Aboard the Greyhound Express: Accident and an Audi

The inauspiciousness of the journey that lay ahead; e.g. almost being killed is not a good start

“They tried to speed up and cut us off, like this was Fast and the Furious. Ain’t no Fast and Furious,” the black man next to me said, to whomever would listen. I nodded. The damage looked terrible – the underside of the Audi had come loose, the tire had popped, and the side mirror, obviously, lay in shards. We – the other passengers and I – were loosely milling around the Greyhound bus, surveying the five cop cars and two scared 20-year-olds and our big-bellied bus driver.

“We got Miley Cyrus here whining and complaining and acting all scared; they probably hit two other people on the way there,” the European across the way exclaimed. The accident, as it were, happened 5 minutes after we left the Greyhound bus depot, on the corner of Market and Fernando Street in San Jose. We were supposed to arrive in LA at 6 a.m.; now, none of us had any idea when we would arrive.

“We didn’t want to be there on time anyway,” the bald man next to me says. We all laugh a little.

The details of said accident; or why I slept on Santa Monica pier for 4 hours the next morning

The accident sounded as bad as the damage. I was just falling asleep when what I was woken by a large aluminum can being crushed from both sides, the air hissing out while the crackle of metal sparked in the air. At that moment, our bus was making a right turn in the second-to-the-right lane; a black Audi was in the rightmost lane making the same turn. The big, wide berth we made apparently wasn’t enough, and the two cars squeezed together against each other. The Greyhound bus won, so vigorously that the Audi was literally lifted onto the curb.

Immediately after the accident, the driver walked down the aisle, passing out slips of paper. “Fill out these papers for claims adjustment, please.” I look at the paper: “It is required by law that Motor Bus Companies shall make reports to the US Department of Transportation and the State Public Utility Commission concerning all accidents. Your assistance to Our Driver in the performance of his duty will be appreciated. WE THANK YOU.” There are 10 questions:

1. 1.      Were you a passenger on the bus at the time of accident?
2. a.       Mark Seat Occupied on Reverse Side
3. 2.      Place of Departure?
4. 3.      Final Destination?
5. 4.      Where did the accident occur?
6. 5.      Time of Day?
7. 6.      Date accident occurred?
8. 7.      Were you injured in the accident?
9. 8.      Did you witness the accident?
10. 9.      How did the accident occur?
11. 10.  Was the bus stopped before the accident occurred?

I start to answer each when I look up at the man next to me, who has begun to shout. “I’m not doing anything until you tell me when we’re getting to LA.”

“I don’t know when we’re getting there,” the bus driver says, sighing.

“Well I’m not filling out crappy paperwork. I’m not going to help you with your problem, I have a plane to catch.”

There’s a rumble from the back of the bus. “Shut up. The sooner we get this done the sooner we can leave.”

“You might get something out of it,” the bus driver explains.

“I don’t need anything out of it. I’m not filling out anything.”

“We’ll probably be an hour late.”

“Let me out, I want to get some fresh air, just because we’re going to be here for a while.”

I wonder if anyone is going to sue Greyhound; or, if we would get a refund.

The humanity of the situation occurring through conversation with strangers

“Damn that’s a nice car,” my seat partner says as he steps off the bus. “They’re driving that? That’s 55, 60k right there.” The bus is damaged as well. There’s a dent where on the luggage compartment door; during the crash, there was a big bump that felt like the entire bus was falling down a step. We were literally a minute away from the highway ramp.

At this moment, the driver, who is 65 years old, with white glasses, a blue shirt with a starched collar, and a lick of white hair (he looks like a grouchy retired postal worker) is arguing with the 5 police officers (who came in 4 different cars) on the scene. He blames the twenty year olds: they tried to squeeze past the bus on the turn and failed to judge the gap accurately. The police officers aren’t buying the story. “You’re going to have to go to court to explain your case,” one of them tells the bus driver. “You should always be turning on right most lane.”

The rest of us are just watching. Most of the officers have their arms folded, and are looking around. There’s one bystander who is writing down her version of the events on a single sheet of paper. The bus driver is still gesticulating. “Last time got into an accident we were late for 4 hours,” someone mentions. Someone else visibly sighs. It’s going to be a long night.

The best thing to happen is the lowering of social barriers. Passengers who wouldn’t have exchanged one word during the ride are now joking with each other; there are two black guys riffing off each other, doing pull-ups on the traffic signal bar, asking the two girls driving the Audi what happened.

