The first leg of the trip ended in Pinetops, North Carolina (see if you can find it on a map) a day late due to that pesky tire blowout on the Interstate; not a big inconvenience, since when you're retired what the hell do you have to do anyway?
My next adventure called for a trip several hundred miles away to Beaufort, South Carolina. In the Carolinas, we also have Beaufort NC - but we are so smart that in SC it is pronounced "bewfort" and in NC "bowfort."
The South Carolinians snicker "Ya don't say 'she's a bowtiful gal'" I don't know how Houston got to be pronounced "howston" in NYC.
My smart friend in Beaufort suggested I check out the Greyhound bus service since they had a terminal in Beaufort. Jumping on to the internet I found I could get a ticket, with several stops and bus changes for about $20, Rocky Mount being my point of departure. My bus leaves at 9:15 AM in a week or so. The rules say that I must have my ticket in hand to board the bus. Hitch number 1, my station office hours are listed as 10AM-4PM. No problem, I will drive the half hour to Rocky Mount onTuesday and pick up my ticket for Wednesday morning. If only it were that simple.
Tuesday afternoon around two I arrive at the combination local bus/Greyhound/Carolina/train station. (I never saw a train) The Greyhound office is clearly marked and clearly closed with one of those pull-down accordion metal screens. I check out the building and find a cafe that has obviously not been open in the last decade, a few stragglers waiting for a local bus and a couple vending machines with such goodies as cheese sandwiches from WWII.
A half hour or so of loitering has brought no one to the counter so I spy a local telephone number on a poster. I call, I hear a phone ring on the other side of the shield, and then I get the dreaded answering machine which informs me that they are closed for today, FRIDAY. (this is Tuesday already).
As you are well aware, the Reverend Snodgrass does not take abuse laying down - I will call the Greyhound National headquarters! Ha! How in gods name can a stupid bus company take 20 minutes to serve other customers before answering my call, yet it is so. After explaining to them in great detail that theIr Official web site says thay are open but "WHERE ARE THEY?"
They respond as would the three monkeys holding their hands over their eyes, ears, and mouth. Back to searching the scene of the crime I find not one, not two, but three different posters filled in with the hours the office will be open, no two of which are the same. Two list evening hours so I leave with the hope I will reach a person by phone who can solve this enigma.
Success, if you can call it that, a humanoid answers the phone that evening around 7 and in my most controlled voice express my displeasure at their operating "procedures." "weopenanininnamoanin" is the answer to all my problems. While this does not rate with "abracadabra", somehow I knew I would be on my way next moanin'
Sho nuff, I got my ticket at 9 AM for my 9:15 departure which left at 10:15. It's probably an "urban legend" but I heard that Mussolini's claim to fame was that he got the trains in Italy to arrive and depart on time. Doubtful.
After several bus changes, I was finally at my last layover, in beautiful downtown Savannah, GA. I paced for an hour as the bus I would board was in one of the stalls outside. I saw the man who would be the driver hanging around for the last half hour. At long last, the call comes for those who are destined for the last hour to Beaufort. The final insult comes to my sensibility when 10 minutes into the final leg, the driver pulls into a gas station/food mart and annouces a 20 minute break! Give me strength.
