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Lovebus

by John Mernick Sr.

Books Places & Travel

Teaser: Welcome to the Lovebus - a celebration of the the Legendary Hippie Greyhound - The Green Tortoise Adventure Travel Bus

Welcome to the Lovebus Podcast! I'm your Host Johnny Lovebus. our intention for this podcast is to celebrate our love for Adventure Travel Aboard the Historic Green Tortoise Adventure Bus. Here at Lovebus Studios, For those of you who aren't in the know, there exists a real life Hippie Adventure Bus called the Green Tortoise. The legendary "Hippie Greyhound," had a "Shuffle Your Feet Lose Your Seat Policy," with no reserved seating, offering bunk beds and communal mattresses for sleeping through the night. The Green Tortoise Adventure Travel Company based in San Francisco has offered low cost adventure tours to international backpackers and the general public since 1973. The infamous "Bus with NO SEATS" still exists today in 2025, but the company just announced that this will be their last year in operation. FOMO still have time everything related to on the , Please, believe me when I assure you that my intentions are pure and honest. hat takes groups of backpackers to national parks As you can imagine, the first time I rode the Green Tortoise I was hooked. I earned my bus name Johnny Lovebus because I literally loved the bus. Green Tortoise Adventure Travel Company The legendary "Hippie Greyhound" also known as I assure you my intentions are pure. the "Infamous Bus with no Seats, The Lovebus Podcast is a celebration of our Love for Adventure Travel Bus. for Adventure, Romance & National Parks aboard . intended to share shared by a wide for everything related to the Legendary Lovebus. As my bus name suggests I literally Love the Bus. minded people have for the Lovebus I drove cross country national parks trips for I love the bus Have you heard about the Green Tortoise Adventure Travel This podcast is intended to spread the Love a celebration of the the Legendary Hippie Greyhound - The Green Tortoise Adventure Travel Bus

Season 1

Welcome to the LOVEBUS!

Welcome to the Lovebus Podcast! What lays in store for you in this podcast is epic! For those of you who aren't in the know, there exists a real-life Hippie Adventure Bus called the Green Tortoise. The legendary "Hippie Greyhound," has a "Shuffle Your Feet Lose Your Seat Policy," with no reserved seating, offering bunk beds and communal mattresses for sleeping through the night. The infamous "Bus with NO SEATS" still exists today in 2026, but the company just announced that this will be their last year in operation. But, it’s not too late; you haven’t missed out. I am a former Green Tortoise Bus Driver who can take you there. I have saved the experience. The only way to tell a story this big is to take you there, on a Green Tortoise adventure, to give you the experience of being there yourself. One thing every Green Tortoise passenger always says is that it changed their life forever. So, I knew I couldn’t tell this story without creating an experience that would CHANGE YOUR LIFE FOREVER. So, I have laid out a series of stories designed to introduce you to these people, backpackers from around the world, my friends, my family. These passengers changed my life; and this podcast promises to change yours. My novel, the Adventures of Johnny Lovebus takes you on the journey of a lifetime; on a 10-day cross country trip with 25 international backpackers; on an adventure tour on a hippie bus; to National parks across America; to the rims of canyons, for hiking, whitewater rafting and skinny-dipping; the most fabulous road trip you could ever imagine there being; with gourmet food twice a day. As one might imagine, the road was full of stories. The Adventures of Johnny Lovebus is a collection of true stories told in the oral tradition, derived from experiences with passengers from around the world over a six-year period from 1992 to 1998. Pact for the Parks Teaser Reel, In the Early 1990’s MTV took a film crew on a cross country trip aboard the Green Tortoise Adventure Travel Bus, intending on making the world’s first reality TV show. When MTV’s producers realized that they could not film inside the bus, because it was too confined, loud, and windy, they decided to make “Road Rules” instead. I believe that my novel, The Adventures of Johnny Lovebus, captures the true experience MTV failed to capture, taking the reader on the adventure of a lifetime aboard the world-famous "Hippie Greyhound." The Adventures of Johnny Lovebus is now for sale on the bookshelves of the Counterculture Museum, on Haight Ashbury in San Francisco, California. My books are also available on Amazon.com, Audible, and Kindle. Links are available in the podcast show notes. If you like what you hear in this podcast please subscribe and leave a review. I ASSURE YOU THAT MY INTENTIONS ARE TRUE. In my philosophy you just lean towards LOVE like a sailboat and like the wind LOVE will take you where you need to go. Welcome to Lovebus!

