steve drops me off around 2:30 a.m. at the Nashville Greyhound station, with a crapload of granola bars and a bag full of sugar snap peas. he gives me a set of Japanese throwing knives ‘just in case’ i run into trouble on the bus or on the train down along the Mexican border. i check my suitcase, board the bus, and instantaneously fall asleep lying strewn about the aisle.
two hours later we pull into a rest stop somewhere in Alabama, and the riders pour into a fast food joint. when we re-embark the guy sitting next to me – a tall, thin, well-built black guy with a LeBron jersey, headband, and air jordans, someone who in New York would go to great lengths to pretend i don’t exist – offers me a breakfast sandwich. the guy bought me a fucking breakfast sandwich. without even asking. we hadn’t exchanged words other than ‘what’s up’ or even mild glances prior to that. i told him i didn’t have the stomach for it, but thanks. i’ve never experienced that kind of generosity.
he tells me we’re 77 miles to Birmingham, then says matter-of-factly that he’s headed to Xxxxxxx-burg, or someplace else in Mississippi. i nod and pretend like i’ve heard of the place. i tell him i’m on my way to Birmingham and then taking a train to New Orleans, because it was only 30 bucks and ended up being cheaper than Greyhound. then he knocks off, despite all the coffee he’s drinking. something tells me this is a regular trip for him.
i feel his coffee has had an osmotic effect and i can’t drift back to sleep, so i gaze out the window at rolling, misty hills illuminated by the most fiery red sun i’ve seen in this country. a few moments later we’re going over a bridge and i realise we’re crossing the Mississippi. this is the first time i’ve ever seen this river, though i’ve flown over it dozens of times.
when we pull into Birmingham, it’s 6:30 a.m. and already 86 degrees and 90 per cent humidity. dragging my bags behind me i end up tooling around downtown Birmingham, which has apparently all been cordoned off for a music festival of some sort. the streets are eerily empty downtown – in stark contrast to the vibrant city i had remembered visiting years earlier – and i’m reminded it’s a Sunday morning down south, when a handful of church bells start chiming against one another. i spot a Shoney’s and wander in that direction, since the train station doesn’t open until 9. as i eat my runny scrambled eggs, cold sausage and queer-tasting canteloupe, and wash it down with acidic, tepid coffee, two cops walk in and sit at the table across from me. that’s when i realise i have three small knives strapped to my belt. trying not to make a scene, i squirm out of sight and slide them into my backpack. thanks, steve-o.
the USA is trainologically inferior to almost every other developed nation on Earth. the Birmingham station is a room with the below sign denoting the town’s apparently important historicity:
as the train approaches the single, outdoor platform that is Birmingham Amtrak station, it stops in its tracks, 200 feet away. an old man waiting alongside of me points out how the conductor has to climb down from the locomotive to manually switch the tracks – “all these computers, and they still control the tracks manually. now he’ll be pissed off the whole damn ride,” he says.
i can tell it’s going to be a long, damn ride.
more pics from birmingham. as you can see it is a lively place. actually, when i visited previously i found it the most european small city in the American South. lots of Vespas, fountains, and wine shops. good music venues too.
i sat outside here waiting three hours for the train in the sweltering sun and picked at my guitar, and wrote a little composition called ‘birmingham blues.’ i’m going to try and record it when i get to san francisco. i’ll post it here first when i do.
