I walked twenty minutes from the Greyhound station to a hotel in the historic downtown of Los Angeles. I was stuck there for a night. Continue reading Los Angeles to Chicago to New York
The bus the Chihuahua was an hour late. There are no departure boards at Mexican bus stations, you just stand on the platform and wait for a bus with your destination on the front to show up. Bus after bus pulled up at the Zacatecas station, and none of them were for Ciudad Juarez, which was the bus I would take to Chihuahua, where I would change for the train to Creel. Continue reading El Chepe
I woke late on Tuesday morning, knowing the ferry from Topolobampo to La Paz, on the Baja Peninsula, didn’t leave until midnight. I didn’t need to check out of my hotel until noon, and I needed to figure out what to do with those twelve hours hours in between. Travel should have taught me by now that there is no such thing as in-between time, that life is just always happening. It’s hard to retrain a mind.
The bus to Mexico City was a quick six hours. Arid mountain scrubland passed outside the window. I dozed on and off.I was 80 days into my trip, and the constant travel and planning had caught up with me long before. Travel isn’t as much a vacation as it is a job you take on, for which you are not paid. There was only one way to get back, and that was to keep going. This isn’t a complaint. But when people think about leaving their jobs and running away, I’m not sure they realize how much drudgery is involved, and boredom.
The rain followed me to San Cristobal. I thought, on the twisting road through the Chiapas highlands, that I’d outrun it on the six hour bus ride,