The accident occurred at 11:25 p.m. At 11:46 p.m., the hot dog vendors have smelt their pray and are out in full force, hawking their wares. My mouth watered. At 12:33 a.m., we file back onto the bus and continue our journey. “The midnight riders ride again!” someone yells. Everyone starts to clap.

I strike up a conversation with my seat neighbor until both of us, exhausted, fall asleep. We’re at LA by 6 a.m. 

The red-light district in Manila

Part 1 & 2 & part of 3. Or check out my actual conversations under the ochre lights.

Part 1: Red-light wandering

I arrived in Manila on a Friday at the beginning of September, in the middle of the rainy season, carrying just two small suitcases. When I checked into my hotel -- Durban Inn, which TripAdvisor gives 4 stars and calls the 12th best hotel (of 51) in Manila -- I discovered that it hadn't been cleaned yet. I also found out that I was exactly half a block away from Manila's most modern red light district.

That night, I familiarized myself with the district's two thoroughfares, Makati Avenue and P. Burgos, noticing the fast food restaurants and the bank branches, the corpulent white men and the diminutive homeless, the piss on the curb and the harried traffic officers. The streets were cacophonous. In the restaurants, I noticed I was the only customer who wasn't with another Filipino. Manila's red light district is, in some ways, the epicenter of contemporary Filipino culture, a palimpsest of residents in various economic straits forced together by tourism. The service sector sells pabulum and lodging; transportation and sex. Here, Filipinos rarely buy from each other; every eye is turned towards the never-ending cycle of visitors.

Prostitution in the Philippines is illegal. Republic Act 9208, passed by the Filipino legislature on May 26th, 2003, states that the government "shall give highest priority to eliminat[ing] trafficking in persons." Anyone found guilty of actively recruiting women for prostitution gets an automatic 20 years in prison and a fine of at least 1 million pesos ($23,000); anyone who leases space to be used wittingly for prostitution gets 15 years and a 500,000 peso fine; and anyone who has anything to do with children is sentenced to life imprisonment.  Despite these laws, the sex industry is thriving. In 2009, there were an estimated 800,000 women working as prostitutes in the Philippines, and they are available through myriad avenues: bars, brothels, karaoke clubs, escort services, massage parlors, and on the street. Their main supporters are businessmen, usually of East Asian and Western origins.

On a Sunday night a couple days after I arrived, I walked outside to find some food. Because of a recent cell phone purchase, I was down to my last 111 pesos, or U.S. $2.64.

I see a woman in tight jeans standing on the side of the street. I wonder what she's doing here -- she doesn't look like a prostitute. Then she turns around and we make eye contact. She walks up to me and raises her eyebrows. I shake my head and turn away. Across the street, there are 2 other women in more traditional outfits: tight, short, shimmering dresses.

"Hey mister!" they yell. I want to talk to them, tell them I'm looking for food (and not pussy), but keep walking instead.

Manila's red light district feels safe. There's a perpetual traffic jam along Makati Avenue, and on my block, there are seven 24-hour fast food restaurants. There are also three bank branches, each with a guard carrying a machine gun in front of its doors. I am one of dozens outside on the broken sidewalk.

I walk past the Pussycat club and a tall woman who says, "Hi sir. Sex?" before I reach the McDonalds. In our borough of Manila, called Makati (like the street), there are 19 McDonalds. This is one of the nine that are open 24/7. Unlike China, Mickey Ds here is not a sign of bourgeois refinement. Waiting in line is a fat white male wearing a shirt that spells out "Philippines" in red and green over three lines of text, and a diminutive Chilean wearing perfectly square glasses. There's a Filipina woman with long permed hair sitting by herself on a stool, but it's not clear which man she's with.

I order a chicken sandwich, mainly because there's a huge advertisement on the wall for them. It costs exactly 110 pesos. The cashier thumbs through the change before handing back one peso. I put it in my pocket. The order is ready in 30 seconds. I am famished, so I start putting fries in my mouth.

On my return trip to the hotel, the very first woman approaches me again. There's no non-verbal communication this time. She asks, "Massage. Sex?" I shake my head and walk back to the hotel.

