Dickinson, North Dakota

For hours there was nothing but darkness. Crossing North Dakota in the middle of the night offers no relief from sleep. The landscape that adorns I-94 becomes invisible. All the way from Fargo where I boarded the bus at one in the morning the prairie has eluded me. Four hours later we arrived here and although the town seems to be asleep I can see as I step off the Greyhound a bright red sky taking shape in the horizon to the east.

The parking lot of the “Paragon Bowl” doubles as a bus depot and this cold October early morning wind is a nice change from the rarefied AC air of the bus. Across the road is the “Queen City Motel” with its parking lot packed with pickup trucks full of hunting gear. A street light flickers every once in a while above me and in the distance, howls of prairie dogs and coyotes echo through the grasslands. A couple of pickup trucks are parked outside the “Paragon Bowl”. Inside the cabs, waiting patiently for their owners to come back, sit a couple of Pointer dogs.

Inside the “Paragon Bowl”, the place is surprisingly packed at five in the morning. A mixture of late night partiers and early morning risers seem to fill the 24-hour restaurant and lounge. A group of hunters sit in the restaurant and talk to the bartender who is complaining about the meth addicts and the high school drop outs who are sipping their beers by the bowling lanes. The bartender takes the hunter’s orders for bacon and eggs and heads to the kitchen as the hunters each boast to one another about last year’s hunting season and predict a drop in number of game as this year’s waterfowl season is beginning. I sit by the exit door so I can check on the bus. The bartender comes back from the kitchen and serves the hunters their grub and asks me what I’ll have. I scan the menu and the smell of bacon and eggs has me tempted but I decide instead on coffee and a blueberry muffin. I still got a long way to go on the road and they’ll be plenty of chances to clog my arteries before I reach my destination.

At the lounge adjacent to the restaurant the lights are turned down real low. The lights of a TV set mounted in the wall keeps flickering and from afar I am almost certain I can see Sterling Hayden and Marilyn Monroe in “The Asphalt Jungle”, a favourite film of mine. The sound of the TV seems to be muted and I wonder if that TV set is ever turned off or if it keeps playing whether somebody’s watching or not. The dogs in the pickup trucks outside bark as an answer to the hungry howls of the prairie digs and the coyotes. The hunters have finished their breakfast pretty quickly and ask the bartender for the usual doggie bag. They pay and leave the restaurant, opening the front door which reveals the first signs of sunlight, still weak as it is. A commotion from the lanes has the bartender reaching for a baseball bat under the counter and threatening the meth addicts and the high school drop outs that this is their last warning. I look at them and among the six or seven that make up the group, all in their twenties, I see a young girl much younger than the rest, who seems to be out of place. Her behaviour is the opposite of the others and I wonder what she’s doing with them, the sole female of the group. I catch her looking at the TV in the lounge and then she catches me looking at her. I tip my cap at her and she just turns her attention back to the TV. They start laughing a little too loud and the bartender has no other option than to jump behind the counter, which seems to silence them for now. I take this as my exit sign, not wanting to be caught up in an awkward situation. I take my muffin and pay up on my way out.

Outside, in the parking lot of the “Queen City Motel”, hunters pack their hunting gears into their pickup trucks and their dogs are barking like crazy in anticipation. The street lights suddenly begin to be turned down one by one and are slowly being replaced by the first morning light. A block east down the road, the neon sign of the “Oasis Motel” is suddenly turned on which I find curious. Emerging from the parking lot are a group of men all geared up for oil drilling I’m sure, with their hard hats and work gloves on. I hear the Greyhound engine coming to life and the driver stepping out and heading to the “Paragon Bowl” with a coffee thermos. Inside the bus most of its occupants open their eyes and watch the sun starting to rise for a few seconds and then go back to sleep. The driver comes back from the “Paragon Bowl” with his thermos steaming with hot coffee and stands next to me by the door of the bus. Some of the high school drop outs emerge from the “Paragon Bowl” as well and stand by the parking lot acting drunk and talking loudly to each other. They head out each in a different direction. Looking at them the driver tells me, in between sipping his coffee, that he finds it ironic that this place was once dubbed the “Queen City of the Prairies”. In the “Queen City Motel” parking lot, the dogs keep barking as the hunters are ready to drive away. A yellow school bus stops just outside the “Oasis Motel”, picks up the oil drillers and drives away.

