Nothing starts a journey better than an early start at 4 AM sans café au lait (comme d'habitude). After rolling out of bed and handling my emails, where more magnificent to wallow in my exhaustion than the Nashville Greyhound station? If you haven't been, I should warn you that the following description may be graphic at times.
The cluster of smoking, skulking degenerates brooded aggressively as I unloaded my bags and bid farewell to my parental units, but I remained strong and courageous as I briskly crossed the line from regular Nashville to what I've affectionately called "Hell." In Hell, nothing is fully constructed. In Hell, no human being is intelligible over a loudspeaker. In Hell, your destination doesn't matter, nor do your bags. In Hell, etc.
Beelzebub approached me with his bleached blonde, slicked-back hair and popped some pills into his mouth from out of his Hawaiian shirt pocket. As he stumbled away to stare blankly at the SportsCenter on infinite loop, I cried a little inside. Should I actually show my tears, the demons would lap away at my wetted cheeks, or so I thought.
Finally, the moment arrived. It was 6 AM and my bus was scheduled to leave. But where was it? Oh, it's running two hours behind schedule? I see! I forgot I was in Hell. Well, that's fine, I'll just wait until 8 AM to leave.
Once I left Hell, things only got better. I made friends with a young Chicago resident and discussed the finer points of footworkin', mountain lions, Waka Flocka Flame and kudzoo.
As I arrived in Atlanta at 2:30 (instead of noon), I decided to get my cousin to take me to lunch/dinner instead of taking another bus. This was an excellent idea. We left for my other cousin's and I admired the cats, the beer and the pizza. After family time, I proceeded to the airport and I now await the departure of my plane to Heathrow. More later...
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