Before I tell you about my time at the Coachella music festival, I want to back up a bit and tell you about my odyssey from Palm Springs to Las Vegas and back to Palm Springs again. This trek was different from the others of my trip for one reason. For this passage through the desert, I chose to ride the bus.
Up until the final day of the Dinah Shore Weekend in Palm Springs, my West Coast Adventure had been virtually a door-to-door experience. Every time I flew into a city I was graciously retrieved by a friend and escorted to my destination of stay, usually their house. I even had a friend-of-a-friend drive me from LA to Palm Springs, right up to the door of the hotel, the Desert Lodge. However, I broke that momentum after leaving Palm Springs to journey to Vegas. At the Dinah, I had met a girl named Amy in a Cowboy Hat who was driving home to Vegas after the weekend event. I gave her my card and ran into her a few times after that. However, my tragic flaw was that I didn't get HER number, and hence left my ride to Vegas up to Amy in a Cowboy Hat. I'm not sure if the decision I made not to get her number was accidental or on purpose, but it was the beginning of a domino effect of interesting happenstance.
The first issue was the bus stop in Palm Springs. Or, rather, the absence of the bus stop in Palm Springs. I looked up the bus route on the internet (as a plan B to catching a lift from Amy in a Cowboy Hat) and found a Greyhound station in the middle of the city of Palm Springs, only a 10-minute drive from my hotel room. Sweet! I had a few hours to spare, so that morning, after the Party Girlz left for home, I decided to use my time alone to treat myself to a nice breakfast and coffee. I stored my luggage in the hotel lobby and set out in the 95 degree weather to find a restaurant. I turned right out of the parking lot and walked along the road, searching for the perfect diner. I walked for about 20 minutes and realized that neither the perfect diner, nor any diner, would be coming my way . Still, I followed my instincts and walked until the end of the street, which turned a sharp left into another street. The only things on the block were a Travelodge, a Best Western, some residences and a bar, but no diners. Weird! My instincts had led me down a strange path (this becomes important later).
Confused at my wrong turn and frustrated by my hunger, I turned back and walked another 20 minutes to the Desert Lodge. Up the street about 3 minutes past that was the Rock Garden Cafe. Eureka! This was exactly what I had searched (the wrong way) for. I guessed my instincts were just a little off after my weekend of partying in a la-la land filled only with ladies .
I found a seat in the outside garden paradise and ordered a Spinach Omelet. Luckily for me, the server misunderstood my order and gave me a Spanish Omelet instead of a Spinach Omelet. Even more luckily, I didn't even realize that she had given me the wrong meal until two weeks later when I was sitting there again and perusing through the menu.
Sometimes it is difficult for me to pay attention to details. They flow through my brain like the pages of a romance novel when I'm scavenging through for the dirty parts. I don't know why I'm like this, but I know because of it, I've found myself in a few frustrating situations. Once it landed me in the middle of Spain where nobody spoke English, with no hostels and barely any money for a place to stay. Still, some of life's best moments happen out of serendipity, and my breakfast at the Rock Garden Cafe was one of those times. That Spanish Omelet was the best omelet I'd ever had in my life. The fusion of eggs, cheese and enchilada sauce was one of the best blends my taste buds have ever experienced. Eating, reading and writing at the Rock Garden Cafe that morning, I was totally content.
I believe that contentness is what both stopped me from, and helped me through, the next 10 hours. After the most excellent meal, I headed back to the Desert Lodge to pick up my bags and get to the bus station. I was incredibly early, as I didn't want to miss the bus and have to stay in Palm Springs for another night. I spoke with the manager of the hotel about calling me a cab to the bus stop. He said the cab ride would be about $25-$35 because the stop was all the way out of town. This confused me a little, because I thought the bus stop was right in the middle of town. I mentioned that fact and he said that the mid-town bus stop was closed.
The ride to the bus stop out of town took about 40 minutes. The bus stop had been re-located to the Amtrak train station which was completely out of town. As a bus stop, it was entirely unmarked. It was a small, open but covered circular building on a desolate street in the middle of nowhere out in the desert. The driver stopped the car and retrieved my bags from the trunk.
'Is this it?' I asked.
'Yep,' he said. I gave him his money, thanked him, and he left.
The building enclosed a newsstand whose garage-type door was rolled down. There were a few cars in the parking lot and a white construction truck sitting next to the railroad tracks behind a fence with a man sitting inside. He was wearing a bright orange construction vest and idly reading a newspaper. Further behind him in the distance, about 2 miles away, was the freeway. Behind that, a gas station and a Jack-in-the-Box. The sun was penetratingly hot now, as it was about 1:00 in the afternoon.
