Americans get criticized for their limited knowledge of world geography, and rightfully so. The average American, when asked to find the capitol of Europe, will point to France. This is, of course, a gross mistake. The capitol of Europe is Germany, which is located directly west of Czechoslovakia.
Why such epic geographical failure? One major issue is that, without a car, traveling to international airports can be an expensive logistic nightmare if you are not from a US state named New York or California. The United States gives public transportation the same priority as cleaning toilets, since using it means having to share personal space with strangers of questionable psychological stability, legal status and body odor. There are not many options for public transportation in major cities, and choices become non-existent when you live in the middle of nowhere, like me.
I grew up in Alton, Illinois, a redneck and ghetto river town which is located close to absolutely nothing. A one hour drive will get me to St. Louis Lambert International Airport. St. Louis is a notable city, but it is not quite an international travel destination, which means there's few affordable flight options for leaving the North American continent. The next closet option: an incredibly boring, cornfield-and-cow filled drive 5 hours north to Chicago O'Hare International Airport. After years of desperately trying to leave the Midwest, I've discovered that even after adding transportation costs -be they gas, train or bus- flying out of Chicago is often still cheaper than leaving from nearby St. Louis.
This is my second attempt at trying to achieve permanent employment on the European continent. I hope to get something better than the low income, soul-sucking work of a generic English-As-A-Foreign-Language teacher. This job works fine when you are young, hopeful and speak English by possessing the highly-trained skill of being born in the USA, England or Canada. After a few years of teaching English abroad; however, you realize that you are simply a trained monkey with a "Native Speaker" sign on your head whose principal purpose is explaining your countries' pop culture references (which you hate) to your students. Please, non-Americanos, no one says, "How YOU doin?" anymore...
Notice I did not mention Ireland, Scotland, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa. I have yet to actually understand what people from these countries are saying to me, other than "Fuck off, Yank."
Amtrak is the USA's only national passenger train line, and it appears to survive solely on dwindling government subsidies. My city's lone Amtrak train station has infrequent trains to Chicago. I considered the megacheap Megabus, but they only have nonstop lines direct from downtown St. Louis.
With my flight already confirmed, I booked an Amtrak train a few days ahead of my departure. I was dismayed to find out that my train was...a bus. There is one train line to Chicago, and it was under "unexpected" repairs. The bus was from Greyhound, which only made the situation worse. Remember in all dog races there is only one winner; Greyhound is not that dog. I had the option to take the bus to Joilet, a city approximately an hour south of Chicago, and transfer to the train there. But this was more than twice as expensive and required waiting in Joilet for an additional 2 hours.
With my flight already confirmed, I booked an Amtrak train a few days ahead of my departure. I was dismayed to find out that my train was...a bus. There is one train line to Chicago, and it was under "unexpected" repairs. The bus was from Greyhound, which only made the situation worse. Remember in all dog races there is only one winner; Greyhound is not that dog. I had the option to take the bus to Joilet, a city approximately an hour south of Chicago, and transfer to the train there. But this was more than twice as expensive and required waiting in Joilet for an additional 2 hours.
Why pay someone $500 to punch you in the face, when you can get the same thing by paying $10 to enter a club and call the bouncer's mother a slut??
Taking public buses and trains long distance through America allows you to see interesting small towns where the city center is the local Walmart™®©☹ and farm equipment is the principle form of artistic expression. I planned to sleep the entire 5 hour trip. I stowed my large backpack and guitar in the luggage compartment below and took my small bag with me on the bus. This bag easily allows me to access my toiletries, books, music, porn, etc..., but more importantly, I can place on it the seat next to me so I can avoid sharing personal space with other, often foul-smelling, people.
This technique works as long as the bus or train doesn't fill up completely. Whenever we approach a stop, I place my bag on the adjacent seat and pretend to be asleep. Most people are more polite than I am, and find another empty seat so that they don't disturb my slumber. On my Alton-Chicago bus trip, this technique proved to be a wise choice. At the first stop in Lincoln, a large cowish black lady weighing in at around 300 pounds entered the bus and lumbered her way down the aisle while apologizing to the smaller passengers who were fleeing from her path.
I silently prayed to myself. After staring at my bag for a minute, she squeezed into the seat behind me. When the bus started up again, she started a loud conversation with someone on her phone:
"You're starting high school today? Where you going...Lincoln High? Yeah, I used to go there myself. It's gone downhill, really... Yeah, yeah, lots of black people going there now."
She continued talking about how black people were fucking up the educational system, until she -saint that she was- gave up her seat to a Hispanic mother and her son. I would have preferred she stay there bellowing on the phone. Within minutes the little kid began to kick my seat from behind and laugh like it was the best entertainment in the world. Her mother was yelling in Spanish on her phone, but switched to English in a vain attempt to make her niño stop being an annoying little prick:
Mama: "Vamos a estar in Chicago...Stop kicking the seat! Vamos a llegar muy pronto, no se como...stop kicking the seat!
Kid: "Hahahahahaha, whatever, Mom."
Mama: Si, claro claro....I told you. OK, leave the nice man alone. Disculpe, vamos como a las 10...I told you STOPKICKINGNOW! NOW NOW DAMMIT!"
I would be unhappy, but a Latina chick could be telling me she's putting a restraining order on me and I would still be horny. This is why I studied Spanish.
The bus stopped in Champaign-Urbana, home of the University of Illinois, one of the few towns on the way with a collective IQ above 100. However no sexy college girls get on the bus, because any attractive, well-dressed college girls already have their own car that daddy has paid for, along with their education and allowance they spend on drinking Jager Bombs, having sex with random frat boys and buying the latest smartphone for #omg #selfie #wishyouwereme Instagram pics. Instead the bus fills up with Asian exchange students, black inner-city Chicago guys and trailer park white trash. One of these inbreed country Mongoloids taps me on the shoulder: "Excuse me, sir, may I sit down?"