I board the Greyhound as the driver is announcing on the speaker that we should reach our next scheduled stop in Billings, on time. I look around the town one last time as we’re driving towards I-94 and at six in the morning it has finally quieted down, leaving it deserted it seems. At the intersection before entering the interstate, the bus stops at a stop sign and I look out the window and see the young girl from the “Paragon Bowl” standing at the crossroads seemingly doing nothing. She’s looking at the horizon to the northeast where the grassland starts. I look in the same direction and witness one of the most beautiful sunrises I ever saw. The bus drives off into I-94 and the arresting beauty of this North Dakota prairie sunrise keeps hovering over the oil fields and the farm lands and it seems to follow me for miles all the way through the Montana borderline.

Steele, North Dakota

You can see the world’s largest sandhill crane statue all the way from I-94 almost from a mile away. The first time you see it, it surprises you cause it’s so unexpected. It’s sundown on the prairie and on the horizon way  out west for as far as your eyes can see, and as the Greyhound pulls off the interstate and stops for supper, the sandhill crane statue up close feels iluminated by this burning orange prairie sunset sky which makes it an even more unexpected surprise. It seems to stand guard on this tiny place at the side of the interstate, so far away from anywhere, 60 miles to Jamestown to the east and 45 miles to Bismark to the west and nothing else in between. The statue faces the interstate and up there from its vantage point it seems to serve as a welcoming sign to the tired and hungry drivers as it stands on the same grounds as the “Lone Steer Cafe, Motel & Casino”.

I’ve seen quite a few places like this on the road, but none quite like the “Lone Steer”. I step into the cafe and the first thing that catches my attention are a couple of flies hovering over the apple pie display case.  That doesn’t help sell the place for me but this will be the last chance for a real meal before I reach Montana in the early morning. The waitresses seem to be more concerned with the local news gossip on the radio than to attend to the costumers. It seems Old Joe will spend another night in jail for riding his bicycle naked again. That is enough to have them laughing hysterically. I wonder how old Joe really is and how many times has he done it before or how senile or bored he must be to keep doing it. One of the waitress keeps chewing gum while the other is smoking a cigarette and they seem to me to be much older than they probably are. Only after my fellow patrons in the Greyhound come in after finishing smoking their cigarettes outside, and make a commotion, do the waitresses turn the radio low, drop the cigarette butt beyond the counter and the chewing gum under the grill and turn their attention to the costumers.

I’m still not sure what I’m having so I scan the menu for anything that catches my attention. One of the waitresses, Kitty, approaches my table and serves me coffee and asks what I’ll be having. I ask about their specials and if she will recommend anything. She recommends the blue-plate special with all the fixins and that actually sounds good to me. While I wait for my meal I look at the sandhill crane still hanging high over this place. The sunset has already been replaced by the first signs of dark outside but the sandhill crane still seems to cast the remains of that burning orange sky.  After I finish my blue-plate special I ask for the check and Kitty asks if there’ll be anything else. I say no, but she interrupts me by saying “Hone, you shouldn’t leave without trying our apple pie. It’s our specialty. We make it ourselves”. I can still hear the buzzing of those flies, even over the conversations, hanging over that display case, but can’t honestly have the nerve to say no to Kitty’s big smile. I say that I’m still full from the blue-plate special and ask her if she can wrap the pie for me to go. She says “Sure hone, I’ll put in an extra large slice for you.”  Kitty hands me the pie wrapped up in tin foil and I pay up at the counter leaving her a generous tip.

Outside the café it’s starting to get colder and darker. The lights of the motel office are on but there’s no other lights on in the place, which makes me wonder if anyone’s staying at the motel or if maybe they are at the next door casino. From the outside, I can’t even guess if the casino is open for business. In fairness, there’s a penetrating silence surrounding the parking lot that is only tempered by the distant traffic on I-94 and by a few rushes of wind every once in a while. I’m called in to board the bus and I take a long deep breath. The cold wind on my face invigorates me and I pass the sandhill crane statue on my way to the bus and finally take on the true measure of it. It seems to be so much bigger now than what I first realized when I arrived here. And as I take a final look at it from inside the bus as we’re already on our way to enter I-94, it still stands tall over the place and seems to irradiate light to the parking lot and the café. I fall asleep on the bus thinking who’d ever thought of putting such a thing in that place. I awake in the middle of the night. I look outside for a few minutes and all I see is the dark, interrupted from time to time by the headlights of oncoming buses and trucks going east in the opposite direction as our bus. I look around me and everyone is sleeping except the driver and me. It’s probably 3 or 4 in the morning and there’s at least another 3 hours before we stop again and I’m feeling hungry again. I remember the apple pie that still sits under the tin foil in the seat next to me. It’s still warm and I eat it without leaving any single crumb. The best damn apple pie I ever had, I think to myself, while looking outside the window at the dark cold American night.

