travel writing

Travel Writing
I woke up from sleep with drool on my cheek and patterned red lines across my face from the backpack I was using as a pillow. A steel toe kicked the sole of my uggs. I was startled to see a man in a uniform standing over me. He asked me for identification. It was five or so in the morning and I was sound asleep on the cold tile floor of the Minneapolis bus station. I was in utter disarray. I had been traveling for twenty hours. My hair: a raspberry bush. My scent: unpleasant. I fumbled in my pocket for my driver’s liscense. I was confused and irritated. I had been dreaming and this strange man woke me up from the first good sleep I had had in days. His calloused fingers brushed my hand when he handed me my ID. He looked at my face and back to the plastic card. We were utterly scrutinized. Without further interrogation he let me fall back to dreams. I didn’t fight his silence and quickly fell back asleep.
The second alarm was more startling. A voice boomed, and asked me for my driversliscense. I woke to another uniform. This time it was a police officer instead of security gaurd. I was pissed. I had just fallen back to sleep and my next bus didn’t leave for another 3 hours.
“Yes.” I said flatly.
I asked why I had been rousted. There was no sign saying “stay off the tile”. There was no indication that sleepy travelers did not belong on this patch of cold tile.
“I apologize miss. You match the description of a runaway.”
Just to clarify I asked if it was alright if I slept there. I was offended that I matched the description of a runaway 16 year old. Did I really look like a pissed off teenager? I certainly felt like one.
The night before, I had a four hour layover in Milwaukee at 12 in the morning. I was perplexed at how many people were in this station, and the variety. Traveling out of Bemidji, I was excited to remember the beautiful faces of urban humanity. I was out of place in my wool skull cap and ugg boots. I liked it but was uncomfortable. I was going to meet an old friend for appetizers and a beer during this interim. It was strange to see him. His body was still lanky, his hair a little longer and face a little thinner. He was still beautiful, but utterly off limits. Not only was he my best friend’s ex, he also had developed a few too many rockstar habits for me to be remotely interested in anything other than his washboard abs and ability to write music. We were not the same. Our visit was alien. So many times we had sat on the beach in Fish Creek and watched the sun go down and stars come out. So many times, I had braided his curls with my best friends as we dug our toes into the sand. So many times we drank too much beer and ended up naked running through the snow. Why was it so different now? I blame the place.
We walked back from a sports bar with my giant backpack strapped to my body. I struggled with it. I felt like a hermit crab that had over estimated its ability. He sat with me for a few minutes. It was good to see him, and there was a level of intimacy that slowly was remembered. I did love him. As a brother. As a companion from my past. We had shared so many experiences. Blunts. Booze. Coffee. Northern Lights. Laughs. A few tears.
Sitting with him was a welcomed relief from the place I had found myself before he arrived. I had been sitting in a chair with a voluptuous southern woman in front of me. A Tibetan Monk in orange garb to my right and a crack head to my left that kept asking me for money. This was my first experience with Greyhound travel. It is exciting every time.
This trip, like many was to visit my grandmother on lake Michigan.