Part 2: The economics of prostitution

The women of the Philippines, on average, earn about half as much as their male counterparts. In a country where the GDP per capita is around $1,700, and where 40 million Filipinos are earning less than $2 a day, the gender disparity can be lethal. Prostitution is often the best -- and sometimes, only -- way by which a girl, without any other economic opportunities, can help support her family. "Often, the eldest child in a family is told, 'You should go to the city and find a job, wink wink,'" my co-worker tells me. "The family knows how horrible it is, but they'll send them off anyway."

My first Friday night in Manila

Friday, September 9^th, 2011

4:25 a.m.

Manila, Friday night.

Nothing egregious occurred – this was not The Hangover, Part 2 – the night's excerpts, rolled with cigarettes, cocaine, strangers, and a sweaty club, and a grander, more becoming narrative emerges. Namely, that Manila is wack.

I understand I have two types of readers, so there are two synopses. The first one is very short. The second one is very long. Both, I think, are case studies for Manila.

The short:

Meet 2 guys in the red-light district. Get into their unmarked SUV. Listen to one guy brag about getting “33, 28 not paid,” in 6 months. Arrive at ex-pat party at posh hotel in banking district. Meet white male model paid 50,000 pesos a day to shoot commercials. Smoke my first cigarette. Watch others snort cocaine from a door key. Drive to Palladium. Dance.

The long:

It is 4:33 a.m., and not only am I extremely hyper, but my shirt is putrid with sweat and cigarette smoke. I am in no state to sleep, at least for two hours. Which is good, because now I'll have time to write “Peter’s stream of conscious Friday night post,” which might become as consistent as the link dump on Sundays.

The conditions were miserable during work – charcoal sky, blurry rain, ignominious thunder. Thankfully by the time I walked home, Mother Nature had stopped her annual rainy-season assault, so I took a detour and stopped by the grocery store to pick up a 30-slice loaf of bread and two cartons of eggs for $5. I found my apartment today – middle of the red-light district, a fully furnished studio with queen sized bed, kitchen, dining table, and couch for $428 a month. I cooked 5 eggs despite the stove being completely uncooperative. Then I took a 2 hour nap.

I wake up at 9:25 p.m. to text the guy I’m supposed to go out with, a friend of a friend. Here are the next three texts I receive from him, verbatim:

1. Soeryt man some BCG kids took us out. If you come to “ fort” I’ll find you. won’t tell wll them tou wuk worke for.

2. Sorry man,…My bad man I drank too much should have told you

3. Really sorry man…For sure. My fault, got too drunk

The night is not being cooperative. I’m a man without a plan, and so I do what I know best: I start wandering around the red-light district. I shoo away requests for massages, and my legs walk by back to the hostel I stayed at yesterday. I enter a conversation with a Japanese man, 36-years-old, with a sagging pot belly, crooked lower teeth, and a nasty cigarette habit. He tells me he’s also from San Francisco and that he’s starting a restaurant here backed by some Canadians. When I tell him I’ve only been here 6 days, he gives me three pieces of advice: (a) don’t trust nice foreigners -- he lent 30,000 pesos to an American “friend” who took off on a jet plane; (b) to be aggressive with Filipinas because they’re naturally shy; and (c) watch out for groups of 3 men who will approach from my peripheral vision and steal my laptop out of my backpack. He grabs my number, then tells me to wait while he grabs some more cigarettes. I wait 10 minutes, realize I don't want to wait anymore, and leave.

Before he left, he gave me the name of three bars, so I walk towards one of them. When I have walked 2 blocks down the red-light district, past a bar advertising midget wrestling, I have a vision of myself being kidnapped in an unmarked van and taken into the slums for further debasement. So I walk back to the hotel, and on the way, I overhear two people having a conversation in English. Oh my god! I have to go talk to them.

They’re an eclectic pair: the ringleader is a graduate of the Asian Institute of Management; he is squat, with a shaved head and strong, black eyebrows. He's been here for 4.5 years; I can’t tell if he’s chubby or ripped. The second one is a bean sprout, pale white, with a bushy red Paul-Bunyan beard and mustache. We’ll call the squat one Fred, and the tall one Reed. I tell them I’m new and within a minute they invite me to an ex-pat party in Salcedo Village, home of Manila's investment bankers. I summon all the powers of my psychology degree and come to the conclusion that they won’t rob or kill me, and so walk with them to their car.

It’s a large and in charge Toyota SUV. I hop into the back seat, mentally noting where the lock is so that I can make a quick getaway if things turn ugly. My thoughts are interrupted when the two start talking about women.