Valley City, North Dakota

Beyond the valley and through the rolling country all is silent. A gentle wind brushes to life a few sunflowers standing between wheat fields, thus serving their purpose of safeguarding the crops. The sun has slowly begun to set over the distant dairy farms and grain fields as the bus gets off I-94. It winds through the sunset-lit empty streets and crosses an old narrow brick bridge to finally stop outside a café.

The Hilltop Café is a combination gas station/convenience store/restaurant. From the outside it looks like it’s been here for ages. The rusty wooden exterior needs a new coat of paint and the roof tiles have seen better days. An “Open” neon sign on the window keeps going on and off and the wooden floor just outside the entrance door creaks as I approach the double screen door.

Inside it’s actually cozy. The smell of burgers and fries invades my senses as I come in and I realize that I’m hungrier than I thought. A couple of regular patrons sit by the counter drinking beer and chatting over the loud sound of a hockey game on TV. There are only a few tables to sit at and I decide on the one closest to the door. I look around for a waitress. At a corner table opposite mine, a six-year old boy is sitting, knees perched on the chair, doing homework. Opposite him is his mother who’s helping him. The kid points at me and says something to his mother. When she realizes that there’s a new costumer she raises her finger to me, letting me know that she’ll be right over to take my order.

I look at the menu, but, before I have time to go through it, the waitress is standing next to me, welcoming me, asking if I already know what I’ll be having. The comforting smell of homemade burgers and fries coming from the kitchen makes my decision easy. She calls out for the special of the house and a voice from inside the kitchen yells back, “Alright, honey!” She fetches the pot of coffee from beyond the counter and pours me a cup.

Then she goes back to her kid. Her boy has stopped doing homework and is standing on his chair, scribbling on the steamy windows with the tip of his index finger. On TV someone has scored and it makes a ruckus loud enough to have the waitress call out to the men by the counter to turn the sound down a bit.

As I wait for the food I look outside the window. The sun has already set completely behind the valley and the town seems very much asleep already. No one is outside except a few of my fellow travelers who are smoking or coming out of the convenience store. I sip from my coffee cup when the cook, the waitress’s husband, sets my plate in front of me, a very generous serving of cheesy fries surrounding the very appetizing cheeseburger.

I break into the delicious food in front of me and look outside the window to ascertain how much time I have until my bus leaves. A brand new full moon seems to have propped up behind the old narrow brick bridge. It gives so much light that overpowers the dim street lights. From where I’m sitting I’m able to see almost the whole town. The Sheyenne River quietly streaming down, with such a strong bluish color that reflects the light of the moon perfectly. The succession of bridges, both small and big, that follow the trail of the river that crosses the town. Old standing bridges so beautifully nestled between the moon and the river that gives this town an unusual touch of old romance.

When I finish my cheeseburger and fries, I look back inside and the waitress is still helping her kid. Not wanting to interrupt, I locate the husband, who’s now keeping company with the two regular patrons and watching what seems to be the last quarter of a tied game. I order another coffee to go and ask him to make my bill. I head to the restrooms and when I come back, my bill and a Styrofoam cup steaming wit hot coffee is waiting for me at the table.  I pay up, leaving a $10 bill on the table to settle the $6.50 I owe and grab my coffee and head to the bus.

I settle in my front seat and look out the window at the “Hilltop Café” one more time. The waitress is now clearing my table and the kid is back on his knees perched on the chair. He begins again to scribble something on the steamy windows. The full moon is now hanging high over the town as the bus drives off the parking lot. The waitress is back with her kid trying to finish the homework and before the bus turns to leave I believe I can make out the words that the kid has written on the window, even from the disadvantage point of trying to read them backwards. “HOME” it reads. I smile as we leave the café parking lot behind and soon find enough courage to start believing again in something I thought I had lost forever out here on the road.

Little Falls, Minnesota

A Sunday main street sunset serenade. Standing in the corner of Broadway and 1^st Street I can feel this cold October breeze coming in. The mighty Mississippi river rolls sweetly close by. Sometimes it’s the only audible sound. Looking around I can imagine how this intersection would be bursting with people and cars if it was any other day of the week and the many businesses would be open. On Sunday I’m guessing people have taken early to their homes as soon as the sun started setting and the temperatures started dropping significantly. It’s early October and it feels like we’re deep into winter already. The sunset is spreading its vivid orange (colour) across the sky and it feels to illuminate everything in its path giving a glowing look to this street scene. I start walking around the block, not wanting to wander off too much, as the Greyhound bus has only stopped here for a 20 minute break. The sunset keeps hanging on in the air giving now a bright orange-red glow as I come to a building straight out of the old west it seems.

