Where Are All the Shrooms?

I would like to start by saying, every time I get on a Greyhound bus, it feels like karma is kicking me in the box. Whatever I may have done doesn’t seem deserving of such punishment. They’re always horrible; there’s always a suspicious smell, and I’m always painfully aware of all of the body fluids/skin/rotting food on my seat- not to mention all the gas my neighbour is probably passing. Thanks, lady, you smell like Eau de Greyhound.

Yesterday, I had the joyous experience of bussing back from cottage country (on an especially packed bus with extra smelly people… but I digress.) I descended from the freezing cold, malodorous bus and grabbed my overstuffed suitcase and looked around. I had no fucking idea where I was. I turned to the driver to ask where the subway was and this fresh-faced early-twenty-something-year-old fellow looks up at me and says, with great enthusiasm, “You’re looking for the subway?! Follow me!”

And I did just that.

As I had just been rudely awoken by the bus driver, I was pretty out of it and wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, or if it was real life, but this felt a lot like some sort of quest; a mystical quest, led by a stranger with suspiciously pale blue eyes. I felt like I was being led somewhere whimsical, with unicorns, and leprechauns, and (hopefully) talking produce. I got carried away in my head, imagining all of the wondrous things I would discover-  but when we arrived, I was just left standing alone, a little out of breath (that fucker was fast), on a dirty subway platform with nothing whimsical in sight, apart from the fervent Asian man with the rainbow mohawk. And that only marginally counts.

Thank you anyway, blue-eyed fellow, for showing me the way.

P.S.  A castle/magical forest/ underwater world of wonder/ a bar would’ve been more fantastical.  Jussayin.