“Before I arrived, I’d slept with 12 women. In six months, I’ve done 33, 28 of them not paid,” Reed said. “It’s so easy: go to a club, like Embassy or Republic, look around, and when someone makes eye contact with you, go up to them and say hi. Ask them if you can buy them a drink. Then what I do is ask them if they’re hungry. Back at my place, I open a bottle of wine, sit on the couch, and because it’s so tiny we’re already rubbing up against each other. The rest…you know.”

Fred chimes in. “That’s for the regular bars. The girly bars – once you walk in, someone immediately comes up to you and starts talking to you. Drinks are 70 pesos for you, 300 for the girl. So you buy her a drink – she gets 1/4^th of the cost – and usually she starts rubbing your cock, right there. There are private rooms if you want more. These places, you don’t even have to pay.”

“I have 4 girls who I can call up right now if I wanted some,” Fred continues. “Get another cell phone, just to deal with those calls. Like the taxi drivers here, one phone for their wives, one for their girlfriends.” Reed adds: “I have 7 women right now. Just got some on Tuesday. I look at white girls like men now.”

The apartment on the 28^th floor of Salcedo’s deluxe hotel is decorated with serious African statues, Impressionist paintings, and furry furniture. In the kitchen, there are 25 different brands of liquor.  For the first time in Manila, I am back in America. Many of the patrons are tall, blonde-haired blue-eyed men and women. I'd almost had forgotten what they had looked like. In the next hour, I talk to a girl from Barcelona who is an international journalist, a real estate developer who seals deals in clubs; and a 31-year-old Filipina who is generously insecure. I frequently find myself revolving around the alpha male of the party: a 30-ish male model who says things like, “Thank you, Papa Jesus,” and “Can you believe I get paid 50,000 pesos a day to shoot a commercial?” He is loud, proud, and, as everyone around me acknowledges, has more “poon” than he knows what to do with.

“I’m never leaving the Philippines,” Reed tells me, already tipsy. “The most beautiful women in the world. And everyone’s so friendly here. Back home in New Zealand, nobody gives you a second glance.”

When the party starts to molder, I strike it up with Reed and another New Zealander, Glen. They decide to take a smoke; I come with them. In the stairwell, Glen takes out a pack of cigarettes and hands me one. Within 3 seconds, he's lighting me up, and I feel absolutely compelled to take a puff. Too bad I barely know how to hold one or the proper way to puff. After a minute and 2 (thankfully) unsuccessful puffs, Glen says, “You’ve never done this before, have you. Stronger!” in a slightly derisive tone. I, being caught between these two faux-friends and an imperative, breathe in harder, and feel the nicotine sailing down my lungs. I let out smoke from my mouth in a sloppy cloud. I take 3 more puffs before I put it down. What’s horrible is that it almost feels too normal: I can taste the cigarette’s airy, slightly dusty tinge, feel a heat in the back of my throat, and recognize that the feeling isn’t unpleasant. “First time. You’re going to be throwing up in a minute,” Glen remarks. My stomach starts to feel queasy, in waves, but I do not reach the tipping point.

5 minutes later, they are doing cocaine. Reed takes out a bag the size of a thimble, and, using a key, balances a tiny amount on the jagged tip. He raises the key to his left nostril and sucks upwards, jerking his head once, then twice, to send the powder soaring up into his bloodstream like a vacuum sucking up dust. Glen does the same, and in ten minutes, they have taken 10 snorts. I just watch. They don't go crazy; instead, they keep having a normal conversation.

Reed tells me, “We in New Zealand have incredible way of smoking pot. You take two sizzling hot knives, put a bit of pot on one knife, then press down with the other knife, like you’re making a pot sandwich. Cut a coke can in two, put the pot underneath, and smoke it through the opening.”

The next half hour, both of them talk about cheap pot in Manila, purple pot is in California, how Fiji is in every sense nicer than the Philippines, playing rugby and breaking rib bones, the indigenous Māori people and their legendary belligerence, and how Australia used to be British convicts and New Zealand the home of the mentally unstable.

“I love New Zealand. You have a US flag on your suitcase, there are countries that won’t let you in. New Zealand flag? Completely neutral. You know what our role was in WWII? The Germans took a sub off our coast, landed, bought some bread and eggs, and left. We’re like the Switzerland of the Pacific,” Glen says. “God, I am so spastic right now!” He gives me a fist pound. Then he talks about how his mum won’t visit him from Paris, even though he hasn’t seen her in two years. “She’ll never slum it in a third-world country,” he says. “And she’s always asking, ‘your half-Filipina girlfriend, does she have a British passport?’”