The Broadway Sports Bar is hardly noticeable except for a few signs on its tiny windows that advertise a game room, satellite TV and 75 cents beer specials. But what really draws my attention is the false front building that looks as old as the town itself. The kind of building I’m used to seeing further up west from here and in smaller towns or ghost towns. In fact, looking at the buildings that surround it, it’s easy to assume that this might be the oldest building still standing in this town. As I come in the smell of stale beer fills the air. Behind a big mahogany counter by the entrance, the bartender cleans beer glasses inattentively and seems to pay more attention to the three big screen TVs above him, broadcasting three different NFL games. He’s in his early fifties and can only hide his frown when he’s not self-conscious about it. I sit by the counter and wait for the bartender to notice me which takes him a few seconds. I notice a coffee pot behind the counter and when Bob, the bartender realizes I’m sitting there, he apologizes and introduces himself. I ask if the coffee is fresh and he says it’s from breakfast but he’ll be happy to make a new pot. I say it’s not necessary but he keeps insisting on it so I give in. While the coffee is brewing he asks where I’m from and I say I’m just passing through on the Greyhound heading west. At the end of the bar there are a couple of pool tables and a foosball table. Three men in their thirties play in one of the pool tables and only seem to divert their attention to the football games on TV when the announcer’s voice seem to indicate an imminent touchdown or a great defensive play. The smell of fresh coffee starts replacing the smell of stale beer and Bob serves me my coffee in a mug with the logo of the place. I ask Bob about the building and it says that it dates back to 1885, one of the oldest standing buildings in town. As far back as he can remember, this has always been the “Broadway Sports Bar”, but the people who sold him the place more than twenty years ago have told him that it used to house pretty much every business I can think of, from a whorehouse to a Chinese Laundromat to a law office. I notice an old Wurlitzer jukebox unplugged just sitting on a dark corner of the bar and wonder if it is just a reminder of better days. Bob sees me admiring the jukebox and tells me this used to be a music bar when he started running it with some live bands on weekends. Over the years the interest has waned down and the costumers started vanishing so he turned it into a sports bar which seems to pick the business side of it a little bit. Then came the no-smoking ordinance and that’s when things turned worse. I point out that it’s unusual on a Sunday afternoon with the NFL all over TV to see the bar almost empty. Bob says a few years ago business started shifting from Broadway when newer, bigger and modern bars opened across town. His wife Judy and him have been toying with the idea of selling the place but nowadays the return on the investment would be so small that it would render it almost obsolete. On the other hand, they’ve been late on paying the loan to the bank every month this year and things are not getting any better. I notice the time on the clock above the counter and rush to finish the coffee. I also notice that next to it there are lot of merchandising gathering dust on a display case. I ask Bob if they’re for sale and he says that he hasn’t sell any in ages that he almost forgot they were there. I pay for the coffee and ask if I can pay for the mug he served me coffee with. Bob takes a new clean mug from the display case and hands it to me saying it’s a gift to remember them by, hoping next time I come this way the doors will still be open. I thank him and head out the door.

Outside it has gotten dark and cold fast and a light snow is falling. A single streetlight lamp flickers just outside the bar. I hear roars from the small crowd of three inside the bar, so somebody must have scored. I run to catch the bus as it’s about to leave and take my seat upfront. I take the mug and store it safely in my backpack. The bus rolls on Broadway and passes the bar. Bob is just outside the door sweeping the first drops of snow that have gathered suddenly on the sidewalk. With just enough desperation on his face he stops sweeping and lights a cigarette and savours it like it’s the last one he’s gonna have. The bus crosses the bridge over the Mississippi river and heads into Highway 10. A big full moon hangs in the air above town and it seems to steal the crystalline bluish colour from the mighty river, illuminating the empty streets of town in such a way that it seems to be serenading it to sleep.

Tomah, Wisconsin

The sun rose unexpectedly early this morning, out here on the road. A big and bright yellow light woke me up from my slump only ticks away from six a.m. The Greyhound kept pushing through Ohio and Indiana all night long through the dark roads. And now this sunlight which is a welcome relief to my sleepy eyes. Crossing the Illinois/Wisconsin border the landscape is fast becoming the picture perfect image of farmland America. Cows grazing in the green pastures, cornfields rising to the blue cloudless skies it seems, red barns, old tractors and big combines rusting under this imperceptible early morning mist.

