Opinions

The travel dress and the derringer

Never athletic and no longer adventuresome, I am an old lady now who wears cute pink suede snow boots to toddle to the mailbox. However, I finally have something in common with outdoor writer Alli Harvey: I too travelled around the United States on the bus in my youth (probably before Alli was born).

In my day, decades ago, one could buy a 90-day Discover America Greyhound bus ticket for $99, but only if one lived outside the continental U.S. After college, I returned home to Nome, bought the special bus ticket, flew to Seattle and began my 90-day journey crisscrossing the country. I had savings of $1,000 in American Express travelers’ checks to fund the trip and a $100 bill hidden on my person for “emergencies.” I don’t remember what I wore, except my shoes matched my purse and my lipstick was always freshly applied. I do remember lugging my sizable suitcase on and off the bus, across assorted metropolitan intersections and cobbled sightseeing streets — during an era, of course, before wheels were cleverly attached to luggage.

My self-researched itinerary, using an atlas cross-referenced with the Greyhound schedule, included three stops along the way to spend a comfortable night with relatives and a clean bathroom. The rest of the time, I slept either on the bus or at YWCAs in selected cities chosen by me as “must-sees.” Generally, unlike fearless, effervescent Alli, I was skeptical and afraid of other bus passengers. I clutched a two-shot derringer stashed in my handbag when I tried to sleep (this trip took place about 1970 or 1971). The locks on the YWCA bedrooms were flimsy so I propped furniture against the doors to improve my safety. I wouldn’t actually sit down in the grungy bathtubs that had no shower alternatives. I marveled at the foreign students, traveling on the same $99 ticket as I, who zipped into the tiny bus toilet and emerged looking refreshed wearing a wrinkled, but clean, change of clothes. Others, like Alli, have mastered the knack of efficient travel that eludes me still.

In many cities on my youthful bus tour, I gravitated downtown for window shopping at department stores and visited the main public library, in those days usually one of the most spectacular old buildings in town.

In Las Vegas, I walked the strip from the Sahara hotel in blazing heat wearing high heels and my long-sleeved brown and orange paisley patterned polyester travel dress and rubber Playtex Living Girdle with garters for my hose. With no extra money to try gambling and generally being afraid to mingle in the casino, I splurged via room service on one of the only cocktails in my experience — an Irish Coffee that arrived lukewarm and ruined, with the whipped cream completely melted. Hard to admit I was so stupid.

In New York City at the end of that visit, I sat on my suitcase on a busy sidewalk and cried because I couldn’t get a taxi to stop for me on my way back to the bus station. Some very nice man came to my rescue, hailed a cab for me and, with that kindness, corrected my initial impression that New Yorkers were fast-moving meanies.

Leaving the Canadian side of Niagara Falls, as I sat on the bus, a law enforcement authority (I hope he was one of those romantic he-man Mounties, but I just can’t remember) questioned me about the small package resting on my lap. There was a young man sitting a few seats behind me who eventually was hauled off the bus for smuggling, probably marijuana. The authority thought we were traveling together and made me open my parcel. It contained the English bone china teacup I purchased as a souvenir.

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In New Orleans, I was told by a friend to save some money to experience the opulent Breakfast at Brennan’s. Instead, I purchased a gilded cobalt Limoges canapé plate that I still use today. Years later, as my circumstances improved, I purchased Brennan’s cookbook to recreate that breakfast I had to forego due to budgetary constraints.

My most Alli-like experience occurred in Washington, D.C., where I fell in love with the Lincoln Memorial. On the city tour, once again on a bus, a couple and their daughter traveling together befriended me, the solo traveler from Alaska. Their other daughter, recently married, was not accompanying them. The trio was missing its foursome. They invited me to join them for a very nice dinner, and by that time along in my journey, good food in a lovely restaurant with charming companions was an extreme treat.

Over the years, with my adult children I have traveled for mother/kid mini-adventures, including Pamplona for the running of the bulls, the U.S. Open to see Serena Williams smash and win, and a lightning-speed sand dune buggy chase following a helicopter ride and cocktails on the rim of the Grand Canyon. (Sadly, weather cancelled our scheduled hot air balloon ride.)

Today, however, Alli’s article has me thinking about potential new travel experiences. My last solo adventure, now years ago as well, was a three-day “Ice Road Trucker” sojourn to the North Slope. No bus for that road trip, but a very cushy, fancy big rig truck with a darling driver/guide. Thanks to a friend’s advice, I wore my pink rubber boots to traverse all the mud at Prudhoe Bay. But on that trip, I left the derringer at home.

Mary Lou Gillam is a housewife and former economist with Alaska Pacific Bank. She lives in Anchorage.

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