Eighteen Hours of Greyhound Travel Across the Heartland

I had occasion to go to Minneapolis over the first weekend in June. The Greyhound’s trail led through Indianapolis, Chicago, and Milwaukee then across Wisconsin to Madison, Wisconsin Dells, St. Paul, and finally to downtown Minneapolis.

I boarded a comfortable but crowded FLIX bus (a Greyhound subsidiary) just before 6 am, carrying only a backpack weighted mostly with drinks and snacks. Having paid for a specific seat near the window I went back counting the rows. When I found the right one I looked down to see somebody sprawled across both seats. A quick glance told me that it would not be a good idea to disturb this dude, if you get my meaning. I went back outside to ask the driver what I should do and was told to sit in any empty seat. I guess I should have known that was the rule already. This led to my first bit of good fortune of the day. The only empty seat I could see on that side was beside a young man who looked like a student. He graciously stepped out of the way to let me in. There was barely room for my knees when I hung the backpack on a convenient hook, but I settled in and we were soon on our way.

As it turned out I couldn’t have chosen a better seat mate. He was, indeed, an undergraduate student from South Korea. He had boarded in Bloomington, Indiana, so he was a student at Indiana University, majoring in viola performance and accounting. He was interesting! Using his impeccable English it turned out that we shared many cultural values and a very similar outlook on academic life. He was a true student, dedicated to learning and understanding without compromise or shortcuts. He refuses to use AI or other electronic means to game the academic system. Once he learned that I was a 50 year alumnus of Indiana University this year his eyes lit up. “How did you do research before there were computers? How was it possible?” I described in detail the massive card catalogs that had once filled much of the first floor of the library. I told him how I had learned the Library of Congress catalog numbers for my chosen areas in American economic and social history. I spoke of my golden undergrad years and my remarkable professors who lectured, gave us near-impossible reading assignments, and tested us with essay questions we answered in blue books. We registered for classes using IBM cards. I gave him old school study tips and test strategies and wished for a return of my teaching days when just a single student with this kind of attitude could make for an incredible academic year.

Then out of the blue he asked one of the great academic questions of all time. How did a small area like Western Europe gain so much power and influence all over the world? My eyes lit up. It was one of the classroom questions I was born to answer. I told him about William H. McNeill’s important book The Pursuit of Power which details the rise of the Western powers through competition between small countries and states in the European incubator. I contrasted the European experience with empires like China where centralized control stifled innovation and minimized outward threats. The geography of Europe brought rivalries while the geography of China brought security. McNeill wrote of the importance of competition to avoid falling prey to technological innovations by neighboring countries. My friend jotted bibliographic notes, and I was once again in academic heaven.

We talked nearly the entire way to Chicago. We discovered that our families had similar conservative cultural and political beliefs. He was taught to avoid boastfulness and to always give credit to others before oneself, as I was. Hard work, education, and respect for family were bedrock values we shared. I was surprised that we had so much in common. He was respectful, courteous, interesting, and hungry for knowledge.

We shared my snacks and I waved goodbye to him on the streets of Chicago. He was going to visit a friend who had landed an internship with a firm in the Windy City. I gave him some words of caution as he walked north from the bus station and wished him well. He promised to introduce me to his folks when they visit for graduation next year. What a treat that will be!

There was a layover and a change of buses for me in Chicago. To stretch my legs I walked about just a bit near the station where there was no traffic, then found an empty hard metal seat in the terminal. For the next three hours I observed the ebb and flow of humanity in a bus terminal in one of the great cities of the world. I heard several languages from people from south Asia, central and Latin America, and Africa. Most had luggage of some kind. On the street I saw a man wearing what I think was a babban riga and cap, the traditional dress of many Muslim areas of Africa. I saw Muslims and Hindus and Christians all scurrying back and forth on a warm Sunday afternoon in Chicago.

The terminal was clean and pleasant enough, even with so many people present. The staff moved here and there washing windows inside and out, which was nice. Several seats away from me was a woman who sat on the edge of her seat but appeared to be napping. Ever so gradually she leaned forward, then would straighten and sit more upright for a bit before leaning again. After half an hour she bumped a soda can underneath her feet, spilling the sticky contents. I discreetly walked over to the office to alert maintenance and they thanked me for doing so. Perhaps fifteen minutes later a maintenance man approached and spoke to her, them mopped as well as was possible. When maintenance left, the woman began to lean again. I noticed that without actually falling she eventually slipped to the floor where she lay on her side and seemed comfortable. Staff came over to speak to her again. Several staff gathered and discussed the possibility of helping her stand. The maintenance man talked them out of it by insisting that if she got hurt they’d all lose their jobs. They decided to call the paramedics, who arrived with lights flashing perhaps 20 minutes later. The EMTs also talked to her and discussed the options, then helped her stand up. She didn’t sit down again. She would move a few steps, then stand there for a bit, them move further and stand some more. The paramedics left. Eventually the woman moved out to the street and did not return. All the while my sample of humanity moved in and out of the terminal or waited with me without seeming to notice too much. It was memorable.