It’s a shock when we finally stop for breakfast just off I-94 outside of Tomah. I’m disappointed that we had to stop at all and even more so when I find that the impromptu rest stop is nothing more than a McDonald’s. In the parking lot across from it there’s a few semis lined next to each other. A truck driver brushes his teeth outside his rig and another one emerges from his truck and lights a cigarette. In the McDonald’s parking lot most of the cars have out of state license plates from far away as Oregon or West Virginia. Most of the Greyhound travelers rush to the fast food joint, surely lured by the greasy smell hanging in the air of frying processed meat and salty fries and the promise of free refills in their favorite sugary sodas. A few stand outside the door finishing their cigarettes in a hurry so they can go straight from one addiction to another one without losing a beat. I prefer to stand outside in the parking lot and take in this refreshing morning breeze. The traffic on I-94 oozes by leaving a scent of gasoline in the air. A family steps out of McDonald’s and head to their compact car. The young kid, probably eight or ten years old sports a hat that resembles a block of cheese. His parents, in their late thirties, both wear big Green Bay Packers jerseys and caps. I can see from  their license plate that they’re from Pennsylvania. A few of my fellow Greyhound travelers emerge from McDonald’s, their breakfast fix inside a brown paper bag, drops of fat staining the bags, and take to the bus. I hear in the distance the low roar of a two-engine plane approaching. I look up to try to locate it but as soon as I do, the sun forces my eyes shut and I can only hear it disappearing into the crop fields to the north.

I head to McDonald’s intent on using the bathroom and getting a coffee to go. The place is still packed with college students from the bus using their laptops, taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi the restaurant so proudly advertises on its billboard. In the restrooms, John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” is playing on the speakers. I remember growing up in the country hearing that song ad nauseam on the radio as I was doing my homework. I step out of the restrooms and the restaurant has suddenly cleared. I decide to take my coffee right here and sit by the window. Outside, my fellow travelers stand by the bus, smoking or taking big gulps from their big soda jugs. A Harley Davidson gets off the I-94 ramp and heads to the McDonald’s parking lot. I follow the couple who ride it as they step out of the bike and take their helmets. They’re both in their early thirties. They take their helmets by their arms and head to the McDonald’s. They seem to me to be bickering about something. The man has long hair and beard and wears several tattoos of Harleys and Southern Rock band names in his arms and neck. He is dressed all in black and leather and conceals just enough of his contempt behind his shades. The woman has at least three visible rings, in her navel, tongue and nose. She wears denim jeans and cowboy boots and a faded Jewel On Tour T-Shirt from 2001. I’m about finished with my coffee and my bus seems to be ready to leave, so I make my way to the counter again to get another coffee to go and stand behind the biker couple. I overhear the woman whisper in the man’s ear “You know I love you no matter what right?” to which the man responds “I just wish sometimes you’d showed it a little bit more that’s all”. They take their order and head out. I get my coffee to go and head out behind them and catch a glimpse of a few words tattooed in the man’s neck that reads “Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don’t be sorry”. I stand by the bus sipping from my coffee cup and overhear the bike couple. “I don’t know why you never liked my family. They always supported us” the woman says. “I don’t think I’m ready to give up the dream juts yet” the man responds. “Just give it a shot, will you? We’re at the end of our rope as it is. Give it six months. We’ll get settled in and find a way out, I promise you” the woman seems to beg. “I don’t think I’m cut up to be living in a farm. I’m a city boy, always was, always will be” the man insists. “This is an opportunity to start again. You can work with my dad on the farm. You can settle up shop in town, there’s a lot of need for a mechanic in that part of the country. I can take a part time job in town, maybe take a workshop or something. We will be together, that’s what’s important. And you know, my parents aren’t getting any younger either. They’re both turning seventy next year. They’re at the end of their rope. This will mean the world to them”.

The bus driver calls up to board the bus and the biker couple kiss passionately as I board the bus and take my seat. The bus drives away as the biker couple are still locked in an endless embrace. The bus begins its slow uphill drive north towards the Minnesota border and the landscape begins to shift drastically again. An early October snow starts falling on the empty and desolate prairieland and my heart starts yearning for home like never before. As we go through the town of Black River Falls the forest starts to get thicker and thicker and the sunlight can barely get through. Still I keep my sleepy eyes open in the lookout for a place I know I will recognize. As we approach Eau Claire the biker couple race pass the bus. The woman clinging to the man’s waist as hard as she can. We take on speed pass Eau Claire on I-94 and the biker couple get off and merge into Highway 53 that will take them straight up north into rural Wisconsin. John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” starts echoing in my mind as I watch the Harley Davidson disappearing fast on the horizon, the lines of the song “And drivin’ down the road I get a feelin’ that I should have been home yesterday” suddenly taking on a whole new meaning.

