There was a moment when the ‘Chinatown Bus’ had it’s hipster glory. Like most elements of hipster culture, the frisson of receiving an unearned entitlement — cheap transport — intermingled with ironic slumming made for a perfect storm of on-a-whim trips to places as far flung as Boston and Baltimore. Until, of course, everyone soon realized that there was a reason everyone just visited these places (and barely that), and that cheap, long distance bus transit was as unappealing as it was in the days of Kerouacian yore without even for accounting the increase in danger as a result of lax regulation.
This is well in-line with the history of bus transport, which, even as does create mobility for the least fortunate, is not on par with the Delta Shuttle. Given the lack of direct interstate route sales of any quantity, or the absurd route scheduling of Greyhound, it takes too long to get anywhere to make a getaway a frivolous exercise.
The trip to my hometown, only 420 miles west, is an eleven-hour journey, on a good night. By traveling any additional 70 miles west-ish, this can be reduced via a red-eye express from Cleveland that clocks in nine (with the added bonus of a single stop at some godforsaken truck stop in central Pennsylvania that sells only two kinds of periodicals: porn and gun magazines, side-by-side, with a complete lack of irony). I’ve made the trip only a few times: the first I was surrounded by itinerant prostitutes making the trip home to West Virginia (one brought their twelve year old daughter in what I can only hope wasn’t a work trip); the next, a man acting very oddly and carrying only a small cardboard box, who finally blurted out to his seat mate he was looking for a strip club, as he had literally just gotten on the bus from his release in prison in, wait for it, West Virginia.
It’s a shame, because the bus can be a democratizing transit option. But, like most models we idealize from Europe or some parts of Asia, the scale and relative lack of density of our country relative to, say, Denmark, create challenges that are rarely overcome by dissolute planners and car obsessed localities — a failing that can be fatal. And so we end up with a grey market of often essential options, but ones never seeming so palatable or glamorous.
I used to live on west, west 57th Street (which was odd because it is a recognized locale for relatives who have no concept of what Hell’s Kitchen is like), and nighttime travel used to take me through Columbus Circle, either for the train or for the park. I know it seems hard to believe, but Columbus Circle was mostly an abandoned, concrete plaza. Not quite so bad to merit a really negative adjective, but yet another one of those residual semi-public spaces that were at the tail-end of bad planning and the fiscal tribulations of the seventies. I know Bob Stern lives in some soft-focus recollection about its significance, but what I recall is the unattractive hulk of the Coliseum, which seemed to feature craft fairs and flea markets inside and out, a wide apron of bland sidewalk, and the even more dismal 2 Columbus Circle.
But, at night, late, it was oddly alive. I remember seeing, often, four or five buses lined up on the edge, with long lines of people waiting to board. I know that those who rely on buses for regional transit often hold to very inconvenient schedules, but seeing what looked like entire families boarding buses around midnight was baffling.
The scene was not unlike the proverbial departure for camp, though more restrained, what I assumed to be a result of the hour, and large number of kids. The riders seemed to be mostly not white, which is not unusual given the congruence between economic status and race, but more so disproportionately women. This I chalked up to the other sad convention of woman-as-caregiver. It seemed to be not exactly pleasant, but as good as getting on a bus at midnight could get, with all the logistical frustrations that would come with bringing a couple small kids to what was more or less a parking lot and standing around for an hour waiting to board.
I wondered about the location. It made sense physically, since the buses and lines of passengers needed space, and not much traffic was in the area at that time. It looked to be one of those vaguely unregulated events that had gone on for so long that everyone assumed that somewhere it was approved, but really it was the essence of any almost-legal bus service — necessary for marginal populations, so the city turns a blind eye, failing to provide what might be expected as a matter of civic responsibility.
Long after I left, and stopped seeing this ritual, and probably even after the construction of the glory that is the Time Warner Center, I discovered — incidentally, through an article in the Voice — the purpose: the buses were overnight transit to upstate prisons, in places like Albion, Dannemora, and Bare Hill. With visiting hours that start in the morning, the buses make round trip runs that deposit passengers just as they begin, and return immediately after. The steady increase in prison population, even without the deleterious effect of the Rockefeller Laws, has meant that this is a strong cash flow business, and this is a city where an opportunity is not passed on.
Turns out among those who work regularly in this community these services are well known (and why wouldn’t they be? So much so, even a film was made.). A friend who works with the Correctional Association told me what they were before the story was half done. And, like any seeming esoteric event, makes its way in the City section of the Times.
I wondered what happened to the Columbus Circle pickup. Even as it occurred well after hours, I really doubted that the corporate masters of TW would consent (even though, for a while there, it looked like the AOL merger might have necessitated some spouses getting familiar with the option). A review of the most recent schedule I could find indicates the pickup has moved a block south. I wonder if anyone walking out of Masa or Per Se for a postprandial stroll sees it now and wonders like I do. I doubt it. Given the entrance to the food court is on 60th Street, I’m sure their car service spirits them away before they have to think about how many of their neighbors are spending the evening.
Previous Lore: 060105: Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Your Grievances. 052505: Neither city, nor subway, but Empire. 050405: Like Usual? 042705: The best thing ever.