I went up to the circular building into the shade and tried to open a door that was a bathroom. Locked.
'Hi!' said an ecstatic voice behind me. I turned, startled, towards a freckled, slightly overweight brown-haired girl who looked about 17 years-old. She was slightly dirty, wearing a sweatshirt and long pajama pants. Her eyes were excited, her skin pale and a bit chalky and she had a ring of red kool-aid stain around her lips. 'Are you here for the bus?'
'Yeah,' I said. 'Are you?' Behind her, leaning against a bench were three huge bags of luggage. Her pillow and a blanket were sprawled out in a spot hidden from the wind, which was whipping through the open structure.
'I'm waiting for my boyfriend,' she said, in a high-pitched, excited voice. 'He's in the circus.'
Oh My Gawd, I thought, this girl is insane.
I'm stuck in an abandoned train station in the middle of the desert with a girl that is insane.
'Can I use your phone to call him?' she asked. 'He's supposed to pick me up with the circus.'
Uh, I thought, Riiiiiight.
Touching my cell phone that was hidden neatly in the back pocket of my jeans I said, 'I don't have a phone.'
I walked my bags toward the long bench where her pillow and blanket were made up into a bed. I quickly studied her bags and asked her some questions so I could figure out if I was in danger or not. I took note of the man in the construction truck behind the fence, sitting idly, reading the paper. He couldn't easily climb the fence. Regardless, they didn't seem to be together. So if a dangerous situation arose, either his presence could save me from her or hers from him!
The girl's bags were large and brand new. She had way too much stuff, so she obviously hadn't been traveling (or homeless?) for too long. She opened them nervously many times, taking things out, putting them back in and talking. She had a laptop and cell phone, both out of batteries. The cell phone was pink. Her shoes were brand new. She was fresh off the boat from the suburbs. Her name was Jamie.
Jamie explained to me that she'd taken the bus from Sacramento to Palm Springs to join the circus with her boyfriend. She met him online. He cheated on her, but she stayed with him. They'd been 'together' for 3 months. This girl was not a threat to me, she was a threat to herself. I wanted to help her, but I knew I could not. So I did what I could. I listened.
I turned back to the man in the truck as she was rambling, spilling her guts, explaining her story. He and I made eye contact from afar. I think I waved. He stepped out of the truck and reached into a cooler that was sitting in the back. He pulled out two water bottles, turned and began walking towards me, still behind the fence. I walked over to it. He was a tall African-American gentleman, with a slight belly and gentle eyes like a young grandpa or an uncle. He handed me the sealed water bottles through the fence.
'Thank you,' I said. He smiled, turned back to the truck, got in and continued to read the paper. I knew then that I was safe.
I walked back to Jamie and held up one of the water bottles. 'Do you want some water?'
'No Thanks,' she said, 'I'm covered.' She opened her enormous red suitcase and pulled out a bottle of bright red soda. She opened it and drank it almost all the way down, adding to the red ring around her mouth. The only thing she didn't seem to have in those huge suitcases of hers was street smarts.
Because of her chalky skin and nervous nature, I suspected Meth use. I offered her a Cliff Bar, but she didn't want any, even though she hadn't eaten all day. After I gained her trust, I asked her. My suspicions were confirmed. She'd been clean for over a year, she told me, as she showed me her Narcotics Anonymous tattoo on her forearm. But recently, she'd slipped. A few times.
Another car pulled up and a middle-aged bald man got out. 'Is this the bus stop?' He asked. We said it was. He looked nervously at us. I think we sketched him out, this man, bald headed and upper-middle class.
'Hey Mister,' Jamie asked him, 'Can I use your phone?' No, he said, nervously. He walked around the station, looking for something. Safety, I suppose. He tried to open the bathroom door. Locked. The girl then asked him if he could take her to Jack-in-the-Box to use the phone. He said 'No,' again, but offered to call her a cab. She said she'd used all her money on the ticket to get here. He said 'I'm sorry I can't help you,' and left.
I really felt for this girl, stuck at a bus stop in Palm Springs, waiting for a boyfriend who may or may not pick her up, or even exist. She seemed so hopeful, ready to start this new fantasy life.
'You know,' I said, 'I actually do have a phone. I just didn't understand your situation. You can use mine if you want.' I handed it to her.