Mount Eaton, Ohio

The wheat fields to my right seem like burning with this intense yellow light reflecting back from the rising sun. A couple of combines sit rusting next to a red barn, the paint beginning to fade. Rusty tractors in this early morning dew look like abandoned puppies outside the door wanting to come in. Crows circle the farms, yapping on the prowl. There’s no sign of a human anywhere around. Either it is too early in the day or everyone has gone to church already on this Sunday morning. The corn fields to my left keep whistling a sad old country song to the tune of the waltzing wind. Smoke begins rising from a couple of chimneys in the distance but there’s no lights turned on inside the houses. I stop on my tracks and look back to find out I’ve wandered too far off the parked bus. I walk back to Main Street in the direction of the bus and the “Hilltop Market” cafe where we’ve stopped for breakfast. A cold breeze rushes down Main Street and makes me yearn for some hot comfort food. I decide to keep walking and skip the “Hilltop Market” who is filling up with the noisy and rowdy passengers from the bus and finally come upon “The Olde Mountain Top Family Restaurant” on the outskirts of town. The neon sign keeps blinking intermittently like it’s about to go off. On the billboard outside they boast about serving the best omelets in the County. The lack of any artificial lights inside is a huge contrast to all the other places we’ve been stopping at in this journey and that is what makes me go in.

Inside, the café is furnished with big black exposed wooden beams on its high ceiling that cross the length of the roof. A big rusty wood counter stretches the entirety of the brick wall facing the entrance door. It has more the appearance of a saloon than the family restaurant they advertise to be. The place is dead silent and empty of costumers and if it weren’t for the smell of freshly brewed coffee coming from beyond the counter, I would have assumed the place was closed. I sit at the counter near the coffee pot who’s about finished brewing a new pot and try to look pass the half open kitchen door but don’t see anyone. I look around the place and it’s plain to see that I’m probably the first costumer of the day as every single Formica table is cleaned up and untouched. I look at the big clock on the wall beyond the counter and notice it’s still seven in the morning which explains why the place is empty. I settle in on my seat as I still got another twenty minutes before my bus leaves.

A couple of stools from me there’s a local newspaper spread open on the counter on the crosswords puzzle page. I pick it up and start reading the front page but I’m interrupted by the sound of someone coming in from the kitchen. When he comes in carrying a tray full of fresh vegetables he is so startled by my presence that he fumbles the tray and almost drops it to the floor. I apologize and find myself jumping from my stool trying to help him carry the load which he immediately dismisses. He’s an older gentleman, maybe well in his eighties and as soon as he places the tray securely on the counter he says that they’re not open yet. I apologize again saying that I only came in because I found the door half open and I thought I would finally find some peace and quiet to go with my breakfast this morning. He says usually they would be open for breakfast by now but on Sunday they open a little later. He finally looks me over as I’m about to leave and as he’s clearing the final vegetable from the tray and into the working table behind the counter he asks me if I want some coffee to go. I say I don’t want to put him off his chores and he counters saying he can’t serve me breakfast if that’s what I was looking for cause the eggs haven’t been delivered yet but he’s about to have some coffee himself so there’s no disruption for him. I accept his offer and he proceeds to pour a cup of coffee for himself on a ceramic mug and one for me in a Styrofoam cup. He stops short of pouring coffee for me and turns to ask if I prefer to have it here in a ceramic mug. I say that would be lovely and thank him.

“I heard you were looking for some peace and quiet this morning so I thought you’d appreciate it” he says as he hands me the mug.

“So, you’ve been on a Greyhound for how long now?” he asks me as he turns on the radio next to the coffee pot.

“Oh” I pause. “Since nine a.m. yesterday” He nods as he takes his mug and comes from behind the counter and sits two stools from me. “And I still got another eight hours to go before I get to my destination”.

He blows on his coffee and looks over at me and more precisely at the newspaper and I immediately apologize again and hand it over to him. He opens up the newspaper on the crosswords puzzle page and proceeds to do them like I’m not sitting there. I sip my coffee while Hank Thompson is playing on the radio. I observe the old man as he drinks his coffee one slow sip at a time while doing the crossword puzzle. His eyes focused on the newspaper while his hard-working wrinkled hands keep moving about. His right hand firmly holding the pen who’s dancing between his fingers while his left hand keep tapping on the counter lightly to the rhythm of the old time country music coming out of the radio. When he finishes the crosswords his eyes glare up as he closes the newspaper and finishes his coffee. He does it so matter-of-factly that I believe this has been his daily routine for the better part of his life.

He looks at me and finally asks “Where you headed then?” like he’s just picking up from our previous conversation.

