I Was Campaign Shouting Like A Southern Diplomat

I was checking out this morning when a guy sitting on the couch in the lobby said, "Hey, California girl." That's what they'd been calling me at the hotel since the guy checking me in saw my ID. The check-in guy was also a waiter at the hotel restaurant where I had dinner two nights in a row, so he got a lot of chance to spread that particular nickname.

The guy on the couch was a different guy, but apparently part of the hotel staff. He was wearing a Corona baseball cap. He wanted to know where I was going. I said I was looking to have breakfast, and then go to the Greyhound station. He said he would give me a ride to the station, that the taxicab drivers would rip me off. I went to the hotel restaurant. They told me they weren't serving breakfast anymore, but that they could give me eggs and bacon and grits. Which sounded fine to me. The guy who was giving me a ride passed through a couple of times, the last time looking to know if I was ready yet. So I said I was.

He was 61 years old, he said, and had lived in Los Angeles when he was in the service. He said he spent two years in Vietnam, and that it was hell. He said that people smoked a lot of pot because you weren't allowed to drink. He said that he was just a young guy then. He told me (as previously noted in the comments) that Mobile was where Mardi Gras started. He said I should go to Mobile for Mardi Gras. He said he would rather be a street light in Mobile than a millionaire in New York City, because in Mobile people looked out for each other. If you fell over on the street, he said, somebody would give you a hand up. He was from Mobile. Sometimes I had trouble understanding him through the Southern accent. We went through a list of famous athletes from Mobile; I brought it up by asking about Hank Aaron. He said he knew the parents of the Oakland Raiders' most recent draft pick. He said the kid had been an excellent athlete since 8th grade.

He guessed that I was 27 or 28, and that I was an only child. The last bit was a little unnerving. When he dropped me off he asked what my boyfriend thought about me travelling around like this. I gave him some money; I wasn't sure how much I was supposed to give him.

I was waiting in line at the ticket counter when a security guy came up to me. He wanted to know if I had just been dropped off. I said I had. He said it was dangerous not to use taxicabs, he said that some people would just take you off and rob you. He said he was just telling me for my own safety. He was an older guy with fierce blue eyes. He stared at me as if I ought to have been taken off and robbed. Given that I was now there safely, I wasn't too sure what to think about that.

It reminded me of this time on the subway in L.A. I was waiting at Union Station when this young-ish girl, super pretty and nicely turned out in a rich-hippie way, came down. She was pretty drunk. It was 5 or 6 p.m. She had a bottle of wine in her purse. She lit up a cigarette, which is, of course, verboten. I didn't say anything. An older guy next to me told her off for it, in a I'm-just-saving-you-from-getting-fined-and-from-yourself kind of way. She apologized, put out the cigarette, and took a swig of the wine. He told her off for that in the same way. She apologized. Then she put her feet up on the seat. Same thing. He told her that she should be careful, that it wasn't safe for her to be drunk like that on the subway.

Now I am not an advocate for drunkenness on the subway by any means, or even for smoking on subway platforms. I am pretty law- and rule-abiding. But there was something a little gleeful about the way that guy wanted to tell her that it was dangerous for her, something a little bit stomach-turning. I don't know.

The Greyhound station was a madhouse.

Song of the Day: Waylon Jennings, Which Way Do I Go?