trvlgs

The Baltimore Greyhound station is actually how a Greyhound station should be, exactly how the image has always existed in my mind. My bus leaves at 2 AM, and I sit for a while with my dad, who drove me. Everything is golden beige. The three televisions hanging from the ceiling is showing the news, which we struggle to hear over the obscenely loud air conditioning. There doesn’t appear to be a single person working.  When I was washing my hands in the bathroom, a guy asked me where I’m going: I said Seattle, and he said “Damn, that’s a trip.” I forgot to ask him where he was going.