Chapter 1: The Renaissance of Wonder

Chapter 1: The Renaissance of Wonder Clouds coated the Boston sky like cataracts in the eyes of an insane old dog. The wonderful blue that had once shined behind the clouds seemed lost forever on the hounded features of the city. As my father fifty-fived his Oldsmobile up Route 93 toward the Boston skyline, raindrops crocodiled down the windshield like tears, distorting the foreboding pillars of capitalism, concrete, glass, and steel. With tear warped vision I imagined myself working in one of the countless office buildings, doing the same thing every day for the rest of my life. I wanted no part of that mindless routine. I had just turned twenty-two a month after graduating from college with a degree in sixties literature. You see, I was finished waiting. I was finished waiting for the movie to begin, for the rest of my life to get started. I was finished waiting for somebody to really discover America. I was ready to wail. I was ready to go On the Road to discover my own America. I was not going to sit back and wait for a renaissance of wonder. With great resolve, I bought a one-way ticket to San Francisco on the Green Tortoise Adventure Bus for a ten-day tour of the northern United States. My father parked his car on the corner of Essex and Atlantic Streets near Boston’s South Station. We sat silently waiting with my mother on the cold leather seats of his Oldsmobile. “I don’t love what you’re doing,” he told me in the rearview mirror, “but I will always love you.” My reflection nodded acknowledgement. My mother had been prodding him to apologize before I left. That was as good an apology as I was ever going to get. It had been a rough few months at home, ever since I told him I was moving to San Francisco. He wanted me to have a job lined up before I left, but that did not happen. Fighting with him the previous year had soured me on the world. I had lost that quintessential sense of wonder I had always felt as a child, but I aimed to get it back. Through the misty rain-streaked windows, the only person I could see outside was an overweight Hippie wearing blue denim overalls, sitting on a suitcase under the overhang near the door to South Station. He looked like a Hippie, almost cool, but I could not tell if the pile of bags next to him was his luggage or the worldly possessions of a street person. I could not stand the silence in the car, so I offered to get my parents coffee. They declined, so I went inside the train station to see what I could find. The second I opened the door I could smell marijuana, so I shut the door quickly and crossed the street. The man in blue overalls held a pipe to his lips and blew smoke out his nostrils as I approached. The massive man was as solemn as a lone Buffalo atop a treeless plateau. Except for the smoke billowing out his nostrils he remained motionless until we made eye contact. I lifted my chin and he did the same. For an instant I saw myself in his eyes, as if I was him seeing me walk past. I was just a kid. I could not help but imagine myself in his position, whatever that may be. Back in the car I was sipping burned coffee when my father looked in the mirror and said, “That looks like your bus behind us.” “Oh, my goodness!” my mother reacted in the side view mirror. “What an interesting bus!” I turned and looked out the rear window at the face of the ancient Tortoise bus. In the destination window the words “COAST to COAST” were written with magic marker on white cardboard. I had secretly hoped that the marquee would read “Further,” like the Merry Prankster’s bus, but “COAST to COAST” in a rainbow of colors was even better. The rain had stopped, so I rolled down my window.