“Oh, Cleveland today, to catch a connecting bus to Chicago”.

“You sure move around a lot don’t you?” and doesn’t wait for a proper response from me. “So where do you call home then?”

“I don’t have a particular place I can call home at the moment”

“What are you looking for then?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why you keep moving about… What’s out there that you want to find?” He grins at me as I stay silent and he goes behind the counter and pours himself another cup of coffee.

“You want me to top that off for you?” I nod my head in agreement as he pours the coffee. He comes from behind the counter and sits in the stool next to mine and blows on his coffee before taking a sip. “You know what you’re looking for out there?” and doesn’t wait for an answer. “You’re only looking for what you already are!...” I’m looking down at the steam coming out of my coffee mug and grin to myself at the old man’s precise assertion even though he’s known me for only a few minutes. We both sip from our coffee cups as we keep silent for awhile and listen to the radio as it’s playing another Hank Thompson song. When the song finishes and the DJ announces a commercial break to the Hank Thompson all-day festival, the old man ventures one last time, “Don’t go looking for validation to your life elsewhere. Just settle for who you are and let life catch up to you.”

The front door opens wide and a man comes in carrying a basket of fresh eggs. He puts them on the counter and shakes hands with the old man. I look at the clock above the counter and find it’s still stuck on 7 a.m. I take a sip of my coffee as the DJ on the radio announces Hank Thompson’s “Smoky the Bar” coming up next. I listen to the song for a few seconds while the old man is pouring a cup of coffee to the egg farmer and get lost in overlapping song and conversation happening. When the song ends the DJ announces the time and that’s when I realize that the clock above the counter is stuck on 7 a.m. and I’m out of time to catch my bus.

I panic and ask the old man how long I’ve been here. He shrugs his shoulders and apologizes for the clock saying he never did fixed it when it stopped running cause he never did serve any purpose to him anyway. I fumble my pockets for change to pay for the coffee but the old man says the coffee is on him. I thank him and rush to the door and he calls out to me.

“And slow down for chrissakes. You don’t want to rush to the end of your life, do you? You’ll miss the whole point of it…”

I stop before opening the door and smile as Hank Thompson finishes playing on the radio. I tip my baseball cap to the old man and step out of the café. Outside the day has fully bloomed. The sun is hidden behind a few clouds but it doesn’t stop it from shining on the fields. Roosters everywhere keep crowing out of synch. The tree leaves keep rustling in the wind. And further down the road a couple of horse carriages are making their way into town and for a minute or two I’m lost in their slow journey.

Milesburg, Pennsylvania

I awake from a restless two-hour sleep to find the bus has stopped in a rest stop somewhere along I-80 in the middle of the night. The Greyhound engine is turned off so I know this is more than a cigarette break. The driver announces on the speaker that this is a thirty minute meal stop. Most of my fellow travelers go back to sleep as soon as the driver turns off the overhead dim lights. I step off along with a couple of others who stand just outside the bus smoking their cigarettes. The darkened parking lot gives only a feeble idea of the amount of semi trucks parked for the night. Dim lights make a just a few visible and a billboard just off the exit of the interstate advertises that this is one of the biggest truck stops along I-80. I walk in the direction of the billboard more to avoid the second hand smoke than to read the billboard in full, and find dozens of semis, their cabin lights turned off and a few old and rusty trailers abandoned at the edge of the parking lot. I take a closer look at the billboard and notice that the diner boasts that they serve the best chicken gumbo soup this side of the Mississippi. A sudden piercing cold wind coming from the north is enough to convince me to cozy it up with a hot bowl of soup.

The Bestway Diner is nothing more than a highway restaurant passing as a Diner. At first sight there’s nothing to distinguish itself from all the other places like it along these interstates that I’m traveling through. There’s a notice board by the entrance full of notes and post-its, left no doubt by travelers and truckers who passed through this place. Somebody is looking for their lost puppy who run away from their R.V. A picture of the dog, named Oscar, doesn’t make for easy recognition. An ample reward awaits whoever finds it. I start shivering at the thought that the puppy probably had no chance of surviving trying to cross this busy stretch of I-80. Next to it, I notice someone has left a love note to an unknown. The handwriting is not as easy to read but I gather that whoever wrote it fell in love at first sight for a girl in the Diner who was also passing through. He’s making his intentions clear and if she ever comes back and reads the note he’s begging her to call him on his mobile phone. I wonder how many prank calls he got and if she ever came this way again. And what are the slim chances of that happening and she will stop by the entrance and look at the dozens of notes posted on the notice board, to find his.

