Where did our Greyhound bus go?

What exactly is the best way to travel America? I'm sure thousands and thousands of people have asked themselves this question when planning their grand adventures across the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.

Could it be the quick and reliable, yet expensive option of internal flights? Well, maybe not that reliable anymore; especially in light of the American Airlines incident earlier this year, which saw a man who PAID for a ticket get forcibly removed from the aircraft because the AIRLINE had overbooked the flight.

Thieving bastards.

So, in short, even buying an actual ticket for an ACTUAL flight doesn't secure you a stress free journey these days!

But it wasn't the fear of American security dragging us off of planes by our hair that ruled internal flights off our US itinerary - it was the fact that we are cheap as fuck and still haven't been able to shift that backpacker's shoe-string budget mentality from the forefront of our minds.

By far the cheapest option was the ol' Greyhound Bus Line, which I've certainly heard mostly terrifying mixed reviews about over the years. But hey, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger and all that!

When booking Greyhound buses, you can either book a standard Economy ticket or pay a little extra to book an Economy Extra or a Flexible Ticket, which secures you priority seating; meaning you're more likely to get on the bus you want rather than have to wait for the next one if it's busy. Going against every fibre in our frugal bones, we booked Economy Extra tickets because we wanted some peace of mind that we'd actually get on the buses we'd booked (lol, keep reading to see how this worked out for us) and that we'd get to sit next to each other.

The worst experience we had was  - unfortunately - our very first one, our journey from Boston to New York in the aftermath of the Boston Blizzard (AKA Storm Imafuckupyourholiday). Basically, on our second day in Boston, we (and millions more) were hit by one giant fucker of a Northeastern Blizzard which reaped havoc on several North East states; grinding public transport to a halt, forcing businesses to shut and generally just making life a living hell.

Our bus wasn't meant to leave Boston until two days after the bulk of the blizzard had stopped, so we were optimistic the roads would be back open and that Greyhound would have resumed service as normal by this point and a quick glance at their website confirmed our bus was on time.  Amen, maybe things were going to turn around for us. 

In all honestly, we were looking forward to leaving Boston behind. It is a beautiful place that I'd love to go back to one day, but the blizzard coupled with being robbed wasn't exactly the start to the holiday we'd wanted.

However, it soon became clear that the universe wasn't done with us yet.

Our bus never turned up at the Greyhound station.

An authoritative looking lady in a fluorescent jacket broke this devastating news to a queue of disgruntled passengers at 11:01 (our scheduled departure was 11:00) and let's just say that it did not go down well.

One raging man even went as far as to shout, "this is going to be WAR!" and for a brief moment I felt like I was in 1970s Vietnam.

Ah, Americans.

We never actually got an explanation as to where our bus went or why it didn't show up - I can only assume it got buried under an avalanche somewhere - what we did get, however, was a complimentary Greyhound bus ticket that would be emailed to us at a later date. Make it rain!!

HOWEVER, as is life specifically our lives, we never actually received our complimentary tickets.

That angry man was right, it was going to be war and Greyhound were about to get torched on Yelp, especially as we'd booked tickets to see the New York Knicks that night and I wasn't going to miss out on that game for NO MAN.

Luckily - and I say this lightly as had we actually been lucky we would have got on the bus we'd paid and booked for - New York is a pretty major route from Boston and it wasn't long before the next bus turned up. I waved my Economy Extra ticket (someone's doing well) in the air and scurried onto the bus quicker than a New York minute and for the first time, it felt like we'd won. YEAH, FUCK YOU, UNIVERSE.

On the whole I'd say that our Greyhound experience was a good one for the following reasons:

• We got to all our destinations...eventually
• The driving we experienced didn't give me constant visions of my death, much dissimilar to our experiences in Malaysia...
• The buses were clean, comfy and made for great napping opportunities between cities
• Our shit didn't get stolen
• 2/3 of our buses were on time
• It was a nice way to see America. You see a tonne of highways mostly, but it's still nice to watch the world go by.

And had it actually worked, the free wifi would have made it onto that list too.

