You can never count on time. -- Me, Untitled Poem Draft.
That's right, faithful readers. Nashville.
The least I can say is that I have, at least, made some westbound progress, and in an hour and a half -- if all goes well -- I'll be making more, getting as far as St. Louis, Missouri.
No. That was NOT the entry point into the west that I had planned. But, when traveling, it's important to be flexible. Especially when you only have a loose idea of where you want to end up to being with.
Ok... to catch up. I spent Derby week in Louisville with college chum Amanda Connor, her husband Shawn, and their housemate, Heather. We managed to make it to the Steamboat races (pictures by Amanda Hay Connor forthcoming), and I went out with them to a club called The Irish Exit in New Albany Indiana where Shawn (aka Sdot) has a regular DJ gig.
That's right, faithful readers. Nashville.
The least I can say is that I have, at least, made some westbound progress, and in an hour and a half -- if all goes well -- I'll be making more, getting as far as St. Louis, Missouri.
No. That was NOT the entry point into the west that I had planned. But, when traveling, it's important to be flexible. Especially when you only have a loose idea of where you want to end up to being with.
Ok... to catch up. I spent Derby week in Louisville with college chum Amanda Connor, her husband Shawn, and their housemate, Heather. We managed to make it to the Steamboat races (pictures by Amanda Hay Connor forthcoming), and I went out with them to a club called The Irish Exit in New Albany Indiana where Shawn (aka Sdot) has a regular DJ gig.
The club on the second floor wasn't really my scene... especially AFTER some very burly security kicked us out of the VIP Lounge, which had very comfortable couches, dim lights, and the slim chance of hot drunken women with low self-esteem... but I spent a wonderful few hours in the Irish Pub downstairs with Amanda catching up and drinking cheap well bourbon and coke.
Taken as an anthropological exercise, however, my brief time spent in the upstairs club reminded me of a couple of things:
- Why I don't go to clubs
- And the truth behind certain relationship dynamics.
For example: by the end of the night it was obvious who was going home alone, who had come alone but was leaving with someone who in all likelihood is using a made-up name, those who arrived with one but is leaving with someone completely different, and the rare long game play on the dance floor -- kids who arrive together, grind until they've done everything BUT fuck, and then leave together hoping to actually fuck. The good news is that most everyone finds someone to love, even for a few hours until sunrise... even if the cops are called, inevitably delaying nearly everyone's departure.
Everyone except your humble narrator and college chum Amanda. We managed to sneak out without attracting attention... in spite of me attracting the attention of a door bouncer and a midget bartender, both of whom snarled at me for NO REASON AT ALL.
But I digress.
Derby Day was spent, not at a party, but on the very secluded and shaded back porch at the Connor house, drinking bourbon and sweating it out in the warm summer weather. Although this had none of the seeming glamour of your standard Derby Party, we -- meaning Amanda and I -- gave bourbon consumption the ol'college try. We were successful enough that Shawn had to go out on a bourbon run... no small feat on Derby Day.
The goodness of the day was compounded by the fact that Amanda's dad, Jerry, who has been undergoing dialysis for the last two years, was notified that a potential donor kidney had become available. (He is now recovering quite well and may even be home by the end of this week...though it could be some time before they know where the transplant will really take,) Amanda, needless to say, was more than very much relieved.
I was planning in leaving Louisville late Sunday... the last bus possible, with a destination of Hannibal, MO. But with her dad in the hospital and plans having to be made to make the Hay homestead a good environment for him to recover (transplant surgeries are tough on the immune system...so no animals, no plants, no kids, for the next 6 months. The cat, Rodburn ... really Amanda's cat, but who has trouble living with most any other living creature including Merlot... and a fig tree are new additions to Amanda and Shawn's house. There are bets running as to whether the cat, which is old and snarly, or the fig tree, will be the first to die.) I thought it best to make an earlier exit.
Amanda dropped me off at the station on Muhammad Ali Avenue and Seventh Street, I picked up my Discovery Pass, and waited. And waited. At one point, I was actually LOCKED IN at the bus station... which, apparently, closes twice a day for 3 hours at a time. The only reason I wasn't booted was because my Discovery Pass gave me an excuse to be there.
Of course, the ticket agent told me I needed a ticket anyway... contrary to the information on the site, but not surprising. What I didn't notice, though is that he gave me a ticket for midnight Monday, not Sunday.
My initial option was to spend another day in Louisville, which, while it would have been nice to spend more time with Amanda retelling MSU stories and clearing out the bourbon in the liquor cabinet, was not really an option since she would have to work in addition to being near her dad. Also, I was feeling the need to move forward... whatever that means.
After some haranguing and a bit of arguing, I managed to squeeze onto a bus headed for Nashville, where I was told there MIGHT be a connection to Hannibal. Upon arriving, however, a ticket agent with a very precise hunt and peck typing method informed there was on ONE bus with a destination of Hannibal... which wouldn't leave until midnight. It was, at the time, 2:30 Central Time.
Now, don't get me wrong. Nashville is probably a great town and riding in I saw any number of not-too-questionable adult venues that, if I had the money, I could've at least spent time. Though, if I had money for that, I could just as easily rent car and drive my ass west.
I opted for the next bus to St. Louis... which, if my adherence to Central Time is correct, leaves just under an hour.
More from the road, dear readers. Though I was waylaid, I remain ndaunted. Though the Mighty Mississippi has managed to bat me back yet again... which it has done consistently since I started traveling... I am going to breach the barrier... even if it means I have to endure another go round in the St. Louis Greyhound Station.