing pop dance moves while coyly holding fans in front of their faces as Chinese subtitles move across the bottom of the screen.  Did I mention they were singing in Chinese?  I make a note to look up the word “subtitles”.
 
Just my luck!  There’s an 11:30am bus and the women behind the Plexiglas is willing to take my $20 cash in exchange for a ticket.  I call my wife waiting outside to tell her the good news.  However, as I get outside I start to wonder if holding a ticket actually means I’ll get on the bus.  After all, I’d just been in the same situation a few hours earlier and was still in D.C.  I start to do the head count thing and realize that there are probably twice as many people waiting than a normal bus will hold.  Suddenly the crowd starts to move—without explanation—around the corner to 5th Street. Perhaps I missed some announcement.  Fortunately my suitcase has wheels and I’m close to the corner, so I get a good spot in the new line.  Too bad for the suckers who got there early and were waiting at the far end of the block.  This adventure is slowly turning from a game of chance to an exercise in survival.  Only the ruthless and strong will travel.
 
A bus pulls up, the mass of people crush against it.  I’m caught in the crush and can’t get free.  The door opens and a man starts yelling indiscernibly to get back.  People begin disembarking and gathering their luggage. This bus is for Philly only.  “Where’s the bus for New York?” someone cries above the din.  “Across the street,” the driver yells back.  Of course.  Why didn’t I realize that?  A mob of people rush across the cross walk.  Once I get there I realize why I hadn’t seen this covert bus departure point before.  It’s secretly disguised as a public bus stop, with a sign and everything.  However, no public transportation seems to be using this particular stop.  Regardless, a sizable gathering of people stand in a loose but intense clump around the sign.  My odds have improved.  Half the mob got on the bus to Philly.  I join the remaining members of the mob.  
 
I call my wife to tell her my new location.  She has now determined to wait until the bitter end before leaving.  She’s got my back.  A bus finally pulls up.  Did I mention it’s now noon?  The bus has stopped short of the sign post.  I’m now magically at the front of the line again.  The people gathered around the sign are not happy. The crush resumes.  The old, young, bond and free start to press in on the bus, I start recall visions of helicopters leaving roof tops in Saigon.  I wonder if I’ll get on this chopper out.  
 
The door opens.  More shouts.  Move back!  People disembark.  Others are loading their luggage underneath.  I don’t dare break away from my prime spot in front of the door.  Finally new passengers are permitted to board.  I try to protect the old and the young who seem at risk of getting trampled.  I hold my pink ticket in a vice grip to make sure I don’t drop it.  Finally I plot down in a seat with all my bags.  Once all the passengers are aboard, I risk going back out to stow my suitcase.  (The overhead bins are big enough for a fingernail kit and a small windbreaker.)  I return to find my carry-on where I left it and the seat next to me empty.  Figures. The seat cushion has a nine inch hole cut into it.  Lucky me!  Looks like I’ll have some extra leg room.  
 
They collect the tickets and finally we’re underway.  I call my wife, thank her for waiting and settle back for the ride.  That’s when I realize I have to pee.  Okay.  If I must, I must.  I make my way to the back of the bus.  The closer I get the more I realize perhaps my luck is running out.  Behind the door covered with interior bus carpet, I find permanent marker and spray paint graffiti scattered about the walls.  The appearance of somebody trying to throw out their leftovers is strewn about the toilet seat and I find a notable lack of any real toilet paper or hand sanitizer.  I’m really glad I’m a man at this moment.  I take care of my business and get back to my seat.
 
I settle into a Robert Ludlum novel and zone out for the rest of the trip.
 
We reach the Holland Tunnel, then Chinatown.  I’m only going to be one hour late for work.  I left my home seven hours earlier.
 
Perhaps I’ve lost my sense of adventure.  Perhaps I’ve become a snob, but I also can’t help but think that even for $20 one-way, there’s a better way to travel up and down I-95.  As the bus pulls up to the Allen St. and Delancey, I feel a sense of relief, the kind of relief refugees must feel as they arrive at a holding camp far away from the battle front or natural disaster.  I’ve survived.  Or rather, I’ve arrived.  I feel grateful.  People push and shove for the exit.  I hold back a bit to avoid the stampede.  As I descend from the bus, I can’t help but notice that there is a sea of faces, young and old, bond and free, crushing against the bus, just as eager to get on as I am to get off.