And here I am in leafy, humid, dog-barky, police-sireny Brooklyn. Per usual when I am visiting here, I exist in a state of perpetual faux jet lag. In Harmony I usually go to bed at 9 p.m., but in Brooklyn getting into bed by 2 a.m. equals an early night. So here I sit: drinking black coffee and pretending to be well rested.
The bus trip from Maine to New York was very long, and Bobby, our driver on the Boston-to-Port-Authority leg, was very odd. Somewhere in the middle of Connecticut, he suddenly pulled the bus onto the shoulder and went off to take a leak. Clearly he'd left the keys in the ignition because the air conditioning was still blasting. It was a prime opportunity for a spoof-mass-kidnapping-movie-in-real-life, but no one took advantage of the moment. I admit to being slightly disappointed. Then Bobby reappeared, smelling strongly of hand sanitizer, only to pull into a mini-mart parking lot 20 minutes later and get out for a smoke. This time half the passengers disembarked to join him. From the window I could see him derisively gesticulating with his cigarette and complaining about something or other. Judging from his previous patter, I would guess he was continuing his extensive and detailed diatribe about the way in which rampant cell phone use has destroyed what was once a beautiful Greyhound bus experience. Eventually we did get to Manhattan, despite Bobby's muttered/microphoned comments, which shifted from cell phones to the route's nefarious traffic. (Example: [dripping with irony and/or ire]: "Route 95 is a very special place.")