by Ning Cai
The first thing I did that evening was to go online and check out Cirque’s official website. I then blew a portion of my savings on all the Cirque du Soleil soundtrack CDs I could find in Borders bookstore. Of the entire collection, my favourite was O.
The O soundtrack was a beautiful blend of innocence, intensity, light-hearted playfulness and brooding melancholy; an incredibly rich musical tapestry interwoven by the cello, piano and er-hu. For some reason, I was completely enamoured with the track Jeux d’Eau. It is such a beautiful score that if you listen to it with your eyes closed and your heart open, the music simply transports you to a different time and place, one full of mystery and grace.
“What does ‘O’ mean?” Pam asked, nudging me from my reverie.
It was something I’d only figured out recently, after graduating with my French diplomas from Alliance Francaise. “The French word for water is eau. So it sounds exactly the same as O.”
“Ah, that makes sense since this is a water ballet!” the BFF exclaimed, her eyes shining brightly. “What else do you know about it?”
I gave my best friend an honest shrug. I really didn’t know much about O. All I knew was that for 12 years I’d always, always, ALWAYS wanted to watch it. The show couldn’t tour since the USD$160-million hydraulic stage was built specially for the Bellagio, and the water ballet theme was remarkably different from anything else in the world.
“Do you think it’ll meet your expectations?” Pam asked, knowing how highly critical I am about productions in general, a natural quirk of a professional performer.
It wasn’t easy getting tickets to the world’s #1 production show. When the BFF and I arrived in Vegas, the show wasn’t playing because the performers were on a break, so we had to make a trip to the Grand Canyon for a couple of days before driving back to catch it.
“I’d hate if it were overrated,” I muttered, my heart heavy at the possibility of being disappointed. “But watching it has always been on my bucket list. So whatever it’s worth, I’m just glad I’m here.”
The BFF smiled and squeezed my hand as the massive velvet red curtains pulled open and as the magic of the stage slowly unraveled, I silently willed for that fleeting suspension of disbelief.
* * *
My breath caught in my throat and my chest heaved with emotion. A strange wetness trickled down on my cheeks. Was I really crying?
Jeux d’Eau was playing and I knew every single note by heart. It felt like an intense out-of-body experience, as if I was floating amidst the tapestry of stars dancing in the dark sky... with the two acrobatic aerialists gracefully defying gravity before me, their lithe bodies like poetry in motion. Unspoken words of the beauty of dreams ebbed and flowed, on rippling water, solid land and lofty air.
The melancholic cello played, perfectly accompanied by the romantic piano, but everything was made even more special with the unconventional pairing of the timeless er-hu.
I choked back a sob, realising this was simply the epitome of perfection in front of me. Yes, I had waited 12 long years for this... and it was worth the wait.
07
greyhound from hell
Chicago · May 2011
NING
The BFF was clutching her mobile phone too tightly as she spoke, her other hand raking fingers through her hair in an attempt to calm down. She didn’t know I was observing her silently from my corner of our Chicago hotel room. Even with my earphones plugged in and Adele’s sad love songs blasting in my ears, effectively drowning everything else out, I could tell that something was wrong.
Pam’s tense facial muscles gave it away – her wrinkled nose, random nervous ear scratching and pensive chin rubs signalled great displeasure and worry. News of the Mississippi River overflowing its banks was playing on TV and I noticed Pam shaking her head, staring at the wide screen while on the phone.
I could tell she was trying to think on her feet because her eyes made quick darting motions and she was constantly checking the time. Pam’s eyes met mine before the phone call ended and she padded over to join me on the sofa.
Our bags were mostly packed since we had an afternoon train to catch for the New Orleans jazz festival, which the BFF had been very much looking forward to. I stopped the music on my iPod and glanced up at the distraught and frowning BFF, “Train trouble due to the flooding?“
Pam blinked. “Er, I thought you had your earphones on?”
“Yeah, I did,” I said truthfully as I patted the cushion next to me. The BFF distractedly plonked herself down.
“I need to call Beth,” Pam muttered, referring to Beth Harris (aka @scootergirl) whom she had met on Instagram, a popular online photo-sharing application. “Amtrak just called to say our 2pm train is cancelled...”
“Oh no,” I sighed, although I’d half expected it.
“Yah, the bloody Mississippi River has flooded the tracks and no trains can go through. They’re refunding our money,” she explained, her shoulders slumped. “But I really want to make it for the New Orleans Jazz Fest!”
Pam is a real jazz fan, unlike me. To be honest, I tell people I love jazz only to sound cultured. Realistically, I could probably fake a mind-blowing When Harry Met Sally type orgasm much better than a deep knowledge of jazz, because I’d be ratted out quicker than you can scat “Michael Buble-bebop-Norah Jones-rebop-Diana Krall”!
“Damn,” I uttered under my breath as I crossed the room to the hotel phone to call the Holiday Inn manager and request for a late checkout. We were graciously given till 2pm but it was almost noon, so we only had a short time to rectify the situation. I powered up my laptop. “I’ll check flights out to New Orleans. You call Beth, OK?”
