March 3, 10:30 p.m.
Watching the lineup at the bus station, Melani says: “You know, you can always divide the people going to New York pretty clearly.” “The hipsters and the others?” I ask. She says: “I was going to say … the hipsters and the extras from Deliverance.” She’s a cold, cold woman, my bride is.
March 4, 1:15 a.m.
Our bus is moving too fast. With only 11 passengers, we whip through customs like nobody’s business. We take a break at a truck stop so the driver can get some coffee and me and the old guy I befriended back at the Montreal terminus stand outside for a smoke. “So you’re goin’ to South Carolina,” he says in his Boston twang. “If I were a little younger, or you were a little older, I’d jump off the bus and go with you.” He pauses and adds: “How do you feel about old, fat, bald men with no money?” I take a long haul. “You had me right up until you said ‘no money’,” I tell him and he laughs like crazy.
March 4, 2:20 a.m.
We’re off the bus and we’ve found ourselves a pretty girl. Problem now is finding a taxi in the metropolis of Burlington. Takes forever, in the chill … Melani chats with a cop … pretty girl chats with another cop … we wait more … Finally find ourselves in the biggest taxi van ever made and, soon thereafter, settled at the airport. We take a tour of the (gorgeous) airport. What might be our plane is waiting for us. It is very small. While I’m happy because smaller planes weigh less and therefore should float better … it is a very small plane. It is a bus with wings. (Edit, 5:22 a.m.: It is a Dash 8. Like the ones that were grounded for, you know, practically falling out of the sky one after the other …)
It’s 2:59 a.m. Our flight’s at 6. Not enough coffee in the world.