ride home, two days early

I'm restless. 

I miss Alexander, though when I tell him I'm coming home two days ahead of schedule, his response is less than enthusiastic.

I miss watching Breaking Bad.

I miss my bed.

And my mother and I both miss are own routines and schedules.

And besides, it's a rainy day. Just like the one forecast for tomorrow.

So I forgo my Jet Blue flight for Thursday, and book a local bus from Bourne to Boston, and the Bolt Bus from Boston to New York.

The Bolt Bus driver, a woman, is friendlier than most. Even her passenger announcement sounds genuine.

"Hi everyone.  Just a few words. First, be kind to your neighbor. That's the most important thing I'll say today. ... Our bathroom, located in the back, is very clean. And men, if you use it, please aim carefully. ... So relax, enjoy the trip, and who knows, maybe the person next to you will become your best friend."

I have never heard a welcome-aboard speech that includes mention of men's toilet etiquette and the possibility of new friendships.

The guy behind me, while polite, receives or makes at least six calls throughout the trip. And his voice is loud and carries.  When I ask him to speak softer, he does — until he forgets. At one point he says to me, "I'm trying really hard to speak in a quieter voice.  How's this?" "Good" I say.  "But look around. It would be even better if you weren't on the phone at all. See, no one else is." No budding friendship is evolving here.

The nice guy next to me, an American,  lives in Cameroon in West Africa. He comes home for a month each year. We won't be best friends either. The distance would make it difficult . Plus, I ask him to turn down his earbuds;  I don't like the annoying garbled noise I can hear from them.

The woman in front of me is playing a game on her iPad with the accompanying music on. I ask her to please mute it and she replies, "It is." Then I realize the music is coming from Pandora that is playing off my phone, buried deep in my tote. 

We get to NY on time, except the bus driver doesn't know Manhattan well and asks for help.  I direct her down Second from 125th, though advise her that next time she should take the midtown tunnel. "That'll bring you much closer to our drop-off at First and 38th," I tell her. "And it'll cut out the extra extra half hour it takes to go down Second."  "Oh, I don't think I'd like to go that way. Tunnels scare me."  

Then she says, "You live here?" I tell her I do, and she asks with genuine curiosity,  "Can you give me one reason why you like living here?"  She can't imagine even one.

But she's a good driver, and we all arrive safely.