“Calling!” Pam yelled from her corner of the room.
Beth wisely advised us to check with Amtrak exactly which part of the track was flooded. Perhaps we could go overland to the next unaffected train station and catch the train from there to Louisiana. It was an option.
And a good thing too because my search online proved futile. I had checked all the online booking sites for a budget flight out of Chicago that day but all the flights were full. The only available ones were priced similar to healthy kidneys in the human organ trade black market.
Pam got off the phone with Amtrak. The lady had advised us to use the infamous Greyhound bus service to Memphis, Tennessee. A quick check with Greyhound over the phone revealed that they still had tickets available for their 9pm bus from Chicago to Memphis; we just had to head down to any bus station to buy the tickets in advance. Luckily for us, there was one located just a few blocks from us.
“Er... You do know what I think of Greyhound, right?” I chewed on my lip as Pam shared the plan with me. I’d done extensive research prior to our trip and many travellers shared negative reviews of their experiences online about the company’s shady bus stations where people got robbed and where alleged drug transactions took place, as well as Greyhound’s unreliable inter-state bus services.
“We don’t have a choice, Ning. I think we can’t worry too much at this point,” the BFF said as she sent a text message to our friend Siok Siok, who happened to be in Chicago for the screening of her film, Twittamentary. With the change in schedule, we could make the screening after all. “Let’s do this, OK? I really don’t wanna miss the New Orleans jazz fest.”
The chilly walk to Chicago’s Greyhound bus station made me miss Hawaii, where the people and climate were so much warmer. Even in the afternoon, the bus station looked cold and unfriendly, with shady characters loitering in dim corners. Even though there were armed cops on patrol, the BFF didn’t dare to take out her camera.
I sincerely wanted to be proven wrong about all the negativity surrounding Greyhound’s reputation. It took us about 15 minutes to get to the front of the ticketing queue but once there, we were rudely directed to purchase our tickets at the self-help machines instead. The three indifferent employees at the counter were paid to chat with each other, flirt with the security guard, text on their
mobile phones and in general, make the customers who fund their salary feel like crap.
To be objective, Pam and I realised that it wasn’t a racist thing – everyone in line received the same crap treatment. We had a bit of difficulty with the machines because our credit cards weren’t issued in the U.S. but we eventually managed to secure our 9pm ride to Memphis, Tennessee.
Let me explain at this juncture that Greyhound has two types of tickets – refundable and non-refundable. The latter is significantly cheaper while the former allows you to make changes to your purchased ticket, be it destination, date or time. Obviously, most commuters would choose the cheaper option since you know exactly where you want to go and when, so that’s what Pam and I did.
That evening, after Siok Siok’s wonderful screening of Twittamentary, a documentary on how Twitter has impacted lives, we took a cab with all our belongings to the Chicago Greyhound station. We arrived at 8pm, a good hour early. Joining the queue at Gate 10, we waited patiently while watching each other’s backs.
A friendly African-American man came over and started talking to me, warning us to watch out for shady characters because people’s belongings often got stolen. Our new friend also shared that before the cops started patrolling the bus station, many illegal transactions happened right where we were standing. He nodded solemnly at four men obviously in negotiation at a corner of the station. They had no luggage with them and didn’t appear to be waiting to get on a bus.
Looking around us, I couldn’t help but notice that many people actually used large black garbage bags to carry their stuff. Better well-off ones had dusty duffel bags. Despite being the only Asians around, I guess Pam and I kind of blended in thanks to our hardy weather-beaten Tatonka backpacks.
“Hey, what the...” Pam pointed at the moving queue next to us. People had begun boarding the 9pm bus for Memphis, and it wasn’t us. “That’s OUR bus!”
“Excuse me,” I grabbed the arm of a tired-looking Greyhound employee who happened to walk by and showed him my printed ticket. “I don’t understand why we’re not allowed up our bus?”
“9pm to Memphis, Tennessee?” the thin African-American man raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, it’s over-booked. So you gotta wait for the next bus.”
“What do you mean?” the BFF interjected. The people standing around us had moved closer to join in the conversation. They looked just as perplexed.
“I’m sorry, there’s been an overbooking on the Memphis bus. The machines issued an additional 50 tickets,” the Greyhound guy shrugged. “So you gotta wait.”
“How’s that possible?” a Caucasian woman in front of us shrilly demanded. She was a lone traveller – I’d seen her brush her teeth in the queue earlier and was wondering if she’d spit or swallow the toothpaste. “How the hell do you over-sell a bus-load of tickets?”
The employee waved his hand dismissively. “The machines oversold. But we’re gonna get you a new bus, don’t worry. It’ll probably take an hour, to get you a fresh driver... You know how all that’s important, right?”
Everyone grumbled. I sighed because there was something insincere and non-committal about his reply that made me uneasy, besides the obvious lack of an apology. My instincts were right, however, and one-and-a-half hours crawled by with still no bus in sight. I was getting impatient, cranky and tired.
PAM
As a fairly seasoned traveller, I do expect the unexpected to happen. It’s part of the grand adventure of life! It reminds me of the reality of Life: things don’t always go according to plan, and we don’t always get what we want, the way we want it.