We got back into the lobby, where a schizophrenic German (I learn later, is the Asia director for a major, major world airline) shows me a video of a Filipina and says, “She’s 18. And she’s into me. She is so hot. I’d tap that. I’m going to.” She’s not that attractive.

We get back into the car and drive to Palladium. Because we know “Jameer,” the 500 peso cover charge is waived. On the raised platform in the middle of the club, there are two girls, one Asian and one European, clearly tourists, who are showing off everything (everything) for the 100+ beta males gathered around watching in a semicircle. On the dance floor, women are dancing while pathetic looking men perform weak circumlocutions. Regular clubs in Manila are as competitive as the ones in the states; but here, in a club for washed up omega males who've come halfway around the globe just to get some, the unease is nearly palpable. 

The three I came with sit down on a sofa and start texting, and within 30 minutes three former prostitutes show up. The group spends the next two hours sitting together texting into their phones.

"I really hope I don't have coke dick," Reed tells me. "I had it once before and it was so embarrassing. I couldn't get it up for an hour."

Instead of sitting on the couch, drink protecting my chest, I decide to dance. There’s a small girl in a red dress who keeps on telling me, “I’m too boring; see, I told you I was boring!”; another small girl in a red dress who is ridiculously aggressive (worse than you think); a Filipina who knows all the words to Mike Posner’s “Please Don’t Go”; a pouty-looking girl in a slinky green dress who quickly latches onto a Caucasian dude; and a Latina who tells me she’s been to Colorado. I get blown out by a group of five Koreans who they look at me as if radioactive material was dripping off my shirt cuffs. Towards the end of the night, I get one number.

When we leave, I look back to the stage, where all the males are still gathered, and recognize the tall, anorexic girl from the ex-pat party.

In the car on the way back, Reed, Fred, and the German lament how their girls left them, because they were propositioned by other males who would actually pay for their services. To make themselves feel better, they start recounting stories of picking up women on the street at night, by driving up and asking if they wanted to come home with them.

"You should get on this social networking site called Tagged," Reed tells me. I met the hottest Filipina there, and dated her for three months. She wasn't right for me, though, so I let her go." They tell me that they do this four times a week, at least, even if it means their bosses sending them home from work for being hung over. "How can you not love it here?" 

With the night nearly over, I’m tempted to ask, “What do you guys think about that's not women?" but I think I already know the answer. When they drop me off, they say, “Hey, welcome to Manila!”  

P.S. It's 5:40 a.m. now, and it's light outside. Time to try for some shut-eye.

Public transportation in Los Angeles

At 10 p.m. at the Coffee Bean in Orange, California (20 minutes away from Disneyland), there is exactly one public transportation option if you want to return to downtown Los Angeles: take the 50 Bus 21 stops to Katella-Clementine, right outside the Disneyland entrance; wait 3 hours and 10 minutes for the 460 Bus; ride the 460 bus 60 stops; then take the 28 Bus 51 stops. 5 hours and 46 minutes later, you'll have arrived.

Tonight, I attempted this ambitious (stupid) journey.

I had a literary-foreshadowing of the night to come when I stubbed my toe, hard, leaving the Coffee Bean. I ignored this God-given sign and paid $1.50 for the bus. In the middle of the trip, I jumped off abruptly: my bladder was about the burst. After I relieved myself at a Shell station (the Indian owner gave me a dirty look because I didn't buy anything) I waited 40 minutes for the next bus.

After paying another $1.50, I sat down. The next stop, a drunk biker wearing a Redskins cap sat down next to me. 

"Deported...deported...You should be deported. I'm an American. This is my country. You motherf***ing illegal immigrants," he said -- not to me -- but to two Latina ladies sitting across from us. One of them started blinking back tears. At the next stop, the bus driver walked off the train and arrived 15 minutes later with a police office. Redskins cap at that point realized the trouble he's in, and rode off into the night on his bike, completely drunk. After 7 more stops into increasingly less well-lit territory, I asked the driver if Clementine Street was coming up. He told me we passed it 7 stops ago.