Chapter 2: The Art of Adventure Travel

Chapter 2: The Art of Adventure Travel Inside the bus, Driver Chris had taken off his shirt and he was sitting at the dinette table reading from a business ledger. An incredibly attractive girl with flowing brown hair sat on the mattress close behind him massaging his shoulders. His red-bearded face exuded joy. There was a look in his eyes like that of a wise older person, like travel had taught him much about life. I longed to experience that kind of joy myself, to gain such wisdom and to learn about life on the road. The huge man I had seen standing by the station door took up the rest of the bench next to him. He was setting up plastic pieces on a tattered chessboard. There was a pack of playing cards on the table next to him. It was a dirty deck of cards made in the seventies with a different half-naked woman on the face of each card. The guy with the acoustic guitar had removed his leather jacket and was now sitting across the table from the man-mountain chess player. They introduced themselves to each other. “I’m Johnny from England,” he said in a British accent. “My name is Dave,” said the big man in an incredibly slow, deep, and mellow voice. They shook hands. “Do you play chess?” he asked. “Yes, but I’m crap,” answered the Brit. “Do you play to win, or do you play to play?” Dave intoned. His hairy jowls, massive body and broad shoulders reminded me of a buffalo. “Err... to play,” he responded. “Then we can play,” resolved the big man. The black-haired guy who called himself Chicken Jim sat around playing songs on his guitar while the driver sold tickets. “So, you work here?” I asked him as I took a seat across the aisle. He answered in a hipster voice. “Correctamundo,” he said pointing his guitar pick at me with a nod. “I’m training to be a driver.” “That’s awesome bro! I would love to be a driver. Do you get paid for training?” I asked him bluntly. He kept using his hipster voice. “It’s a labor of love bro!” He began plucking the chords to Ticket to Ride. A cute American girl with light-brown hair came up the steps out of breath holding two reusable shopping bags and a soccer ball under one arm. She stopped before the top step and smiled at the huge blond-bearded driver. She was sporty and cute with an endearing sparkle in her hazel eyes. “Is this the bus to California?” she asked. “Indeed, it is,” the driver answered gregariously. “Welcome to the Green Tortoise.” “Wicked!” she said enthusiastically, looking inside the funky old bus. She gestured with her chin to her shoulder lifting her thumb under the strap of her bag. “Where do I put these?” “Jimbo!” the relaxed driver called out. “Help this young lady with her luggage. Will you please?” “I have more bags outside,” she told the reclined helper, but he did not move. A young kid wearing a San Francisco Giants baseball cap rushed up to the Bostonian and shouted, “Awesome! I love soccer!” He tried to grab the ball under her arm, but she turned away out of reflex. When he jumped for the ball, she raised it high above his head. “Awe! Come on!” he complained. She put down her bags so she could hold the ball in both hands. A woman that appeared to be his mother scolded him. “Josh! Leave that nice girl alone.” She had been combing her hair with a brush and a handheld mirror. She seemed annoyed at the interruption. “It’s okay.” The soccer player softened. “As long as you don’t mind.” “I don’t mind,” she replied. She gave the ball to the boy. “What do you say, Josh?” his mother prodded. “Thanks,” he mumbled. He winced when he licked his severely chapped lips. He tossed the ball in the air to himself, dropped it to the floor and kicked it down the aisle. He seemed overjoyed by such a little thing. Chicken Jim kicked it back and forth with him while the Bostonian stood there watching.

Chapter 3: Buddy Check

Chapter 3: Buddy Check While driving west of Boston through the woodland hills of Massachusetts, I sat behind Driver Brian listening to him speak with the soccer player from Boston. “Where did you live when you were a kid?” she asked him earnestly. “In a cooperative,” he informed her. “Is that like a commune?” she asked. “Ha!” he laughed. “I should hope not.” His eyes lit up with his smile. “A cooperative is a place you live with other people, typically in a place you could never afford yourself, but instead of owning your digs, you share the whole property. It’s a bit like rent control.” “Like a condo?” she questioned. “Not really,” he informed her. “We were all about sharing resources with our neighbors. We lived in a yurt on a communal farm in Cupertino. “Hell yeah,” said the soccer player. “That’s so cool.” She had an athletic spirit to match her build. Just like Sporty Spice from the Spice Girls, she was a kickass brunette with an empowered attitude. She was smart and fun altogether. “There are several types of co-ops in the Bay Area,” Driver Brian explained. “Some are just apartment buildings, but there’s almost always a monthly fee. In ours we could not sell our share when we left. We loved it there, but someone else started paying the fee and we lost our right to go back. The fees are stupid expensive in the bay area.” “Wicked!” I said. “I wish I grew up in a place like that.” “It was great,” he gushed. “I would still be living there now if I could.” “Why did you leave?” asked Sporty Spice. “There was a parting of ways between people living in the woods and the established people living in more permanent structures,” he explained. “So, my parents fought against them, and we eventually moved away. They wanted everyone to pay the same fee regardless of where you were living. It was totally unfair. It did not make sense to pay the same money as someone in a house with running water and electricity, and heat for that matter. Some of the old-growth Hippies were still living in lean-tos and tents, sometimes just a hammock.” “I love the term Old-Growth-Hippies. I never heard that before this trip,” I told him. “They’re still out there,” he said. “There’s no shortage of old-school tie-dyed-in-the-wool folks from the sixties in San Francisco.” “We walk among you in disguise,” the boy’s Mother Michelle suddenly interjected. She had a cool way about her. “We don’t get the respect we deserve for trying to save the world,” she opined. “The word Hippie isn’t even capitalized in our language.” “It should be,” voiced the Bostonian. “I’m going to start capitalizing it,” I told them. “It’s sad,” observed Mother Michelle. “Many of your generation have lost sight of us Old-Growth Hippies and what we stood for. We fought for women’s rights, we fought against the war, we were idealists, anti-materialistic and very much seeking out innovative ideas. We had a sense of purpose, like we were doing something good with our lives,” she told us. “All that remains is a terribly commercialized relic of what was once a pristine and beautiful thing. Young people see us as desperately conventional because we value frugal living and buying wholefoods in bulk, instead of paying a premium for individual servings of frozen microwavable kale. That shit produces a shit-ton of waste.” As she took a breath, the two women looked at each other and nodded in solidarity. She concluded, “If your rice comes in a box, you’re definitely not an Old-Growth Hippie.” “That’s funny,” observed the Bostonian, “but I see your point.” “The kids today only love themselves,” spat Michelle. “It’s all about me, me, me.”

