Road Trippin'

The Greyhound, they say, is a quintessential American experience. I am waiting for mine at 6am on a Monday, having made the daring decision to take a bus all the way from Minneapolis to New York City. That’s roughly 30 hours in a vehicle in close proximity to strangers you probably don’t want to see again in the future, with uncomfortable seats and limited leg room. Quite similar to a flight halfway around the world, I guess, just not as glamorous. “Did you hear about the guy who chopped a couple of people’s heads off on a Greyhound?” my friend Elan told me when I unveiled my plan. “Don’t worry though, they caught him”. I hadn’t heard of that guy, just of the lunatic who stabbed and then proceeded to decapitate and eat his seat neighbor. He was placed in a mental health facility until his release in 2015.

In the boarding area, I gauge my fellow passengers. They mostly look like normal, working class Americans. A few are probably having a hard time making a living. Many are travelling with huge suitcases that have seen better times. There’s a baby nibbling on peanut flips. We board the bus, which is half empty, and I spread myself and my carry-on over two of the black leather seats. I guess they would be okay for a two hour trip. 30 hours might be a challenge. Longingly, I reminisce about the luxurious overnight bus I took in Argentina, with business class reclining seats and two plastic wrapped meals being served by what is surely called a ‘coach attendant’. No coach attendant here, just a driver who announces over the speakers not to disturb him when he’s driving, and that, if someone tries to secretly smoke in the toilet, “we’ll see what happens”. He holds the microphone so close to his mouth that we can hear him breath, while threateningly blinking over his reading glasses.

The world outside starts rolling past. I read, listen to podcasts, and quite enjoy the tranquility of a road trip without having to take responsibility for directions or driving. Every couple of hours we have a short break, usually at a Mcdonald's or other cheap fast food chain. The smokers hastily light up, everyone seeks out the bathrooms, and the toddlers traveling with us run shrieking in circles around the trash cans on the lawn. In Chicago, I change onto another bus. The day goes by surprisingly fast, and when it gets dark I doze off, rocked to sleep by the constant vibrations caused by the engine, the conversation in Swahili of the ladies in the next row serving as lullaby.

Obama addressing a Greyhound passengers at 2 in the morning.

At 1:30am, I’m awakened abruptly. Some sort of maintenance stop, everyone has to leave the bus and re-board half an hour later. Eyes blink in the neon light of the Cleveland Greyhound station. On a TV screen, “Obama addresses the Vietnamese people”, as the caption on CNN reads. The topic turns to the presidential elections. Hillary Clinton appears on the screen, and says “Why would you vote for someone who lost money on a casino. Who loses money on a casino?”. Someone cheers. We reboard, a Russian girl settles into the seat next to me. I take a look around - we seem to be the only white people on the bus, apart from an ex-convict with shaven head and tears tattooed on his cheeks. 

The next hours pass excruciatingly slowly, as I try to find a semi-comfortable position in a seat that’s too narrow and built for short people. Fortunately, the girl beside me is slim, unlike the majority of other passengers. At 6am, I use the 30 minute stop to stretch my legs. A lot of passengers are getting giant styrofoam cups of rest stop coffee. Two of the kids choose a “Cake Batter Milkshake”, accompanied by a donut, as breakfast. Back on the bus, the driver enquires whether all of our neighbors are present. A lady reports that the ex-convict is missing. We wait for a few minutes, then the driver announces “If he wants to ride, he needs to follow my rules. Don’t be late is one of them!”. He honks the horn, pulls out of the parking lot and heads for the freeway. 

Breakfast for Tiffany.

Around noon the next day, we drive across the bridge from New Jersey into Manhattan and pull into the underground Greyhound station. Once off the bus, people jostle to get their luggage. The driver shouts at someone who dares to walk around the back of the bus instead of the front. In the end, a lonely bag remains unclaimed. As I emerge into the light, onto the bustling streets of New York City, I’m glad to have made the trip, and also that it lies behind me. I am also pleased to report that my head is still attached to my shoulders. 

A Sidewalk Episode

The gym on the second floor of Diana’s fancy apartment complex on San Francisco’s 5th street was empty. Like the outdoor terrace with barbecue grills and fire places, the gym is included in the rent. Most people who live here have their apartments paid for by their company, or can afford to drop six grand a month on a one bedroom place. Most of them also have a job, so I had the fitness room all to myself at 10am on a Thursday morning.

Running on one of five treadmills, I had a great view onto 5th Street, which was busy with traffic. A couple in their late forties or early fifties shuffled around the corner, each of them pushing a shopping cart piled high with their belongings. The man, with thinning hair and a long beard, looked like he’d worked a construction job for decades. The woman must have been a petite blonde in her younger years.

They stopped by the curb just opposite of my window, where two parked cars had left a gap. With the two shopping carts behind her, the woman dropped her pants, sat down on the sidewalk as if it was a toilet seat. Then did her business, in full view of the traffic passing by and the building I was in.