I called Kevin (my savior tonight) and asked him to redirect me. He patiently broke down Google Map directions on the phone. I had a new route – and new hope. When I got off the 50 bus line, the bus driver's last words were, "Be sure you don't fall asleep around here." 

On the 94 bus, I told the driver I was going to Long Beach Boulevard to wait for the 2:54 a.m. bus. "Oh no no no. You can't wait two hours there," he said. Then he visibly shuddered. "Take a taxi. If you care about your life." At this point, I'm a little worried. Even if I do reach downtown LA, I would be in downtown LA. At 4 a.m. I called the cab company.

 "Hi, can I get a taxi to Ocean and Pine?"

"Are you calling from a business or a residence?" the operator asked.

"Um, I guess a residence? I'm on a bus right now."

"Do you have a location?"

"No, I'm on a bus."

"We can't pick you up unless you give us a physical address, sorry. Call us when you get there." Click.

Thankfully, when I got off, there were taxis parked one block away. I leaned into the window of the second one. "Hi, I'm going to Santa Monica. How much is it?"

"This is a guess, but $120. Tell you what, though, whatever the meter ends up at, I'll give you a 10% discount."

At this point, I see slightly menacing people walking on the other side of the street, and I think they’re looking at me. Then I realize that, also across the street – I shit you not – there is a restaurant whose name is Rock Bottom Restaurant and Brewery. (F & M bank – otherwise construed as Eff Me Bank, is also close.) I need to get out of here. "How much is it to Anaheim?"

"Probably around $60. But listen, I'll give you a good deal."

At this point, I weigh my options: either I pay $60 and wait 3 hours at the train station, pay $120 to get back to LA proper, or walk around on the streets thumbing my rosary beads. There's no placing a value on my life, but I can’t swallow paying $60 to go backwards. There has to be a better way. I see a hotel behind me.

The lobby of the Renaissance hotel is flanked by two imposing wooden beams gilded with silver. The rug (I learn later) has been stepped on by Adrian Brody, Bill Gates, Bill Gates' bomb-squad security, Goldie Hawn, Tito Lopez from UFC, and Tito's girlfriend, Jenna Jameson. I ask the concierge how much a night here is. It's $169. I ask if I can make a call in the lounge area. She tells me the lounge is off-limits.

She does, however, let me use the computer. Hotels.com -- apparently, I can book a $60 ticket somewhere close for tomorrow night, then show up tonight and say I made a mistake booking. I start looking. There are no $60 tickets. There are, however, $179 and $219 tickets. I call Kevin again. I think, briefly, about hiding in the hotel's parking structure until daybreak arrives.

It is then the security guard approaches me. This is it, I think. Back to the curb. "You can sit here in the lobby until 5 a.m., when the metro starts to run,” she says. “You don't look like a bum (and you seem nice), so you can stay here. I'll bring you tea, ok?"

God’s benevolent hand had reached out and brushed off my shoulders. Either that, or it’s my yellow shoes. I’m so glad I wore them for this trip. I proceed to stop looking up hotels and check my email.

From 1:20 a.m. to 5 a.m., I stave off my growing sleepiness by talking to the concierge. We cover how I can be a bit actor in a commercial, student film, TV show, or movie; why she dumped her "stupid-ass" girlfriend for being a hypocrite; her 70% discount at Marriotts around the country and how, after working 25 years, she can stay at any Marriott for free; and the floor plans for the Presidential suite.

In the gaudy, mismatched, expensive-furniture lobby, I write this entry. And check my email. Around 4 a.m., the concierge brings me Starbucks tea, a silver spoon, 4 honey containers and 4 sugar bags. 15 minutes later, the security guard brings me 2 croissants. Am I in heaven? At 5 a.m, I use the bathroom. The stalls are made of wood the color of stallions. The sinks are turquoise-cracked-blue. I run to the subway, where I buy a ticket. It’s $1.50.

During my multiple (what else) transfers, the Tandem Talent Production duo befriends me, gives me directions, and teaches me a thing or two about Santa Fe. On the Santa Monica 704 bus, there are 120 people, and 8 are not Latino. 

I arrive at 1901 Avenue of the Stars at 7:45 a.m., only 4 hours late.

The horror, the horror: Commuting from New Haven to New York

Every day between June 6^th to June 17^th, I commuted from New Haven to New York. Nobody should ever have to endure the pain I did. Here is my story.