Chapter 4: Skinny-Dipping in Connecticut

Chapter 4: Skinny-Dipping in Connecticut About fifteen minutes after the rest stop, the bus pulled off the highway onto a two-lane country road lined with tall pine trees somewhere west of Hartford. Less than a mile later at a nondescript break in the tree-line we turned onto a primitive single-lane dirt road that ended in an open field at the foot of a hill. The bus listed severely on the grassy slope as our driver turned the bus around, throwing passengers side to side and back again as he made a three-point-turn. The bus came to a halt facing the direction we had come, and Driver Chris set the air brake with a pop and hiss. The bus parked on a dead-end dirt road within sight of the highway. Pine trees populated a hillside between the highway and the pond, muffling the roar of engines and car horns, creating an oasis yards away from the motorized mayhem. Driver Chris stood up next to the driver’s seat to make a brief announcement. He bent down a little and pointed out the window. “The swim-hole is down the path over there. Just follow that trail. You can’t miss it.” He sat back down and stroked his red beard and tucked his long hair back behind his ears. “This place is completely private and we’re only going to be here for about an hour. So, you do not need to waste any time digging out your bathing suits and towels or stuff like that. There’s no place on the bus to hang wet clothes to dry.” He reached over and opened the noisy door with a screech. “We will blow the horn when it’s time to go.” As an afterthought he advised, “Don’t worry about the sunken car. It’s been there forever.” “Sunken car!” shouted Little Josh enthusiastically. “Yay!” He pulled his mother’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.” The brunette soccer player from Boston remained seated while everyone else exited the bus. I sat across from her to put my boots on and asked, “Are you going to swim?” “No,” she answered abruptly. “I’m all set. My swimsuit is buried under the floor in the back, and there is no way in a million years I am going skinny-dipping. That’s just nuts.” “I could help you find your bag,” I offered. “No, it’s fine,” she replied. “I’m good.” She was so sweet, demure, and unassuming, with an assertive self-determination that told me she was trying to manifest independence. I had to agree with her. Having grown up in Rhode Island, skinny-dipping in Connecticut sounded crazy, but I had to go along with it. I was swept-up in the excitement and swimming in the oppressive heat sounded great, suit or no suit. So, I said, “Stay cool,” and stepped outside to join the others. The sky was a clear New England summer of blue. The heat of August in New England pressed down upon us, baking our hair and skin. Chicken Jim led the charge, skipping like a stone down the path to the pond, taking off his shirt as he ran. Driver Brian walked with Mother Michelle and her son, followed by the other driver’s French girlfriend and six of the new passengers. The footpath was well-worn and easy to follow, but it was obvious we would have this hidden sanctuary entirely to ourselves. At the edge of the pond, we all stood around for a minute, not knowing what to think or where to begin. A blanket of thick orange pollen covered the surface of the water. Chicken Jim was already standing knee-deep in the water with his blinding white butt-cheeks displayed for all to see. A rusty old antique car that looked like it had been there for a generation sat submerged up to its missing windshield on the opposite bank about fifty feet away. The big, old, American gas-guzzler had come through the pine forest on the hillside without hitting a single tree. It had careened down the hill off the highway, probably the result of an accident. The passengers speculated as to whether or not anyone had been hurt, or if the car had been stolen and was pushed down the hill to hide the evidence.