A Blizzard in Boston in MARCH and a Lost Wallet

SO, with our USA trip we decided to spare no expense, nothing was going to ruin this trip in anyway. No bad hostels, no getting lost, no sickness, no worries. 

Ha. 

Cue the Nor'Easter Storm Stella which has left 44,000 people without power, cancelled 5000 flights and generally inconvenienced tens of millions of people in the North Eastern region of America.

And incase you haven't worked it out, we are two of them. 

During our first full day in Boston three questions really kept making their way to the front of my mind: 

1. What exactly is a Twinkie?

2. How noticeable is my accent?

3. Is this snow really going to be that bad?

Now as you can see the Storm really wasn't a priority to me, it was just so hard to envisage. A bad storm in the UK means that some fence panels might get blown over and once every few years all the schools get shut because it snowed for 20 minutes the night before.

It began with the news channels, telling us that this storm was going to be the worst the US had seen in many years, advising people to stay indoors and be prepared to sit this one out. But you know, it's all fake news anyway so we didn't worry too much. 

At one point a homeless guy told us to prepare for the snow as it was going to be a bad one. That was a little concerning, but we got approcahed by a lot of homeless people that day so thought maybe it was a coincidence. 

But we felt that on the off chance that this storm might be half as bad as they said, we decided to head to a Target store and buy some food and drink to tide us over in our room until the next day. 

Our storm survival kit consisted of: 

2 x Bottles of Diet Dr. Pepper 

2 x Bananas 

1 x Box of seedless grapes 

1 x Box of raspberries 

2 x Pots of cereal 

1 x Carton of milk 

1 x Box of Mac 'N' Cheese 

1 x Bag of apple slices 

1 x Box of hot chocolate sachets 

2 x Slices of cheesecake 

Pretty much all the things Bear Grylls would recommend. 

The next day we woke to the more very dramatic news reporting. Although this time it wasn't fake. This storm was actually a pretty big deal. Airports, roads and schools were shut. Stores were selling out of food as people stocked up on essentials and power cuts were becoming more and more frequent. 

We resigned ourselves to staying indoors for the entire day, buoyed on by the fact that on our previous days visit to Target I had invested in a $20 Macbook to HDMI lead so that we could reap the rewards of the shining golden Utopia that is American Netflix. 

5 minutes of searching proved one thing: American Netflix is nothing more than a polished turd. 

80% of the programming is identical to the UK and the remaining 20% is just so painfully American: Skin Wars, 9 Months That Made You and Hostage To The Devil, to name a few. 

Okay, so an all day Netflix binge was off the list. So we did what any other normal person would do in that situation; we consumed 90% of our food and drink supplies before 11am. 

But we made the time fly pass by at a noticeable speed by doing a home workout, watching random episodes of TV series' hoping to get hooked on one - we didn't - and of course staring at our box of ready-to-go cheesy pasta. 

What was the cheesy pasta like you may ask? Well, if you ever come to America and are craving a meal that smells like regurgitated Wotsits and tastes like underwhelming disappointment then look no further than the Kraft Mac 'N' Cheese. It was truly god awful. 

In a desperate attempt to salvage the dire situation, we decided to partake in the oldest of American traditions: ordering take out pizza. Unfortunately, we also observed one of our oldest travelling traditions at this moment: that I had lost something vital - my wallet.

The next two and a half hours were spent conducting a forensic level investigation of the apartment, which included: emptying the bin three times, turfing out suitcases and scouring through every snowflake of snow on the balcony outside. By the time we finally accepted that the wallet was up and gone, the pizza place had shut. Luckily the chances of anyone else in the Boston area finding it are as slim as me finding it thanks to the 7 inches of snow that are probably covering it.

P.S for Brits, it turns out a Twinkie is a swiss roll on crack. I hate swiss rolls.

If Satan Owned a Hostel

Burnt.

Nearly 6 months on and I am finally getting some thoughts down about our time on Langkawi island.

Is that because since then our lives have turned upside down and writing about your travels from 7,858 miles away in-between your 9-5:30 shifts is pretty depressing? Partly.

But mainly it's because only now am I calm enough to really explain to you the immense hideousness that pounced with an unparalleled savageness to leave us desperately F.U.C.K.E.D.

