Greyhound; An Experience

After my last post, I know what everybody is thinking. You're thinking, "How the hey did you get to Seattle". Well, here's the answer.

It all started at San Francisco's 'Transbay' bus station. Certainly, it's one of the very scariest places I've ever been to. The kind of place where the homeless laugh at you as you walk by. What have they got to laugh about? Maybe it was the clothes that I was wearing, who knows? One other thing I noticed about this place, there were far too many people working there with the surname Garcia. This was especially worrying when you consider that this was one of the main reasons why I left working for R.B.S. I'm kidding of course, there weren't that many people working at the bus station called Garcia.

Arriving at Sacramento station seemed more welcoming; thanks largely to it being directly adjacent to a place called Marshall Hotel. This was comforting for the obvious moniker-based reasons. However, there are far too many people in those stations who are far too overly prepared to divulge far too much personal information about themselves. I'm sure having a an alcoholic, smack addicted ex-wife is tough, Geoff from Reno, Nevada. I only wished I'd stepped in and advised him that after separating from her four years ago, that his least advisable move was to accept the woman's request to stay for a while with him and his new wife. Don't do it lad. It's gonna end in tears. And possibly blood.

The bus due for Seattle was packed, I'm talking people standing up. Considering I was gonna be on this thing for the next 18 hours, that was not a fun prospect. Fortunately for me I bonded with the fella I was sat next to. I enjoyed his sarcasm, or sarcasma as I'm now choosing to call it, when commenting that, "Perfection is rarely achieved, but I think we've found it", as a couple of chaps behind us began beat boxing and rapping, while the baby in front of us started to wail for it's so-called 'Mummy'. Idiot. My neighbor was wrong of course, because perfection was only truly achieved when he began to snore at my face. My left ear claimed, at the time, that this man was the loudest snorer in the world. My other faculties denied this, knowing full well that my father, Terry Alfred Marshall, holds that title.

He left a couple of hours later. He claimed he felt refreshed. I shouted I didn't care. In my head. He was suitably replaced with a woman. She was holding some kind of baby. I'm not sure which kind, but definitely a baby, of that I have no doubt. I can say this with conviction because only a baby would have the sheer audacity to punch and kick me (ok, maybe Hilly would as well) and to shout and whine in such close quarters (yep, again Hilly, does tend to do that) for hours and hours and hours (not Hilly this time; the little scamp tends to tire himself out after an hour or so). I also felt that resting your baby's head
on the elbow of a total stranger with a weird kind of neck beard was ill advised and lacked the tenacity of a good parent. However, I know about as much about parenting as I do about Law. Not much at all.

Anyway, I got to Seattle, and that's it. 21 hours was the length, on the scale of t (which represents time). I'll tell you about this place sometime. Something for you to look forward to. Until then, here is a photo that I took of me towering over Seattle. You will see the 'Space Needle' in the background, which is a famous tower that towers over the buildings of Seattle. The reason that I am towering over it is because I'm standing on the 73rd floor of the U.S. Bank Tower which is the tallest tower on the West Coast of North America and so towers over all of the other towers in the area. Tower.


Alrighty then.

Kind regards.

Adam Marshall