Chapter 5: The Moon Over Manhattan

Chapter 5: The Moon Over Manhattan When the Green Tortoise bus rolled down Broadway the citizens of New York took notice. As the antique bus maneuvered through traffic, horns beeped, and arms waved enthusiastically through open car windows. Cabbies leaned out waving and truckers blew air-horns. Pedestrians on the sidewalks stopped in their tracks, lining up along the curb as the bus rolled past, cheering, and waving like the bus was a big green float in the Thanksgiving Day Parade. One passerby yelled excitedly, “The Hippies are back!” A young woman shouted affectionately, “I love your bus!” Someone asked loudly, “What’s a Green Tortoise?” The passengers joined in the fun, shouting, and waving to fans. Much to his mother’s chagrin, the little kid, Josh, pulled his shorts down and stuck his bare ass out an open window. The passersby cheered. Then, this hilarious guy on the sidewalk shouted, “Lord Jesus, I’m having a flashback.” He held his hand to his chest, staggering backwards like Redd Foxx calling to Elizabeth on Sanford and Son. It was comical. As the bus circled the George Washington Bridge Bus Terminal, we turned the second corner and saw flames under the bridge where street people and indigents in dirty clothing were drinking and smoking around a fire barrel. I noticed one of the dark figures shaking his head furiously in disbelief, as if the green bus rekindled a memory of some unfulfilled promise made in the Sixties. Driver Chris turned the bus onto the side street below the towering stack of iron decking leading to the massive bridge. A line of taxicabs and shiny limousines waited at the curb of the bus station across the street, ready to escape the city. As the bus pulled into a loading zone on Fort Washington Avenue, a group of men with squeegees surrounded the bus and started washing the windshield and windows. The passengers quickly started closing the windows to stop the spray from getting everything wet. The old metal school bus style windows were hard to close. This created a commotion throughout the bus as passengers got sprayed as they struggled with the metal latches. Driver Chris slid the driver’s window open and hung his head outside. “We don’t want our windows washed,” he told the man at the windshield, waving him off with his hand. “We can’t pay you,” he shouted, shaking his head emphatically. “We wash your windows and you pay us, yes?” the guy shouted in broken English. He sprayed the windshield with a bottle. “We do a respectable job.” “No,” our driver shouted persistently, “we’re not paying you.” He waved the guy off again with his huge hand. “We don’t want our windows washed.” He slowed down his words. “We’re not going to give you money!” The squeegee man kept spraying and swiping the rubber blade on the glass. When he tried pulling on the wiper blade, expecting it to lift off the windshield, Driver Chris yelled, “Stop!” Then, he drew his head back inside and removed his seatbelt. He was clearly upset. “Mother fucker’s going to break our damn wipers and they’ll still want money.” I stood up from the buddy seat and let him pass. “If you refuse to pay, they threaten to smash your windshield,” he told me, like a shot he was out the door. Chicken Jim had been sitting up front, strumming his guitar. He tossed the instrument on the seat and followed the red-haired driver off the bus. Together they engaged in an intense argument with the squeegee man while the others continued to wash the side windows. After arguing for several minutes, the squeegee team finally backed down. He called his men with a loud two-fingered whistle and they disappeared.