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Wednesday Lore: Does this bus stop at 82nd Street?
There was a moment when the ‘Chinatown Bus’ had it’s hipster glory. Like most elements of hipster culture, the frisson of receiving an unearned entitlement — cheap transport — intermingled with ironic slumming made for a perfect storm of on-a-whim trips to places as far flung as Boston and Baltimore. Until, of course, everyone soon realized that there was a reason everyone just visited these places (and barely that), and that cheap, long distance bus transit was as unappealing as it was in the days of Kerouacian yore without even for accounting the increase in danger as a result of lax regulation.
This is well in-line with the history of bus transport, which, even as does create mobility for the least fortunate, is not on par with the Delta Shuttle. Given the lack of direct interstate route sales of any quantity, or the absurd route scheduling of Greyhound, it takes too long to get anywhere to make a getaway a frivolous exercise. The trip to my hometown, only 420 miles west, is an eleven-hour journey, on a good night. By traveling any additional 70 miles west-ish, this can be reduced via a red-eye express from Cleveland that clocks in nine (with the added bonus of a single stop at some godforsaken truck stop in central Pennsylvania that sells only two kinds of periodicals: porn and gun magazines, side-by-side, with a complete lack of irony). I’ve made the trip only a few times: the first I was surrounded by itinerant prostitutes making the trip home to West Virginia (one brought their twelve year old daughter in what I can only hope wasn’t a work trip); the next, a man acting very oddly and carrying only a small cardboard box, who finally blurted out to his seat mate he was looking for a strip club, as he had literally just gotten on the bus from his release in prison in, wait for it, West Virginia. It’s a shame, because the bus can be a democratizing transit option. But, like most models we idealize from Europe or some parts of Asia, the scale and relative lack of density of our country relative to, say, Denmark, create challenges that are rarely overcome by dissolute planners and car obsessed localities — a failing that can be fatal. And so we end up with a grey market of often essential options, but ones never seeming so palatable or glamorous. I used to live on west, west 57th Street (which was odd because it is a recognized locale for relatives who have no concept of what Hell’s Kitchen is like), and nighttime travel used to take me through Columbus Circle, either for the train or for the park. I know it seems hard to believe, but Columbus Circle was mostly an abandoned, concrete plaza. Not quite so bad to merit a really negative adjective, but yet another one of those residual semi-public spaces that were at the tail-end of bad planning and the fiscal tribulations of the seventies. I know Bob Stern lives in some soft-focus recollection about its significance, but what I recall is the unattractive hulk of the Coliseum, which seemed to feature craft fairs and flea markets inside and out, a wide apron of bland sidewalk, and the even more dismal 2 Columbus Circle. But, at night, late, it was oddly alive. I remember seeing, often, four or five buses lined up on the edge, with long lines of people waiting to board. I know that those who rely on buses for regional transit often hold to very inconvenient schedules, but seeing what looked like entire families boarding buses around midnight was baffling. The scene was not unlike the proverbial departure for camp, though more restrained, what I assumed to be a result of the hour, and large number of kids. The riders seemed to be mostly not white, which is not unusual given the congruence between economic status and race, but more so disproportionately women. This I chalked up to the other sad convention of woman-as-caregiver. It seemed to be not exactly pleasant, but as good as getting on a bus at midnight could get, with all the logistical frustrations that would come with bringing a couple small kids to what was more or less a parking lot and standing around for an hour waiting to board. I wondered about the location. It made sense physically, since the buses and lines of passengers needed space, and not much traffic was in the area at that time. It looked to be one of those vaguely unregulated events that had gone on for so long that everyone assumed that somewhere it was approved, but really it was the essence of any almost-legal bus service — necessary for marginal populations, so the city turns a blind eye, failing to provide what might be expected as a matter of civic responsibility. Long after I left, and stopped seeing this ritual, and probably even after the construction of the glory that is the Time Warner Center, I discovered — incidentally, through an article in the Voice — the purpose: the buses were overnight transit to upstate prisons, in places like Albion, Dannemora, and Bare Hill. With visiting hours that start in the morning, the buses make round trip runs that deposit passengers just as they begin, and return immediately after. The steady increase in prison population, even without the deleterious effect of the Rockefeller Laws, has meant that this is a strong cash flow business, and this is a city where an opportunity is not passed on. Turns out among those who work regularly in this community these services are well known (and why wouldn’t they be? So much so, even a film was made.). A friend who works with the Correctional Association told me what they were before the story was half done. And, like any seeming esoteric event, makes its way in the City section of the Times. I wondered what happened to the Columbus Circle pickup. Even as it occurred well after hours, I really doubted that the corporate masters of TW would consent (even though, for a while there, it looked like the AOL merger might have necessitated some spouses getting familiar with the option). A review of the most recent schedule I could find indicates the pickup has moved a block south. I wonder if anyone walking out of Masa or Per Se for a postprandial stroll sees it now and wonders like I do. I doubt it. Given the entrance to the food court is on 60th Street, I’m sure their car service spirits them away before they have to think about how many of their neighbors are spending the evening. Previous Lore:060105: Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Your Grievances.
052505: Neither city, nor subway, but Empire.
050405: Like Usual?
042705: The best thing ever.