The Key to a Comfortable Bus Ride

 Some may argue that the most exciting part of my recent trip to Ontario was climbing into a complete strangers car in downtown Toronto. I disagree. Rather, it was the perfected art of a comfortable 11.5 hour drive.

The number one goal of riding a bus is getting a seat to yourself. It's just you, two seats, and a glorious curled up position that will leave you aching. This is desirable given the alternative: you hunched over against the window (or worse, the aisle), afraid you're going to touch a stranger for hours on end. If the physical strain wasn't enough, the mental stress will kill you.

 To begin, you must arrive early. An hour to forty five minutes prior should do you fine. Second, you must find your desired place on the bus and immediately put your carry on in the seat next to you.

Now for the art. You must make it seem like a massive inconvenience for someone to sit next to you. Spread out. Be complicated. Take off your shoes, change your socks. Pull out your computer, plug in the cord across the two seats. Take out food, leave it half eaten on top of your open carry on with extra clothing on your lap. Think of the effort it would take you to clean up!

When a passenger walks by, they will be much more likely to politely ask, "Excuse me, is anybody sitting there?" if there is nothing but a closed backpack sitting on the seat beside you. On the other hand, if you have crumbs everywhere, one sock off and one sock on, and a laptop strung out, it is much more likely that you will be passed by for easier prey.

And then what, you ask? Take over the two seats, of course!

An important addition, however, is that at a stop over you must be taking up the two seats and act dead asleep. Otherwise your efforts will be wasted and with your guard lowered you will be taken advantage of readily. How embarrassing. I suggest bright colored earplugs. Not only do they cut the sound for better sleep, they also make it seem like you can’t hear a damn thing. Now they have to say “excuse me” and tap you. Way too much effort.

Let Us Begin

The month is unknown, and even the year is a little bit fuzzy, but in approximately 2006-2007, a process was put in motion. It was my junior year of high school. I was over at my friend’s house when the unthinkable happened; wait, no, let’s be honest – it occurred all of the time. I needed something to sleep in. So she rummaged through her drawers and she presented me with something I will never forget:

It was a pair of yellow shorts.

She ran track in high school, and these were the result. They were thin and felt soft in my fingers, came down about five inches above my knee, and were bright yellow with a black “M” on the left leg. The “M” stood for Marshall School, where we all went to high school (and middle school, but who’s counting?)

It was not unusual for us to lend clothes to each other in my circle of friends, and it was quite unusual if we ever returned them. So the yellow shorts remained in my possession.

And then they came with me. Everywhere.

I am originally from Duluth, Minnesota. My freshman year of college I moved to St. Paul, Minnesota. It didn’t last, and I made one of the best decisions of my life and transferred to the George Washington University in Washington, DC. During the summer between my transfer, I moved to Hastings, Ontario for an adventure in the quiet rolling hills of Canada’s farmland. The yellow shorts remained by my side.

During my junior year of college I decided I was going to study abroad. Of all places, I picked Ghana, West Africa. And so the yellow shorts picked it too. Once I returned, the yellow shorts and I traveled back through Minnesota, then settled in DC for a few weeks, then returned to Ontario. It was back to DC for my senior year of college.

In January of 2012 I returned from San Juan Comalapa, Guatemala, where I was volunteering at a non-profit called Long Way Home with nineteen other students. The yellow shorts worked just as hard as me, and surprisingly got clean after the adobe clay was smeared all over them.

Now the yellow shorts and I are back in DC, but not for long. Adventure calls, and thus the yellow shorts and I must answer. So here I will mark the tales of the yellow shorts. They have come so far, and they’ve never left my side. 

Here’s to that fateful day when they were lent to me and never returned. Neither the yellow shorts or I have ever been the same.