The Odyssey: Part Two

How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Greyhound

I chose to be a New Zealander for two reasons. One being that, after watching countless hours of Flight of the Conchords (okay, and Lord of the Rings special features), just about every accent I attempt comes out Kiwi anyways. Secondly, I figured that New Zealand was obscure enough that anyone suspicious of my actual origins would be too nervous to call my bluff.

Now, I've faked accents before--Jennifer and I find it a perfectly acceptable way to endure the agony of shopping--but always on the short-term. This was going to test my resolve. The question was: do I have the stamina, the wherewithal, if you will, to fake an accent for the entire ride?

The answer is yes, I do.

So, I prepared a little backstory. Jih-ssica was "on holiday in the States, visiting family." One of her "mates got married in Ahh-kin-sawr," so that's what she was doing there. She had tried to fly out of Little Rock on a buddy pass for the past two days, but after missing eight flights in a row, she had finally broken down and purchased a Greyhound bus ticket. (You'll notice I didn't deviate too much from my own narrative here; I didn't see any need to confuse myself). She was excited, though, as the Greyhound ride would give her a chance to "see America from the road" (though she found the scenery from Little Rock to Memphis "rather boring.")

I boarded the bus and looked around nervously for a free seat. The Greyhound gets scarier the closer you get to the back (take Exhibit A: Creepy Guy in Wifebeater with Tattoos on his Head), so I happily found a spot in the middle, next to a curly-headed guy who reeked of smoke but looked friendly enough.

After we got going, I asked a few friendly questions about Greyhound bus riding (questions I actually wanted to know the answers to, as I was a first-timer), until he finally took the bait: "If you don't mind me asking, where are you from?" I didn't mind, not at all. He asked if I knew Flight of the Conchords, and I expressed my appreciation to them for "putting us on the map." We carried on a bit, and I gave him my backstory. When we got to Memphis, I asked if you could see "the Elvis home" from the road (I started to tell him that my parents are just nuts about Elvis, that all New Zealanders are, that my father was an impersonator and my little sister was named Lisa Marie, but I thought this might be a little much). I sat on the edge of my seat and gave a rather convincing portrayal of a foreigner seeing Memphis for the first time--Steven (my new friend's name) kindly pointed out the Pyramid as we crossed the bridge.

When I boarded the bus, I had been past the point of exhaustion, after only getting four hours of sleep the night before, plus the emotional turmoil of the Standby Crisis. But the adrenaline rush of lying so outrageously revived me considerably, and this whole time I was inwardly buzzing. If I seem a little pleased with myself...I totally was.

Steven and I bid farewell when he got off at Memphis. I then had an hour to kill at the station while a crew cleaned the bus, so I started looking for new friends. It was there that I met Teddy, a sweet, surprisingly mature 15-year old traveling with her 10-year old sister. They were headed to Louisville ("that's where I'm from," she said, in as subtle attempt as she could manage to get me to reveal my homeland). Teddy "just love[d] [my] accent" ("Oh, I love yours!"), and in my naive-foreigner mode, I stuck close to her, depending on her American expertise. And yes, I did feel like somewhat of a dirtbag for duping this perfectly nice girl--but if not for my forged personality I probably wouldn't have met her in the first place....so. Teddy and I went our separate ways at Nashville around midnight, but not before I got a picture with my "new American mates." (I probably said "mates" too much).

My ride got decidedly quieter in the wee morning hours, and I had to keep reminding myself I was foreign as I got progressively sleepier. Nashville to Atlanta passed in an uncomfortable blur, as I found sleeping on the Greyhound virtually impossible. When I finally got to Atlanta, I decided the jig was up; I hadn't really talked to anyone lately anyways (which was probably a good thing; I think my accent got decidedly more British as the night wore on). But I will always remember fondly my time as a New Zealander on the Greyhound.

And if Steven or Teddy ever happen to come across this blog...I'm really sorry.