The week after graduation, I’m crashing with Daniel Ayele; I’m a mendicant with a suitcase of clothes and twice as many books. My summer plans are in flux (read: I have no idea), so I spend my days waking up at 2:30pm, eating at Booktrader, playing Bubble Trouble with Zach, thinking about inner confidence, and watching the NBA finals in the basement of Pierson.

Fast forward a week: I’m crashing at Warren’s sublet, a beautiful apartment stocked with a guitar and vocabulary flashcards, and I hear back from Abrams Books – yes, they’re willing to hire me, can I start on Monday? I sign up for housing at a college dorm. Problem is, I can’t move in until 2 weeks after my internship starts. So to bridge the gap, I go online to Craigslist and let subletters know I’m up for grabs. I even use Padmapper, that’s how serious I am. Nobody responds positively. So on Sunday night at 1am, I’m still in New Haven, when I have to be in New York on 18^th and 6^th Ave in 7 hours.

The first train ride isn’t so bad: I’m brimming with adrenaline, ready for my first day of work, and proceed to conquer the day. On the train ride back, I fall asleep, and come back home rested.

The second day is when it gets ugly. The routine for the next 9 days looks like this: wake up to alarm at 6:20 a.m. Dress and pack and preen in 10 minutes. Run to train station by 6:37 a.m. Board train with 2 minutes to spare. Find a window seat. Prop my backpack between myself and the window and lean my head against backpack. Prep myself for wave of sleep that will inevitably hit after my heart has stopped beating because of mad dash to station. Give conductor my ticket. Fall asleep, and wake up when train arrives.

Simple, right? The only problem is that I felt like crap the entire way. The 6:20 wake-up call left me soporific. Leaving the apartment without eating anything left a gnawing feeling in my stomach part physiological and part psychological: I was hungry, and felt hungrier knowing I wouldn’t be eating until 8:45 a.m. Running to the train station in business casual was discomfiting and uncomfortable, not to mention sweaty. Sleeping on the train was awkward, especially considering that every seat gets taken. I needed to stretch my legs underneath the seat in front of me, and would inevitably play footsie with a 45-year old investment banker. There was nothing to prop my head on except for the vibrating window panel, so I used my hand instead, which is too untrustworthy to serve as a pillow. I would squeeze my hands between my thighs because it was so cold, which made it look as if I needed to pee really badly. When I woke up, I had a dry, desiccated, scratchy feeling in the back of my throat.

I want to say there were positives: that it felt great waking up so early; that I met some interesting people on the train rides; that the experience made me appreciate how close everything at Yale was (20 minutes to the top of Science Hill? No problem!) But that would be lying. Mostly, I spent the first two weeks while on the commute feeling like my brain was wrapped up in gauze, pathetically thinking to myself that I just needed to make it through these first two weeks before I could really start living. When I returned to New Haven, I’d discover (ironically) a second wind of energy and end up staying up until 1 a.m., or, on one night, setting up this blog, until 4 a.m. And I’d have to wake up at 6:20 a.m., regardless.

I never did end up finding a sublet. I found a promising lead, except that the guy was slightly crazy. And I don’t think I was ready, at least mentally, to move to New York eiher. As for the commute, I ended up adjusting. I realized that I didn’t have to sprint-stop-sprint-stop to the train station; a steady, slow jog the entire way would do. I un-tucked my shirt while jogging, realizing I could tuck it back in before I got to work. I realized that the front car of the train, which is always closest to the platform entrance, was always absurdly empty (maybe because everyone always assumes it already filled up!). Sleep onset became instantaneous, and my dreams were always on the waking surface of my brain, playing themselves out, so that I could remember everything afterwards. Finally, I developed the uncanny habit of waking up right as the doors opened to let everyone out at Grand Central.

Small victories, of course. I was losing the war: the commute to work took from 6:20 a.m to 8:45 a.m., and the commute back was 5:45 p.m. to 8:15 p.m. Once, I was riding one of those new Metro-North trains, the brakes failed, so we had to de-train and wait an hour for a new one. That day, my commute was 6 hours and 10 minutes, work was 8 hours and 45 minutes, and sleep was 5 hours and 30 minutes; I had 3 hours and 35 minutes for myself.

Needless to say, no matter how much I loved living at Yale, I was stoked to move to New York. My commute is a measly 12 minutes each way. Of course, now that I’ve been here for exactly a week, a different set of concerns have cropped up (for example, today I woke up at 3:14 p.m., and never left my room). But that’s a story for another day.