Mine took place on December 18^th, six days before Christmas. I figured I'd save about five hundred dollars by deciding to travel home by bus. The agent who sold me the ticket over the phone assured me the cross-country trip lasts only two days. I can handle two days, even though my friends' reactions to my decision have been mildly scary.

When we enter the station, my friend, who has just driven me from my home in Eugene to Portland, OR, goes off to find the bathroom and I wait on line to get my boarding passes. The agent looks at me funny when I tell him my destination is New York City. Even he, supposed bastion of the Greyhound system, thinks that I am crazy. He hands me what appear to be too many tickets for the various legs of my journey.

"How can I make this many connections in just two days?" I ask him. He looks at me even funnier. "The trip doesn't take two days," he says simply, smiling evilly.

Before I can demand details, my friend hustles up to the desk and demands a complaint form. He claims he has been barred from the restroom by a security guard because he is not a paying Greyhound passenger.

"I've never been treated so rudely in my whole life," he says to the agent, who continues to smile at me as if he knows something I don't. This doesn't bode well for my upcoming journey of indeterminate length.

My friend leaves me and all of a sudden I am certain that every bum I pass is surely my future seat mate. 'Only crazy people take the bus' is the phrase that stays with me for the following twelve hours.

I sit down next to the door to Gate 11. The bus is there. My bus. From the outside it doesn't look so bad. It's red.

My strategy is to board the bus as quickly as is humanly possible so that I can ensure myself a seat up front by the driver. I don't want to be part of the back-of-the-bus shenanigans which have been taking place in my recent recurring nightmares.

Over the loudspeaker, an agent announces that my bus is beginning to board. I bolt upright, grab my bags and brace myself in front of the gate. If someone tries to get by me, I'm ready for them.

Surprisingly, I am the only person who seems intent on getting a front row seat. I relax my muscles, which have been flexed for combat.

I sit down in the second row and put my headphones on. I practice ignoring an imaginary seat mate who is trying to make conversation. My plan is to have the headphones on at all times, even when I'm not listening to music. I figure if I can nod my head to an imaginary rhythm for the next three days straight, I won't have to talk to a single person.

My real-life seat mate turns out to be a Native American smoker. She tries to get off of the bus at every conceivable opportunity to light one up. When the bus is actually moving, and there is absolutely no chance of her getting off, she eats beef jerky and miniature Snickers bars. The driver hates her.

It dawns on me as we are pulling out of the terminal that we are already 15 minutes behind schedule. I have a piddling half-hour layover the next morning in Salt Lake City. At this rate, I will surely miss my connecting bus. But we are on our way, and although I do yearn to escape through the emergency exit and hitchhike back to Eugene where it is safe, I decide not to worry.

For the next six hours I am in a state of time-loss denial. The driver has announced that although the bus is a non-smoking bus, he will be willing to pull over if anyone is truly having an emergency-style craving. I scowl at my seat mate, who is gradually running out of cigarette substitutes.

We also happen to get stuck behind two emergency road service vehicles that maintain a hearty speed of 12mph for about 15 minutes. I figure I have now effectively lost my entire layover period; one more delay and I will doubtless miss my next bus.

We stop at a travel center in The Dalles (still in Oregon) for a twenty-minute break. My seat mate smiles ecstatically when she hears the news. Apparently, sitting up front was a strategic decision on her part as well. She is capable of taking the utmost advantage of every smoking moment. I just hope that this rest stop was incorporated into the 19 hours this trip is supposed to take.

Inside the travel center, where I can hardly keep my eyes open because of the garish neon lights, I try to find a mini map of the United States so I can chart my course as we move along. I can't find one and am afraid for my health inside the glowing store, so I walk back toward the bus. There's my seat mate, puffing away. I avoid eye contact for fear that she might speak to me and make a habit of it.

On the bus, I lean my head against the window. One of my fellow passengers is brushing his teeth and spitting into a garbage can next to the bus. He is enjoying himself. He is having a good time. In fact, he seems to be imagining a rock concert of some sort. His eyes are closed and he's dancing. He's singing with the toothbrush. He's spitting everywhere.

I am glad he is not my seat mate.