With my backside partially paralyzed, I stood up about 25 minutes before departure for Minneapolis and walked over to the departure gate where a queue began to form. After standing and trying to keep my feet and legs limber for a few minutes, another polite young man with nearly rimless glasses came up to me and asked if this was the place to stand for the bus to Minneapolis. Why he approached me I don’t know, but the same thing has happened to me many times, even in Europe to ask directions. This young man with impeccable English and obvious good manners heard my reply, then stood close by to wait. After a couple of minutes I explained that because others were ahead of him in line when he approached me it would be more courteous to them to wait toward the end of the queue. He accepted this with grace and apologies and moved back. When I boarded the bus he came in to take a seat just one row back. In the course of his conversation with others I learned that it was his first day in America! It was my second stroke of good luck in the same day. He was a Bulgarian who had flown in that morning from Sofia via Turkey, landing at O’Hare and making his way to the downtown bus terminal in Chicago. Little did we know that we were in for a bit of an adventure.

Just before we were ready to depart for points north the driver stepped down the center aisle a little bit and called for our attention. She was not very happy. She had been given a bus that was low on an “essential fluid” that she would have to find before we went very far. If we didn’t find it we might come to a stop on the side of the highway. We weren’t told what this essential fluid was, but we sat back and let her search. Before long we were on state highways instead of a northbound interstate. Eventually we pulled into an awkward service station. She got out, went inside, then returned. They had it, but wouldn’t take the credit card she offered. We pulled back out on the highway. More searching, but we still didn’t know what for. We took a turn onto a busy state highway, then made an unexpected U-turn. At that point I went up front to see if I could assist. “Yes, thank you! I’m trying to find DEF. I’m almost out!” I looked it up to see what it was, then waved a couple more passengers to the front. They were better with phone searching. I told them our location and exit number. One of them called ahead, making it possible for me to tell the driver to take the next exit just in time. We got our DEF and settled back into the driving routine, going up I-94 toward Minneapolis.

I was able to resume a conversation with the young Bulgarian who hailed from the resort town of Varna on the Black Sea. He had come in that very day on a work visa to employment as a waiter at a restaurant in Wisconsin Rapids. He had never worked as a waiter before! He was very cordial and spoke excellent English. At long last I was able to ask questions of someone from Bulgaria, which had suffered so long under Russian domination behind the Iron Curtain after World War II. In those years, I learned, people were made to speak Russian, but after the fall of the Soviet Union those restrictions had gone away, and English became the rage. My friend was just twenty, so he had never known the old life under the Russians. He was smart and hard working and optimistic so I learned a great deal from him. He will go far.

Madison always strikes me as a location almost too good to be true. In summertime it has the fresh charm of a northern, cooler resort town. It sits astride several picturesque glacial lakes. It is the state capital and also the home of the University of Wisconsin. This beautiful place was the birthplace of Progressivism early in the 20th Century when politicians and academics joined forces to create a new political ideology which then spread to much of the rest of the country outside the Deep South. We rolled into town in the early evening, dropped some passengers and were soon back on the interstate.

By the time we made it to Wisconsin Rapids to drop Marty off it was dark. We had rolled toward the northwest through the fading daylight and beyond dusk. Because he had had no proper meal during the day I gave him the rest of my snacks and dried fruit to hold him over to the next day. He thanked me and stepped off the bus at a Wendy’s to wait for a Lyft ride. “It’s easy,” he said. I admired his audacity. I shook my head and waved goodbye, smiling.

The rest of the ride was in the dark. We pulled into St. Paul after midnight before going on a but further to downtown Minneapolis. I like St. Paul and have visited there, but had never been in Minneapolis. I had heard things. It was scary to see a few people on the streets that didn’t look like they ought to be. I stepped out of the bus and tried to find a taxi. There were none, I was told on the phone. This was after I had been assured on the phone a week before that there would be some available. I switched to plan B. I would have to take a city bus to the Mall of America where I could be picked up by the hotel shuttle. By now it was after 1 AM. I took in corners where I could see security officers patrolling the area. They were universally kind and walked with me to where I would meet what turned out to be the final bus of the night. Off I went about 1:30 AM, riding with people who had spent much of the evening on the bus and were mostly passed out or sleeping. When I arrived at the bus terminal for the Mall of America I called the hotel, finally putting a very courteous private security cop on my phone to straighten out the details. She learned that the shuttle driver only knew the way to the other side of the mall, then agreed to take me there. My first visit to the Mall of America was through the cavernous, darkened space at a very brisk pace. All the businesses were closed and shuttered. We finally emerged on the other side where I was shown where to wait. Another 20 minutes brought my hotel shuttle driver and I stumbled into my room at the airport hotel about 3 AM. I had no trouble falling asleep and sleeping in until 7AM.

It had been a long day of nearly 21 hours, but my faith in the goodness of people had been repeatedly affirmed. With a keen eye to the dangers and with much help from kindly law enforcement officials I had made it to my destination safely and soundly.

Next time, share my journey across the Heartland in perfect spring weather. Join me, won’t you?

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