As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t look away. Her partner, in the meantime, seemed unfazed and was smoking a cigarette. Then handed her some toilet paper. The blonde got up, and both pushed their carts down the street. While I was still contemplating what I had just witnessed, she came back and draped a piece of cardboard over the turd, blocking it from view.

The scene left me baffled. There I was, in my fancy gym enjoying an air conditioned work-out in an apartment complex that leaves nothing to be wished for, while just a couple of meters away someone doesn’t seem to have access to a flushing toilet. Or has taken up a lifestyle in which going for a poo using the curb as a seat is the most normal thing in the world. Somehow, this seemed emblematic of a city that is one of the richest in the US, yet has a staggering amount of people living on it’s streets. And few people give a shit, so to speak.

In some parts of the city, the homeless dominate the streetscape. Walking through Tenderloin at 4pm in the afternoon, you will see a long line of people of all ages, queuing around the corner of Ellis and Taylor in line for the shelter. Continuing south towards Market Street, dozens more are sleeping in the shade, begging for money, staring silently in a stupor or shouting curses at imaginary pursuers or real passersby. Many of them seem to have mental health issues which, in other countries, would probably have them living in a hospital or care facility, rather than on the streets.

No matter how many times I travel to the US and how much I love this city, I find it hard to get used to this sight. I can’t think of another place, apart from Delhi, where I’ve seen as many homeless people left largely to their own device. How is it that, in one of the most developed countries in the world, people who once contributed to society are left without access to healthcare or a place to sleep? Why has nobody figured out a solution, in an area awash with money and talent? The Valley stands for inventing the future by solving complex problems: turning pee into drinking water, developing self driving cars, growing burgers in a petri dish. In comparison, homelessness on it's doorsteps seems like a trivial problem to solve. San Francisco has such a brilliant mind - sometimes I wish it would also have more of a heart. 

Skinny Dipping in SF

While spending a couple of days in San Francisco, a German friend and I decided to go Baker Beach to enjoy the September sun. Baker Beach is a beach to the northwest of the city, with a beautiful view of Golden Gate bridge and, in the evening, the setting sun. The northern part of the beach is also a nude beach.

Ingrid and I found a nice spot, and, having grown up with Freikörperkultur, we undressed and lay down in our birthday suits. That’s when the spectacle unfolded. As soon as our buttocks touched the blanket, an Asian man in full tourist apparel and with a camera around his neck approached us. “Can I take a picture?” he asked, his two friends snickering a safe distance away. We laughed, perplexed. “Sure, if you strip down and pose with us”. He declined, and left.

Thirty seconds later an incredibly tanned and bearded guy in his 60s got up from his sun lounger and made his way over to us. Eating a giant subway sandwich and sporting a piercing in the nether regions, he warned us of “that black dude over there. He always pulls out his junk in front of the ladies. I know him, I’ve been here for years. Let me know if he bothers you”. “That black dude” had already started setting up camp and taking off his clothes about 2m to our right, on a fairly empty beach. When we ignored his attempts at conversation, he directed his attention to a girl on his other side, who was trying to read a book.

Just as we had settled into our sunbathing sessions, another photographer, fully dressed with a functional vest, made his way up the beach. “Is he taking photos of naked people?” Ingrid asked, incredulous. He seemed to be pointing his camera at every bit of bare skin in sight while trying to make it look like he was taking pictures of the not-so-impressive landscape. We chuckled at the comic potential of the scene, until he pointed his telephoto lens at us. “I can’t believe it! Let’s go talk to him.” We walked a few meters across the beach. “Hey, you! Did you just take pictures of us?” “No, I didn’t,” he replied, averting his eyes. “Ok, let me see the pictures,” Ingrid demanded, moving to look at the camera. Sure enough, there we were. Among rows of photos of other beach-goers. “Delete them, right now! How weird are you to take pics of people like that?” He mumbled something, and scuttled away.

Mission accomplished, we returned to our blanket and debated whether this was just a coincidence or whether we had accidentally sat down our butt’s in peepers’ paradise. “Creepy coincidence,” I argued. Until I saw another dude, in jeans, shirt, baseball cap and sunglasses, lie down in the sand between us and the water. He pulled a pair of binoculars from his bag, and, with intent curiosity, looked in the general direction of the Golden Gate bridge. Then turned and looked at us. For a long time. Again, we walked over and asked him to do his peeping elsewhere, to which he uttered a muffled apology.

This is when we gave up. We packed up our stuff and left. Nude beaches in the States don’t seem to have the same code of conduct as in Europe. In the old world, everyone gets naked so nobody has an advantage. You don’t stare. You keep your distance to your neighbors. In the US, that doesn’t seem to be the case. No wonder most Americans still regard nude beaches with scepticism and a discomfortable chuckle. Turns out, the Land of the Free is not so free after all, at least if you intend to free yourself of your bathing suit. Learning: if you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear a bikini. Flowers in your hair are optional.

The second try at Baker Beach, this time in the clothed section.