The five stops on my Southen United States journey were all served by airports. At least two of the destinations were connected by rail.
I chose to ride the bus.
Why? Inexpensive, no security checkpoints, no overpriced restaurants. I got to track my own luggage without so much as a metal detector. I got bathroom breaks, an open seat next to me and I got a view of the land.
If I had flown, I would have been obliged to drive two hours to St. Louis airport, arrive 90 minutes early, fly one hour to a second location, change planes, fly another hour and a half to Nashville, collect my bags, and wait for ground transit to take me 20 minutes into town. A total of eight hours.
By bus, Columbia, Missouri to Nashvlle, Tennessee took ten hours door-to-door. That included a two hour transfer in St. Louis.
Country music stars have, for decades, chartered coaches. Some of it is superstition: Major stars like Patsy Klein and Buddy Holly died on puddle jumpers that served their tour’s minor destinations. Some of it is economic: conveying their entourage by bus permits an act to give a bigger show in more venues.
Music fans following bands recognize these realities. They save wear-and-tear on their vehicles or even the inconvenience of obtaining a vehicle.
In Knoxville, I met a Swiss student who was looking for music venues. For about the price of a round trip cross-country plane ticket, he could use a 1 month bus pass to take in Nashville, Memphis, Chicago, Washington D.C. and New York. At our lodging, he met up with a cadre Widespread Panic enthusiasts.
The bus has it’s own culture. Folks are unhurried and respectful. Very few people consider traveling on a bus as a luxury, though for many of them it is.
On the first leg of my Nashville journey, I sat at the very back of the bus with a woman and her nephew.
She was on her cell phone. He was playing with a WWF action figure and kept losing parts of its costume on the floor. She would pick them up and say, “Don’t lose the cowboy hat! I paid $25 for your wrestling man.” Then he would drop them again and laugh. And she would stop her conversation, cell phone pressed to shoulder, and pick the tiny clothes up again.
As we were disembarking, I pulled my lunch bag from under the seat in front of me and it burst. A half-empty soda can had rolled to the back of the bus and spilled on the contents. “Nobody using this,” my neighbor said, handing me a blue pillow case with blue spirals on it.
It wasn’t until I got into the terminal that I noticed how many other people were carrying belongings in pillowcases. It was far more common than people carrying a matching backpack and suitcase combo. I felt more at ease with this small, unintended assimilation.