I tell him yes, and quickly avoid a boring conversation by pulling out my Samsung Galaxy to check my flight information and search Chicago hotels. He in turns pulls out his iPhone and instantly gets engrossed in the latest version of "Super Fucking Really Angry Birds." Although we don't talk, he communicates with me by emitting a potent odor of cigarette smoke, marijuana and bacon cheeseburgers. My eyes start to water.
He stares at his iPhone. I stare at my Galaxy, and through the tears, finally booked a night at a cheap hotel in Rosemont where O'hare International Airport is located. A quick look around the bus reminds me that I haven't left the USA; everyone is staring at their smartphones. This is now a bus full of college guys. Every phone screen has the familiar blue text, pop-up photo of some duck-facing college girl they are Facebook stalking.
The bus is silent, and after 20 minutes my nose is relieved when the country Mongoloid gets off the bus. I enjoy the smartphone-induced silence and the fresh air.
It doesn't last long. A ripple of noise begins from the back of the bus: "Uhhhh" "Awww man...." "Oh God!" It slowly grows, and suddenly one of the Asian students behind me yells: "OHMYGOD! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!?!" A smell far worse than Mongoloid Boy hits my face. I start coughing, then scream: "THAT SMELLS HORRIBLE! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?" The guys around me start laughing between coughing spasms and shouts of: "HORRIBLE, WHAT DIED UP YOUR ASS, FUCK DUDE!" We all share glances with each other, bonding for a moment in unity over the silent but incredibly noxious fart that no one will claim.
The fart clears eventually and the bus is silent again. I figure it's time to listen to some music, but realize my headphones are in my big backpack, which is stored only 10 feet under my ass, but a world away. I decide to read. From years of living in Latin America, I now loathe people who don't bring headphones on public transportation and prefer to loudly share the latest Pitbull single ("Bon Bon Loca Culo Dale") on their phone with the other 50 people they are riding with on the bus.
One of these idiots is two seats in front of me. The lyrics aren't clear, but the tish-tishatish high-hat beat marks it as rap music of the Dirty South persuasion. The producer decided to use a particular keyboard sound which beeps at the same frequency as a hospital heart monitor for a patient in the final stages of terminal illness. Unfortunately, this particular patient never dies. It continues beeping for an infinite amount of time while the passenger occasionally repeats the lyrics.
"Beep...beep, beep (bitch I told ya...) Beep...beep, beep (you know I get money...) Beep (Uh, Uh, Yeah, out on these streets daaaily...) beep, beep...(bitch...) Beep...
Flatline, please. My teeth start grinding, and continue until the songs stops approximately 10.78 hours later. The wannabee rapper gets off in Summit, a town which in my 30 years in Illinois I have never heard of. Looking out the window, I realize why.
When I reach the Chicago city limits, to my left I see the soaring Sears Tower illuminated in the night sky, and to my right an equally illuminated billboard reminding me:
WOW, YOUR WIFE IS HOT!!
Time for you to change your air conditioner.
Four Seasons Heating & Air Conditioner
Chicago, with a population of over 2.75 million, is the United States 3rd largest city. Union Station is in the heart of downtown, and arriving there at 10pm at night after being in a small town for several months is overwhelming. To get from Union Station to Chicago O'Hare International Airport, I have to walk to Clinton Street to take the Metro Blue Line. Clinton Street is only 2 blocks away, but the underground station is spread out under about 8 city blocks which have 4 different exits. I, true to form, chose the one farthest from the Blue Line station.
Unlike in foreign countries, I can speak English here, so I should have no problem asking someone for directions, right? I didn't have to ask, because once I stepped on the sidewalk, several homeless men approached me to kindly offer their help. I waved them away and asked a security guard for Clinton Street and the Blue Line. He directed me back inside the station, where I questioned a well-informed Amtrak employee. Her eyes searched the ceiling. After a long minute, she sent me to the same exit where I had just entered. When the security guard saw me leaving again, he shrugged his shoulders and walked away. The Chicago winter suddenly felt very cold.
One of the more persistent homeless men saw his chance. "Hey man, What you looking for?" I told him the Blue Line, and he motioned me to follow. I was too tired to argue, so I went with him, knowing where it would lead. After walking a brief two blocks to the station, he began telling me, "Hey man, hey man, you know I'm out on the streets, the economy's not so good, it's cold and..."
I threw him a dollar fifty-three to make him shut up. Enjoy that malt liquor, homeless man.
The Metro Blue Line clanked along for 30 minutes to the Rosemont station. It was full of weird people, but at 11pm at night they were all sleeping. At the station I grabbed a taxi from a man whose grasp of the English language was slim to say the most. He did say I chose ("you chooose") a good hotel. His name was Al-Sayyadd Malhalabaladurkala, and I suspected he had relatives who worked at the hotel where I was staying.
In fact, the hotel staff was from Pakistan, but I doubt they were terrorists. They checked me in with a minimum amount of "Excuse me's?" It was a challenging day, and I went to a nearby hotel bar to get my final taste of American microbrews. After too many beers, and ouzo shots courtesy of the Greek bartender, I passed out thankful for having survived a day of American public transportation.
USA Interstate Public Transporation:
1. Amtrak Railways
2. Greyhound Buslines
3. Megabus Buslines
USA Interstate Public Transporation:
1. Amtrak Railways
2. Greyhound Buslines
3. Megabus Buslines