Chapter 6: The Driver’s Apprentice

Chapter 6: The Driver’s Apprentice The engine was silent when I woke up, but I could feel the bus swaying slightly as passengers moved around below. I felt well-rested despite the bumpy roads and being kept awake by British Sue’s wind-blown hair touching my face. The dinette table had been converted to a bed on which Michelle and Josh were now sleeping. I peeked over the edge of the bunk, trying to get a look out the windshield. Driver Brian was asleep in the driver’s seat. Sometime in the night, the Miracle Conversion had transformed the couches on the front platform into a sleeping area. I observed the row of bodies in sleeping bags, trying to figure out who was who. The South American guy was awake. He had his arm around the Canadian girl with the bright red lipstick. She was sleeping soundly with her head on his chest. He made eye contact with me, looked at the girl sleeping on his chest and his cheeks dimpled into a grin. I gave him a wide-eyed nod of admiration. His eyes closed blissfully. An attractive couple in their late twenties sat-upright with their backs against the windows reading the Tortoise brochure. The young woman waved to me with a bent wrist and I smiled. She was quite pretty with upturned corners of her mouth and sculpted cheekbones that gave her a pleasant appearance. She wore a tan headscarf with a green tribal pattern over shoulder length brown hair tied up in a bun. The guy next to her, who I presumed to be her boyfriend, lifted his chin to say hello and I did the same. A pair of sunglasses rested on top of his short, curly, black hair, and he wore a yellow soccer jersey with a green emblem on the front reading, South Africa. I could tell from his smile and body language that he was both educated and congenial. The way he affectionately leaned in reading over his partner’s shoulder spoke to a deep connection. I felt the bus shift as Driver Chris came up the steps. After some deliberation, he selected a cassette tape from the case on the dashboard. He put his hand on his sleeping partner’s shoulder. It could not have been comfortable sleeping in the driver’s seat, but the big blond driver awoke in a pleasant mood seeming rested. “Hey brother,” he said to his friend. “I got us here.” “Great job,” said the red-bearded driver. “I’ve already got breakfast started. It’s time to wake the troops.” He handed him the cassette. He read the label and said, “Nice!” He pushed a cassette into the stereo and raised the volume slowly as a song began to play. The Latin sounds of wooden claves, shakers and tambourines rose to a crescendo as The Who’s Magic Bus played on every speaker. Roger Daltrey sang the lyrics, “Thank you, driver, for getting me here.” Driver Chris looked at me with a knowing look. He smiled, but I could tell his mind was elsewhere. I wondered if his brother was still alive. He stood there for a while with one knee on the buddy seat, holding the support bar, waiting for passengers to show signs of life. Eventually, he persuaded the sleeping passengers to wake up in a creeping deep voice. “It’s time to wake up,” he urged. “It’s time for breakfast. We need to start cooking now, or else we will not have time to swim in Lake Erie after breakfast. If you do not want to get up now, you can help clean up. Everyone needs to either cook or clean. Especially the guys. Don’t you dare let the ladies do all the work.” This left me feeling somewhat offended because I have always done my share in the kitchen. I consider myself a feminist, so I was glad when someone spoke up. “Hey now!” Jewels objected with attitude. “You’re just reinforcing the stereotype. I hope you don’t think cooking and cleaning is ‘women’s work, because I won’t lift a finger.”

Chapter 7: Indiana Dunes

Chapter 7: Indiana Dunes While the rest of us used the bathrooms one last time, Driver Brian went to sleep in the driver’s cabin and Driver Chris changed into a pair of red lifeguard shorts and a stained grey t-shirt with the words, ‘I am Made of Meat’ half hidden behind his copious facial hair. The beautiful brown-skinned teacher from New York was sitting on the buddy seat with her back leaning against his shoulder, so I sat on the first seat across the aisle next to Mother Michelle. She was telling the Irish Twins all about her previous cross-country trip. Apparently, PAC-MAN had only brought one change of clothes with him, so Driver Chris reluctantly allowed him to hang his wet garments on the dashboard handrail. While it seemed odd to bring no clothes on a ten-day adventure trip, I found his tiger-print underwear even more disturbing. I was not the only one who noticed either. Chicken Jim called him out on it as soon as he hung them up to dry. “Are those yours,” he questioned with a laugh. The Chinese man grew defensive. “Why yes,” he stammered. “What’s your problem?” “I’ve just never seen underwear split down the sides like that before,” marveled the Pennsylvanian. “They look like something my grandmother would wear.” “They are very comfortable,” he defended. Is that polyester?” asked the rookie. “It’s silk,” he explained. I felt bad for the guy, but I had to admit, his underwear was snazzy. I had never seen anything like them before. Although, this was my first experience seeing an Asian man’s underwear. “Leave him alone, Jimbo!” Driver Chris admonished. Then he shouted, “Buddy check!” “Buddy check!” I shouted. Several others repeated the call. I spotted my buddies, Guitar Johnny, Big Dave, Mother Michelle, Little Josh, British Sue, and English Tessa. They were all present. I counted twenty-one passengers not including Chicken Jim. The buddy check calls trailed-off and the bus grew quiet. “Everyone’s here,” I told the red-bearded driver. “Great,” he responded. He attached a pen to his logbook, tossed it onto the dashboard and started the engine. Jewels asked him, “Where are we headed?” As he turned the bus around in the parking lot he spoke in a distracted manner. “Our first stop is Toledo, unless there’s a good place to stop along the highway. I’d rather not go into the city unless we have to. I need to call for an update on my brother. There’s a Greyhound Station there in case I need to go home.” “Goddess forbid,” said Jewels. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I’d hate to have to put you guys on a Greyhound. Once you’ve experienced the Tortoise, you can’t go back. Greyhound can be a twisted nightmare of back spasms. Hopefully, the news is good at home.” “You must be beside yourself with worry.” Jewels spoke soulfully. “I’m here for you if you need anything; I’m your girl.” She was so empathetic and wonderful. Her mere presence made you feel better even if nothing was wrong. “Did you find out how the accident happened?” she asked. “It may not have been an accident at all.” He took on a serious expression. “Our best guess is that he was mugged,” he spoke with emotion in his voice. Jewels’ face went blank and her whole body froze. “Oh my God,” that’s terrible cried Yülia. “Did they catch the guy?” “No. It’s not like that. It’s just a theory,” he informed us. “The police were never called.” He stroked his beard as if he was anxious and kept hold of the wheel with one hand. “The important thing is he survived.” “How is he doing?” Jewels wanted to know.

