How You Don't Want to Start a Bus Trip

Me: Hey, how's it going?

Bus Driver: Good. Heading to Cortland?

Me: Yep.

Bus Driver: Hey, just out of curiosity, do you know where the new bus stop is there?

Me: Um, no.

Guy Behind Me In Line: Yeah, I forget what street it's on, but I can call and...

Bus Driver: It's Exit 11, I think, or something like that. I'm sure I'll be able to find it.

For the record, he wasn't. At least on the first try. But after heading a good ways into the boonies, he did have the wherewithal to think he might be headed the wrong way, which led to this:

Bus Driver: Hey, who's going to Cortland?

Me: Yeah, back here.

Bus Driver: So, this new stop, where is it again?

Me: Um, I think it's near the courthouse or something.

Bus Driver: OK, and where's that?

Me: I don't know.

Bus Driver: But back the other way, right?

Me: Um, I guess so?

Between this experience and having water spill on me for an hour on the Megabus from DC last weekend, I'm once again starting to think that bus travel may not be something I'm cut out for in my adulthood, assuming that is the stage of life I'm in now. Debatable.

Luckily the rest of the weekend--hanging with the family of Puck Daddy scourge Rev. Zamboni, going to the greatest book sale in the world, eating (and old-school arcade bowling) at the Glenwood Pines, seeing Billy Bragg in concert at one of my favorite theatres (with one of my favorite marquees), making another late-night visit to the alma mater, buying spiedie marinade at Wegmans--went a lot better.

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