I sit in the counter and look at the menu plastered on big bulk letters on the wall, more out of curiosity than anything else. I notice the big clock on the wall next to. It’s past four in the morning but a bowl of hot chicken gumbo soup is just what I’m craving. At the end of the counter sits and old style stoneware black steel pot, with the gumbo soup steaming and fuming from the edges of the lid. The waitress approaches me, gives me a big aide smile. She’s in her early fifties with crooked front teeth and heavy makeup on but what catches my eyes is the glare coming off her bright red lipstick. It seems to be out of character with the rest of the Diner and its baseless brownish color of the chairs and tables and the faded white of the walls. She is as sympathetic as she is tired and sometimes I can’t really distinguish between both. What she asks me what I’m having, I finally make sense of the fact that the Diner boasts having the best chicken gumbo soup this side of the Mississippi. Her southern accent is so intense that for a second or two I forget that I’m somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania.

I order my soup and look around the Diner with its Western style chandeliers and low wattage lights almost inducing sleep. I sit alone at the counter while a few Greyhound travelers sit on the tables sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups. Outside it’s still pitch black and if it wasn’t for a sole lamp post on the parking lot, the Greyhound would be hardly visible.  A few reading lights are turned on in the bus and all of a sudden a young woman in her early thirties emerges from the bus with a young kid, maybe five or six years old by her hand, and head to the Diner. The kid is holding a teddy bear close to his chest and as sleepy as he is, his eyes automatically it seems, light up as they come in the Diner and he sees a small key chain teddy bear on the small gift shop. His mother rushes him to the bathroom as the waitress serves me my steamy soup which I eat slowly while blowing at it to cool it down a bit.

When the kid emerges from the bathroom with his mother he comes by the counter and looks at the pastry display case and asks his mother for a chocolate chip cookie. The mother fumbles her pockets for change and gives in to the constant pleads of her son. The waitress gives him a giant chocolate chip cookie almost as big as his face and that puts a smile on his face as big as the cookie. A trucker comes in the Diner, cleans the rheum in his eyes and ticks in his shirt. The kid and his mother head to the exit as the trucker is caught up in reading some of the notes up on the notice board. As they pass the gift shop, the kid asks his mother to buy him the teddy bear key chain for his collection to which the mother says maybe next time. The kid is on the verge of crying when the trucker takes his own similar key chain from his pockets, removes his keys and hands the key chain to the kid. The mother says that’s not necessary but the trucker insists and the kid seems so happy that the mother gives in and thanks the trucker.

The trucker sits on the counter and the waitress gives him a big smile. They stand talking for a few minutes while I finish my soup and talk in such a low pitch that I can’t, even if I wanted, understand what they’re talking about. But as I stand, watching them by the corner of my eyes, there’s no denying that these two have something special going on, just by the way he keeps looking at her with loving eyes and how she keeps touching his hands gently, stroking them softly. Not wanting to disturb them I just leave a $5 bill on the counter and head to the bathroom. When I come back in, the waitress is handing the trucker a Styrofoam food container and a coffee thermos. They kiss each other gently on the cheeks. The trucker heads to the exit and stops at the notice board and writes a little note on it. The waitress calls out to me as I’m  making my way out and hands me my change with the same big, warm and welcoming smile she gave me when I came in. The diner is now empty. I stop by the exit to look at the notice board, curious to see what the trucker has written: “I love you honey. See you next month.” I look back at the waitress who is now clearing the tables and still carrying that contagious smile.

Back on the bus, pretty much everyone is asleep as the driver starts the engine. A few wake up with the roar of the engine running and look out the window, but noticing we’re still not moving, quickly shut their eyes and go back to sleep. I look outside as the overhead presence lights on the bus are turned off and see the trucker in his cabin, ready to drive off. He drinks from the coffee thermos and opens the food container to find a note inside. He reads it and smiles in the direction of the diner.

It’s still dark as we roll pass the I-80 overpass. I take my jacket and roll it into a pillow shape and press it against the window to rest my head. There’s nothing to see out the window, as the night seems to drag on and the dark seems to be getting darker still and silence takes over my thoughts. Two seats in front of me sit the young woman and his son. I can see by the reflection in the window that she’s asleep, but the kid is wide awake and playing with his teddy bear and key chain. He seems to be making movies in his head, voicing them with his imaginative mind, the teddy bear and the key chain locked in a deadly battle for supremacy it seems and for the love of a fair princess who is being kept captive far and away. I’m so taken in by this impromptu fairy tale happening in front of me that I don’t even notice that the night has finally been replaced by the first light of day coming from the far off horizon to the east.