*Exhales deeply* 

From the top then...

We had just arrived on Langkawi island after this journey form hell and to say the hostel that welcomed us was poor would be an understatement. In fact it would be an utter fucking lie. This place was without the worst hovel I have ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on, let alone sleep in.

Now I know you're probably thinking that Emma and I must be a right couple of flowery wimps that can't even stand a single night roughing it; that no one can have SO much bad luck. I really don't know what to tell you but that the universe does really just hate us that much.

Still don't believe me? Let me paint you a picture, and in the interest of fairness, I'll paint it in my best Homes Under The Hammer voice:

The entrance to your main street hideaway begins by picking your way through the forgotten rubbish and cigarette ends still present from the once popular restaurant situated on the ground floor.

The stairway is gated for safety but will forever be unlocked for the easy access of guests, stray animal and possibly murderers. The stairs themselves are narrow and steep but the rough concrete and graffitied walls give a feel of authenticity and rawness, which in my experience is a rarity outside of public toilets.

At the top of the stairs you'll find another large wooden door which is also - you guessed it - forever unlocked. The reception desk is staffed with a relaxed, Caribbean attitude where someone might come and speak to you or they might just sit in the chair opposite you on their laptop and ignore your presence until they are ready. Who knows!? The possibility of it all is exhilarating.

Once you've finally been acknowledged, you're in for the grand tour. Firstly the washroom facilities: two showers and two toilets between about 30 guests. One great thing to note is that one of the toilet cubicles also hosts a shower, so if you ever need to shit mid-wash, you don't even need to towel off. The other shower and toilet are regrettably separate but they do have a little bonus of their own: they are plastic porta-cabins.

Now you might not initially think that is a great bonus, but I'll let you in on a little secret; we all know that when you turn the water off after a shower the first thing you notice is how cold you are and how you wish you could just stay in the warm water. Not a problem inside the porta-cabin. The plastic design keeps every ounce of heat inside and creates a miniature gas chamber sauna, which maintains a toasty warm temperature even after your shower. Just what you need when it is 35°C outside and 85% humidity.

A 24 hour self-service buffet is on offer: all the toast and jam you can eat, unfortunately neither of these are vegetarian due to the colony of ants which has infested the bread that has been left by the properties one and only window, which is jammed open permanently for the fresh air coming off the alleyway behind it. 

The common room maintains the Devil-May-Care attitude towards design, comfort and general appeal by teaming old shipping crates and thread bare rugs with tattered cushions and a sticky concrete floor, which you really get to feel the benefit of as you're not allowed to wear shoes inside. 

The common room also comes with free to use dog eaten board games, one out of tune guitar and warm beer, which is only 250% more expensive than the ice cold variety you can get in the shop 30 yards from the hostel door.

The common room and bedroom are separated by a thin cloth, meaning you can rest your head at night to the steady sounds of commotion and the quiet theological debate of other young and opinionated guests for which hostels in general are so well known. The separating cloth however also represents a change in decorative themes as the stairs, common room, kitchen and washrooms are rough and ready, with a pinch of the underworld.

The bedrooms, however, take on an entirely new vibe; behind that thin hanging fabric lies without doubt the best imitation of a disaster struck poverty ridden hospital I have ever seen. 

It is truly outstanding. 

The eight bunk beds are situated within arms reach of one another to promote conversation, awkwardness and disease through the large corridor that houses them. The lighting here is dim and dingy evocative of a New Orleans Jazz house, or the inside of a coffin with the door left a crack ajar. 

Whilst there is no air conditioning in this room the owners have thoughtfully glued high powered desk fans to the walls and above each bed, and ceiling to turbo charge the musky air directly at you at all times. 

You know what I think of when I walk around this place, potential. 

The potential to be the worst fucking experience of my life, and it did not disappoint. 

Unfortunately I'm just too livid to tell you what happened next right after thinking back to this place. You'll just have to keep all of this in mind when you process the next sequence of events, which when you add it all together is truly horrifying, or truly hilarious, depending on your sense of humour and how much you care generally for human life.