Oh Jamaica, my new BFF

Today’s post brought to you by: Brocolli, beetroot and BBQ tofu. Boy, am I glad to have y’all slither down my throat again.

Grateful for: Brocolli, beetroot and BBQ tofu.

Trying hard to accept: This meal is about to end.

One of the few benefits of riding the bus over the train is the stops along the way.

Anything from a sprawling truck stop (half a cow, mashed potato ‘n gravy and copy of ‘Shoot ‘Em Before They Shoot You’ magazine for $14.99) to an Arby’s (jackpot – warm buttery biscuit $1.29) to a middle of nowhere service station.

Aside from the inevitable queue for the inevitable blocked toilet, the service station experience is one not to be missed. But only if you (a) drink coffee and (b) can make quick decisions.

With 11 minutes till the bus leaves again you have to choose one of 6 filter coffee roasts, one of 6 hot-chocolate-mocha-sugar-filled-keep-walking machine coffees, one of 8 milk and cream options (including Reese’s peanut butter cup flavoured milk which you scull 2 of) and one of 7 flavoured syrups.

And guess how much this whole mind-boggling, diabetes-inducing experience sets you back. 99 cents.

Start here

Then go here

Shove as many of these into your pocket as you can fit

Scull a few of these then run back to bus (burns 2.69 calories of the 658 you’ve just drunk)

Back on the bus you’re entertained by Rochelle, the coolest bus driver in the world (you tell her this in passing) sharing how she spent Thanksgiving driving bus loads of military personnel, who couldn’t travel home, to share a meal with local families.

Then how she found a young man sleeping in back of her bus one night, 2 hours late for his stop. Poor kid had no way of getting home so she drove him in her own car. She finally got home at 1am. Of course Amtrak told her off.

I did deduct points though for her forcing me to endure “Frosty the Snowman.” I am not 6 years old, Rochelle. And, passenger in seat 3A, I am not a man.

But I forgave Rochelle when she played my all-time favourite “O Holy Night.” Peace on earth and goodwill to all bus drivers. But not woman in 3A.

Four hours later we cruise into … dah dah dah … Wilson, North Carolina. Juinita, who’s been sitting next to me but not wanting to chat, spies me doing a selfie at the station and next thing we’re chillin’ (literally – it was like mid-summer Wellington, cold and wet) on the station bench swapping stories about Washington DC where she’s worked as a school administrator for 40 years.

Wilson squared

She was also eyeing up the Jamaican beef patty and jerk sauce I was lovingly devouring.

Having craved Jamaican food since I met that Jamaican woman in the thrift store in Florida, I was over at SaYum Jamaican Food faster than the jerk chicken could cross the road. Even went back to tell Lydia how delicious it was and score the recipe.

Poor little lonesome beef patty. Don’t cry for me, Jamaica though, as it was down my throat within minutes of this shot.

Nothing like stating the bleeding obvious but there are some complex people in the world.

On that 4 hour ride to Wilson I sat behind a 30-something mom and 6 yr old son. He was adorable and super smart but she was a poster child for parents who need to give their kid a break.

Was all going swimmingly at first. The bus hadn’t reached 30mph before she was whipping out storybooks and card games. 10 points, mom, I thought.

But as the bus got faster she got meaner and meaner. Every time the poor kid squirmed or squawked she laid into him with a prolonged lecture in that super slow, super clear, do you understand me? patient-parent voice.

Low point was just out of Jacksonville, North Carolina, where she lovingly told him he’s a “F-ing little nuisance” who’d “better not moan about any little thing ever again otherwise I will not engage with you for the rest of the trip.”

Icing on the Dunkin’ Donut: “Don’t you ever talk to me in that nasty voice again. You do NOT talk to people that way.”

Hey mom, 6-letter word starting with I, ending with IC, with RON in between.

In lieu of reaching over and strangling her I shot her filthy looks the whole time we were in the service station trying to decide between 243 coffee/milk combinations.

As we reached Wilson I heard her say she’d just spent 13 months travelling to 19 countries with junior in tow. Train was late arriving in Wilson, and I’d eaten SaYum out of beef patties, so I went and had a chat with her.

Julia’s a sole mom, made a killing on her house in Richmond, Virginia, so sold everything, grabbed Ben and took him round the world. US, Canada, South America, Europe, UK, Morocco, African safari, Bali, home.

Must’ve made one hell of a killing on the house, or more likely comes from cash, because not only did she rent an apartment in Southbank London for a month (equivalent to my salary for last 3 years) but her mom flew to Paris to meet them, then flew to Nairobi to meet them, and probably paid for the London pad.

Julia’s now back in the real world doing consultancy work in Richmond and fluent-in-Spanish Ben’s in kindergarten.

I couldn’t figure her out. On one coffee-filled hand she was the most intelligent, smart, brave, engaging woman you could meet who treated her son like an adult.

On the other sandwich-filled hand, she spoke to him like he’s a bit of roadkill she’d just stepped in (Snap! See that picture below? Unidentified squished animal I passed when out walking this morning. Kevin reckons it’s a rat but it ain’t nothing like the rodents living in my compost bin).

Wilson and the surrounding towns of Goldsboro, Rocky Mount etc are interesting places. Well-suited to today’s grey wet gloomy weather. They look like towns that, if it wasn’t for Amtrak passing through, would be wiped off Google maps before the year’s out.

Block after block of boarded-up homes and abandoned shops. Rusty window-less pickup trucks littering yards and an air of once-thriving towns that have long been forgotten.

I was one of two white faces on 16-seater bus from Richmond to Charlottesville, Virginia. I thought the bus was an ambulance when I first saw it.

And it may well have needed to be because everyone’s bags were hiffed into big pile right behind my head. If the driver had slammed on the brakes I’d have been back in hospital with concussion.

Drip in one arm and iPad in the other emailing my now very good friends at travel insurance co.

Tip # 46: if you’re doing any transferring buses/trains get to know every member of staff and hassle them gently at transfer point. If I hadn’t done anything my bag’d still be sitting on platform all by itself wondering what it’d done wrong.

Made it to Charlottesville at 7pm Saturday. You can’t go wrong in a university town like this. More cheap eating places than there are debt-free students, and safe to walk round at night.

Hauled all my bags a few blocks from Amtrak to Roots Natural Kitchen – one of the Google-review recommended places I found before I left NZ.

Somehow my words “Half the normal quantity of rice, please” got interpreted as “I want to build my own bowl” which led to them asking where I was from which led to me telling them I’d come all the way to their joint from NZ which led to the dreadlocked owner treating me like the Rastafarian queen I am. He’s just stopped by to have a chat. Nice.

After much menu-studying this is what I’m scoffing right now. With extra brocolli and extra beetroot. Now I’m allowed to eat southern fried chicken ‘n biscuits for lunch tomorrow.

I don’t believe it. They’re playing “O Holy Night”. Will the spooky coincidences ever end?

Right time to Uber myself to my bed. Passed a few southern Baptist churches on the way here so might be singing, clapping and hallelujahing my heart out in 16 hours time.

Night y’all.