I was tired and irritable, just like Ning. But when things started to happen outside of what was planned, it was as if a switch was turned on inside me. Maybe it’s the journalist in me, always on the lookout for a good story?
I told myself at that point, exhausted as I was, that I would go with the flow and soak it all in. This was not staged. This was Life and I wanted to experience it fully. Warped, I know.
For one, being at the Greyhound bus station in Chicago was the most eye-opening experience I had of life for a different segment of American society. This was life away from the Hollywood images of white picket fences, Mustang convertibles, silver skyscrapers, cornflakes, Oreos, baseball, and the whole façade of American middle-class bliss.
I saw homeless people loitering in the streets in the bitter cold of the night. They were carrying their belongings in black garbage bags because they could not afford to buy a suitcase. The young lad ahead of me wanted to get something out of his black plastic bundle, which was secured with a tight knot, so he punched a hole in it.
I felt fearful carrying all my belongings with me in the middle of downtown Chicago at night. It was the only place I did not take any photographs of because I was too afraid to take out my camera or my phone.
Yet when we were queuing for the bus, a black American man ambled over to chat with us. He had marked his spot in the queue with one piece of luggage and he told us, “Be careful, I’m keeping an eye on my bag as I’m standing here.” He was possibly someone I would have guarded my luggage against, but he too was scared.
Ning and I did not stand around for three hours without talking to anyone. We did. And the people around us chatted with us as well. These strangers who had made me feel threatened a moment ago soon became a circle of acquaintances whom I could actually relax around. They were people like you and I, frustrated too because they just wanted to get to Memphis.
I realised that many of them had never taken an airplane. The Greyhound was all they could afford, at 60 bucks a ride. Even so, they were complaining about the hike in prices. And there we were considering forking out US$800 for domestic flights hours earlier!
NING
The queue behind us grew longer as the folks who had purchased tickets for the midnight bus started to stream in. Other passengers heading to different states also came and went, even our new friend who had been a pleasant conversational companion. I sighed and realised that it was almost midnight and it would take about ten hours for us to reach our destination. When would we ever set off?
The Irish-American guy behind me swore when an employee he stopped couldn’t confirm when our bus would come. He bitterly shared that he’d bought a whole bunch of connecting bus tickets (pretty much like air flight tickets) so he could make it back for the Mother’s Day weekend, but it looked like he was going to lose all the money he paid because his were non-refundable tickets.
“You mean you can’t get your money back or have Greyhound issue you new bus tickets?” Pam sounded indignant. “But it’s not your fault!”
The thin Hispanic woman who had been loudly sharing her marital woes with the stranger behind her whined from behind the Irish guy. She looked kindly at Pam over the top of her sharp nose. “They don’t give a shit, honey. We can’t sue Greyhound because we can’t afford it, and they know that. That’s why they pull this kinda crap and get away with it.”
“We’re supposed to be on the Amtrak train this afternoon but the tracks got flooded,” Pam shook her head. “But this is crazy, we’ve been here since 8pm!”
“This has happened before,” The tough-looking woman with a mullet hairstyle who was standing in front of us chimed in. “It’s no surprise, but this here has gotta take the cake.”
My watch beeped. It was midnight. I couldn’t believe it. We had been there for four hours! Something this disorganised would never ever happen in Singapore. I sighed inwardly, missing Singapore’s structured efficiency.
It was then that I noticed that a large 50-seater bus had pulled up in front of our gate.
“Look,” I nudged Pam as a big, burly security guard yanked open the stiff gate next to ours, instead of the one directly in front. It completely defied logic. I frowned, picking up my stuff in anticipation. Others followed suit.
With a heavy ghetto accent, the security guard bellowed for people with express tickets to board the waiting bus through the gate he’d just
opened. It was the stupidest thing to do because a swarm of people frantically dashed to the front, completely disintegrating the proper queue that had been formed over hours of waiting in vain. Pam and I were rudely shoved aside and we soon found ourselves at the back of the mob.
PAM
When the crowd surged forward with the opening of a new gate, the Greyhound staff shouted at everyone as if they were prison officers armed with batons. “Stand in a single file or you won’t get on the bus!”
We were paying customers of Greyhound, damn it! But we were treated like inmates or school children. As I was being jostled around, I realised that this could only happen to the poor people, those with no status in society. It felt humbling to be counted among them, and to get a taste of how they were treated, probably daily. And mind you, this was by others of their kind, just that they were clad in uniforms.
Back in Singapore, Ning and I usually get VIP treatment when we are at events. I guess it’s because we are both in media and entertainment. Even if we hang out incognita, we are treated well simply because we are educated and independent middle-class women.
This was the first time we had experienced being treated as the scum of the earth, as nobodies at the bottom rung of the status ladder. I guess our scruffy travel garb didn’t help. It made us look like two poor Asian students travelling on a shoestring budget.
At some point, I was tempted to jump on my imaginary soapbox and yell at the top of my lungs, “I’m from the Singapore media! You’d better get your act together or I’ll do a story on you on national radio!!!”