Throw Greyhound to the hounds

Jono and I planned a while back to go to Portland to have (a white) Christmas and New years with my old uni pal, Jane, her husband Paul and their two kids - Attikus and Aislinn. We were planning to drive, but our car broke down at the start of December, so we bought ourselves bus and train tickets. We decided it would be nice to break the journey in Seattle, spending an afternoon and a night checking out the City a little more and then catching the train onwards the next day to Portland.

It turned out to be fortuitous that we arranged it this way, even though it didn’t go to plan, ‘cause at least we did not miss our connecting train…

We got to the Greyhound bus depot in Vancouver at about 7:45am, because even though we had bought our tickets online, we had to turn up an hour early to pick them up, and stand in line, as they can not guarantee seats. Is it really that hard to have allocated seats to tickets, and how can any company feel ok about selling more tickets than there are seats? It is like the managers have small vehicle syndrome, and they wish they were looking after an aeroplane. But thank god they are not. So we turn up, get our tickets and then stand in the freezing cold outside in line for over an hour (they were running late.) This beginning was not filling me with warm fuzzy thoughts for Greyhound. I can see why only poor people catch busses in North America. Anyone that can afford to avoid them, does so.

At about 8:30, we took off, only to find ourselves 30km away in 71/2 hours after we left home. We were stuck at the US border, hostage on a bus with a broken toilet, no water and due to the complications involved in taking food over the border, no food. The driver would not initially let us out of the bus, because we were on a public road and it was against greyhound policy to let people out at non-designated bus stops due to liability. After about 4 hours of badgering by fellow-passengers, he eventually relented and let us out at the Duty Free shop, to buy junk food, fill up water bottles and go to the toilet. Heaven. Then, back on the bus, to realise we had lost our place in the queue, which set us back maybe another hour. Apparently the US border officers were being extra vigilant that day, due to a bomb threat early in the morning, and then they had a black out in the middle of the day and had to process people with out power for a couple of hours. If this is true, it is a pretty big surprise that the US can not afford to equip their borders with back up generators.

Anyhow, all this time on the bus, meant that we got to know the bus driver pretty well. I felt sorry for him, having to be the one to deal with everyone’s questions and frustrations. We were sitting close to him, so we got to hear all the calls he made to his supervisors and managers, and it was clear that they were not being very supportive. One call he made was in regard to passengers meeting connecting Greyhound services, and whether those connecting services will wait. “I am not going to lie to them,” I heard him say in a heated voice to his supervisor. He hung up and said “Your connecting Greyhound busses will not wait for you. They told me to tell you that they will work something out for you - but who knows what that means.” Fair enough. Tell it like it is. Greyhound was definitely not paying the dude enough to be their public relations executive. His normal pay rate is only $16 an hour, which seems crazily low for the responsibility of having to drive a bus full of people through snow and sleet. But, while queuing at the border, he was not technically “driving”, so apparently only he was earning $8 an hour. To make it even worse, legally enforced maximum shifts for bus drivers are 9 hours (I think - or maybe 10) - in any case, most of his time was taken up in queue (earning half his normal wage), and he then had to stop just after the border, and we had to all wait an hour for a replacement driver to arrive. Even though our driver had pre-empted this situation and called Greyhound managers hours ago to ask them to organise a replacement driver to meet him on the other side of the border, his managers simply told him to “call when we got through the other side”. Bastards. Sorry, but really. I never want to catch Greyhound again. I know that the border part was not their fault. But making us queue for an hour in the cold when we had bought our tickets online days before hand, then keeping us hostage on a bus with no water and no food, not assuring connecting services for people and making us wait for a replacement driver when they had had plenty of notice… oh, and for paying their drivers so poorly. (Though I guess that is how they can afford to sell such cheap tickets).

Anyhow, I can’t believe I have raved so long just about a bus trip. Onwards.

We got to Seattle around 7pm. We pretty much had dinner at the pub, watched some hockey, drank a few beers, winged about Greyhound and went to bed. The sights of Seattle remained unseen.

The train to Portland the following morning was in stark contrast to the Greyhound experience. I have never had such luxurious travel accommodations. Even Jono had plenty of leg room! The seats were big and comfy. There was water. There was food. There were toilets that worked, complete with toilet paper and even soap and water to wash your hands and doors that locked properly. There were good views.

Jane picked us up from the station. It was a spin out to see her. Some things change about people but some stay the same. She still had the same spring in her step and sparkle in her eye. On our way back to her place we stopped at a food store. Jono came running up to me with a bottle of (rejected) orange juice in his hand, looking like an excited kid. “Dahna! Dahna! Guess what? Beer is cheaper than orange juice here!”

Life was going to be good for the next couple of weeks.

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