Overjoyed, she called her boyfriend and to my surprise, he answered. He was indeed going to pick her up, after he was done with his shift. The circus was close by in another town. She reminded him of where she was and hung up the phone. After that, thank God, she called her mom.
A while later, other people started showing up for the bus, confused at the nondisclosure of the stop. How curious that I'd been so early to this stop and had so much time to cross the path of this naive girl. Perhaps I was able to share some insight to her on her life, or for her to shed some insight on mine. I choose to believe that this is true, as I believe that there are no coincidences.
Finally, the bus came. It wasn't a Greyhound bus, but one from a Mexican company. The bus driver spoke only a little english. The bus was headed toward Los Angeles, which confused me. I asked him if there was a bus going to Las Vegas. He said, 'You can wait for a bus to Las Vegas, but one will never come.'
What?! I was pissed! Two hours sitting at this bus stop, and it wasn't even the right one. Besides that, the only other bus stop was in a town 30 miles away in Indio, CA. Too bad this wasn't 2 weeks later. That was exactly where I was supposed to go for Coachella!
There was another bus driver on the bus that was much more helpful. He led me over to a cab that had been standing by in the parking lot. He asked the cab driver how much for a ride to Indio. The cab driver quoted me $50. Having no other choice, I decided to take it.
The fare actually ended up around $75, but the cab driver, whose name was Steve. I know this because he gave me a business card that was printed on a home computer that said 'Steve' and a phone number. Steve kept his quote of $50. It was his own personal business, after all, and he'd just decided to go to the bus stop as he does sometimes and see if anyone needed a ride. He didn't do it every day, but sometimes. If he hadn't decided to that day, I might have been stuck there, with Jamie, waiting for my own fantasy bus ride.
Indio, CA is a town whose population is made up almost entirely of Latino-Americans. There isn't much there except some residential houses, many Latino stores, a few Latino restaurants and the Greyhound bus station. I drug my travel bags into the bus station and bought a ticket to Las Vegas. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. The bus was to arrive at 5pm.
I sat and read my book for an hour 1/2. A few buses came and went. They called for LA, Riverside, Oakland, San Francisco, Mexico. But none said Las Vegas. At 5:30 I went back up to the front counter and asked the good-looking young man sitting behind the counter, 'Did I miss the bus to Vegas?'
His face dropped, 'Uh . . . Uh Oh. Yeah.'
What!?! 'I didn't hear them say Vegas,' I said.
'Oh,' He said, 'Yeah, There's a stop over at Riverside. I'm sorry, I didn't tell you that.'
And I didn't look. I'd left my fate up to the good-looking young man sitting behind the counter. No fault, no foul.
'The next one,' he said, 'Is at 8pm'.
No way.
'Hey, I'm sorry,' he said. 'I can give you a discount.'
'That's just about the only thing that would make this wait worthwhile,' I said, as I told him about my escapades at the other bus stop, which started at 1 pm.
'I can give you $15 bucks off the next ticket.' That's it.
No shit.
As I sat in the bus station, steaming, annoyed with myself, I contemplated the turn of events that brought me there. I could have had a ride to Vegas. I could have been there by now. Why had it not occurred to me to get the phone number of Amy in the Cowboy Hat? I saw her 3 times over the weekend. Had I unconsciously wanted some time to myself? The trip had been running so smoothly, almost too smoothly. Things were moving so quickly that I had barely had time to stop, reflect, process. I'd had very little, if any, alone time, something that is not only precious to an introvert like myself, but in fact, a necessity. Had I unconsciously stopped the forward movement of the trip so as to take some time on the bus for myself? Or was my fate twisted so I may be of some service for the young girl named Jamie who had traveled all the way from Sacramento to meet her the circus man of her dreams?
As I thought about that Spanish omelet oh so many hours ago that morning, I accepted the idea that I may have instituted this whole chain of events for my own sanity or for hers. So I asked the guy behind the counter for 1) a locker token to store my luggage and 2) the closest bar. He gave me a token for free and pointed me to a Latino restaurant down the street. I ate a lovely Spanish enchilada and taco and (a term I had learned in Spain) dos cerveza. By missing two buses, I had time to stop, reflect, process. I wrote.
At 8pm I loaded my bags onto a bus that was headed for San Bernardino, where I would transfer to a bus to Las Vegas. The destination portrayed on the front of the bus read: 'Seattle.'
Coincidence? I like to believe that it was a sign I was back on my path again.