Chapter 8: The Chicago Blues

Chapter 8: The Chicago Blues At some point on the two-hour drive into Chicago I had drank enough beer to necessitate the use of the pee funnel for the first time. After the laughter ebbed, I stood up in the stairwell and scowled at the Chicago skyline to the west. It all seemed grey to me, the sky, the buildings, the fate of millions of souls bound together in such proximity. When the bus pulled off the highway at the exit for the University of Illinois at Chicago, the abundance of neon lights made things much more colorful, and all the hype about the Chicago Blues started to make more sense. The sidewalks were crowded with young people headed in all directions. Big groups, small groups, pretty girls, hot guys, black people, white people, Asian people, crazy people, you name it. This was clearly a multicultural hub with an amazing nightlife. Driver Chris parked in the designated spot near the Chicago Greyhound station on South Halsted Street a few minutes after nine o’clock. Big Dave claimed to know the owner of the best blues club in the area. He had worked there as a bouncer back in the day, so we agreed to go with him to check it out. Several of the girls tried to convince Flip-flop to come with us, but she insisted on staying behind because she could not afford it. A few of us guys offered to buy her drinks, but she said she did not want to owe us any favors. So, we said our goodbyes to Flip-flop. Before we left Peruvian Ursula spoke to her traveling companion in Cantonese. Driver Chris assured her that he would be fine. She handed him the baseball cap, and we headed out as a group to the clubs on the campus of UIC. The short Chinese man walked behind me in front of Peruvian Ursula. Jewels and Yülia walked and talked with him the entire time. They asked him the standard questions, if he liked America. Of course, he did. How long he had been here? Three weeks. Have you been to Chicago before? He had performed at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. They talked about the places he visited around the world, of which there were many. When they asked about his family, he revealed that his wife and two sons were waiting for him in San Francisco. His English was fair at best, so they ended up doing the majority of the talking. He was friendly enough with hello how are kind of interactions, but I could tell much of the details of American English were lost on him, not to mention Yülia’s English with a German accent. He asked Yülia a few questions about Germany, like where she was from. She was from Dusseldorf. He asked her what she was studying in college. She was going for biotechnology. Juliano strutted like a rock star walking with a hot Irish twin on each arm. Mountain Girl was not talking to him anymore, because he was such a flirt and he seemed otherwise enthralled with the Peruvian girl. We stopped to listen to a trio of street performers playing the blues for tips at the entrance to a schoolyard. The leader fingered his way through the three-bar blues with amazing skill on an electric guitar plugged into a small battery-operated PA. The other front man played a harmonica with both hands wrapped around a mic amplified on the same PA. This created a heavily distorted mix of old-school blues. Behind them sat the one-man rhythm section banging on a pair of five-gallon bucket drums. Our group dropped some change and a few dollars into the open guitar case and moved on with Big Dave in the lead. We walked past several bars with live music, occasionally stopping to listen from the sidewalk. Some of our passengers wanted to go inside one of the clubs. The place was hopping with a line out the door. A bouncer was checking IDs behind a velvet rope. We found out there was a show, but the cover was outrageous, so we kept moving. Big Dave reassured us that there would be no cover at his friend’s bar where he was leading us.

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