Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

I hated New York City with as strong a passion as one can produce without having gone to the location itself. I hated its popularity among people who were proving themselves in the world, I hated it for being so trafficked and chaotic when I’d rather be driving backroads with my own as the only headlights for miles. I like the solitude that the country brings me, and solitude is not what I’d ever thought of as New York City.  But when one decides to broaden their experiences and actually stop jumping to assumptions the truth is uncovered.

I was chomping at the bit to visit a friend from college who’s interning in the Big Apple and once I found out that it was a cheap ticket into the city I stopped dragging my heels and bought that sucker. Now let’s just say that I felt like I had earned an extremely large amount of money this summer, and looking back in retrospect it apparently wasn’t that much moolah. Buying a car will do that to you I guess. So, after discovering this beautiful thing called the Fung Wah bus line from Boston to New York was only $15 dollars each way I couldn’t believe my luck. It didn’t matter that both my dad and stepdad both knew of multiple deaths attributed to this bus line spanning it’s existence. Apparently, the fare doesn’t even cover gas, let alone mechanical improvements on the buses themselves. And the bus drivers are notorious for leaning half out the window while in motion because they aren’t allowed to smoke aboard. Let’s just say that when I boarded the bus I got worried that there were barf bags in each row.

The ride down to New York was fitful and the guy sitting next to me was slightly sketchy. He spoke Russian loudly into his cell phone and  I kept catching random words. Thank you Russian school. Anyway, the fact that he was Russian wasn’t sketchy, but more so the fact that I watched him decimate an entire loaf of bread and some wet oatmeal smelling sandwich. I repeat. An entire loaf of bread AND a sandwich. His fingernails were also exceptionally long and gross. And generally I’m not one to notice shit like that.

I woke up from my nap just as we were crossing the bridge into New York City. The buildings on the side of the bridge must have been condos and they towered far higher than any building I’d ever seen. They looked like half cogs, like the parts that fill machinery and make them tick, gears grinding and churning out new machines. I liked the look of them interestingly enough. I liked those cog condos although I would never step foot in one. They reminded me of the production New York was known for, way back in the day when it was still known as New Amsterdam and immigrants would pass through seeking the American dream. There’s nothing like history to shape our current understandings.