Four hours later, we pull into Pendleton (still in Oregon). This city is best known for its annual rodeo, the famous Pendleton Roundup. I see signs advertising next September's event and decide that a rodeo might be fun. Maybe I will come back next year.

We pull into the Greyhound terminal for another twenty-minute smoke break. My seat mate is sleeping. I wonder if I should wake her up. If she wakes up after the smoke break is over, she might be angry. What exactly are the parameters of my responsibility as a seat mate? Just as I have decided to wake her, she breaks out of her slumber. She turns to me and I can see the confusion in her eyes. "I need to get out of here!" she proclaims to the line of passengers shuffling past her. "I need to ask him if it's OK to have a cigarette here!" She is still half asleep. She elbows her way into line before I can explain that we have only just arrived.

I use the restroom, even though doing so requires that I squeeze past a booth harboring what appears to be a station regular drinking a root beer and eating a Twinkie. She scares me, but nature is calling. I make it back onto the bus unscathed.

I discover that the reading light above my seat is broken. I curse Greyhound under my breath. I start to panic. I don't think I can do it. I don't think I can survive the Dirty Dog.

"The roads are closed and we're not going anywhere," the driver says.

We are told to return to the station at nine a.m. the following morning. I swear this is part of my recurring nightmare. The toothbrush dancer asks if he should go blow on the highway. He claims that he is so full of hot air, the snow will melt. He laughs and I think I can smell the minty freshness. The driver, not amused, tells him he can do anything he wants. We are apparently no longer his responsibility.

Before I allow myself to consider the possible hideous outcomes of 15 hours in Pendleton, I dismount the bus. I explain my situation to the driver and ask him what I should do. He tells me to take a plane but not to expect Greyhound to pay for it. He says he could have told me back in Portland that I wouldn't make my connection in Salt Lake. I thank him for his help.

A rather large, angry, female passenger is yelling at the Pendleton Greyhound agent, who is also rather large, angry and female. The passenger says that she signed a contract with the bus company to perform a service and they did not honor the contract. She demands a full refund and a travel alternative, and she wants them now.

I try to restrain myself. If I anger the lady behind the counter, she will not help me. The gruesome prospect of being forced to share a hotel room with any one of my fellow passengers has just taken shape in my mind and I suddenly feel a desperate willingness to do anything it takes to remove myself from the presence of those around me. I ask the agent if I can rent a car somewhere nearby. She looks at me with the same smile the agent in Portland gave me when I told him I was going to New York.

"The roads are closed, sweetie," she says. "If we can't go, neither can you." She doesn't understand. I explain to her that I want to go back to Portland. Now I think she feels bad for me. My calm composure has prevailed. She yells for a friend, who she says has a good buddy at Haslam's Budget Rental down the road. He offers to give me a ride, which I blindly accept.

We arrive at Haslam's. Quickly, thank goodness, because my Def Leppard quota for the night has been met in the short car ride. When I explain my current situation, I marvel at the fact that Hasmond also utilizes the same smile that makes me feel like a lunatic. He tells me that because I am under 25 and will be returning the car somewhere other than Pendleton, he will be forced to charge me an arm and a leg for the vehicle. However, he does have some out-of-work buddies who would be happy to drive me to Eugene for a smaller fee.

I can feel every hair on my body sticking out like a needle. I don't care about the money. I just want to get out of Pendleton and very far away from Pendletonians.

He tries to talk me out of it. He tells me it is ridiculous, that it is going to cost me a lot of money. I tell him again I don't care. It occurs to me that I might really be having one of my recurring Greyhound nightmares because isn't it this man's job to rent me the car?

I can hardly sit still while we fill out the paperwork because I have an unbearable desire to sing Uncle John's Band at the top of my lungs while driving back in the direction I have just come from.

He hands me the keys and I tell him that he is a lifesaver, even though I had to talk him into doing his job.

When I get back to the bus to collect my things, I have become a Greyhound legend. I am the one who is going back. The passenger from the seat behind mine asks me is she can ride with me to Eugene. At this particular point in time, I cannot think of anything less pleasant, so I say maybe and then sprint back to my Mitsubishi.

The whirlwind tour is over. I don't know how I'm going to get to New York, but I sure don't care. One thing is for certain - I will never do the Dirty Dog in Winter again.

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