Saturday Morning
Anyone who rose before 6:00 a.m. on Saturday knows how miserable it was outside. I was surprised to find that it was still raining/slushy snowing, and made my way out to the 7th Avenue F bundled in thick coat, hat, and a shield of my rickety “I refuse to replace it because it still kind of works” umbrella. In preparation for my 7:30 a.m. bus, I had done the following: bought my ticket in advance, charged my iPod, researched the state of the F train (Hoyted, of course), drank a minimal few sips of coffee (keep that bladder empty), and peed four times. Yes, I was ready for this trip—the kind where I would be sitting for four hours in a packed bus, unable to use a restroom, all in the name of cheap tickets.

The Hoyted F train took nearly an hour to get me from 7th Avenue to East Broadway. Because I am a smart girl, I’d taken the liberty of leaving an hour and fifteen minutes early, so this was not an issue, however I could not help but feel a nagging reminder of something dire, something that started as a mild discomfort half way through my subway ride, but began presenting as a legitimate issue around York Street: I had to pee.

At East Broadway, I quickly trudged to the foot of the Manhattan Bridge, whereupon I turned the corner to find a line of six busses and ten or so Chinese women screaming at me to take their service. All I could decipher, due to my lack of caffeine and knowledge of the Chinese language, was “blah blah blah DC DC DC PhillyPhilly yeah yeah this bus.” None of the buses seemed to have signs that actually listed the company that ran them.

After three stops at various women hawking their vehicular bounty, I found what I thought was my bus, affirmed by “yeah yeah Apex Apex DC this bus.” Reluctantly, I boarded, asking several people if this was the bus to DC. No one was quite sure, and adding to the confusion were a myriad of travelers heading to Philadelphia. True to form, two minutes before the bus was to leave, a man boarded the bus and screamed for all DC passengers to disembark and get on another bus.

At this point, I just did what I was told, trying to push out of my mind the image of a loaded bus of cheapskate New Yorkers being driven to some small South American country where I would be forced to stitch Nike shirts for the rest of my life. Actually, I could have cared less, as the only thing on my mind was the fact that the bus had not even left New York yet and I already had to pee.

I was able to hold it until somewhere in New Jersey, whereupon I in was in so much pain that I started to sweat. It was then that I did the unthinkable—I used the Chinatown Bus bathroom, perhaps the most disgusting, foul smelling, pee-laden closet with a hole ever encountered in the life of bus transportation. Mind you, I have experience my share of gross commodes—runners use porta-potties all the time, I have traveled on pre-Y2K LIRR trains, and I have negotiated some foul-ass public school lavatories. Nothing compares to this, however.

Using all of the arm strength that I could muster, I managed suspend myself above the latrine by the two handi-rails, battling the constant threat of bare-ass to wall contact, due to the moving bus. I was only able to empty about ¼ of my bladder, however it was sufficient to ease the pressure and allow me to sleep for the rest of the ride. Did I mention that I had no napkins? There was a paper bag. We will not go there.

Sunday Afternoon
Now a veteran of semi-chaotic Chinatown Bus travel, I went into my return trip with an air of worldliness. It was going to be a little nutty, yes. I would not be able to pee, even if I died holding it in, no. But it was going to be okay, you see, because I had consumed little or no liquid all day and had spent my museum hopping trip surveying every DC bathroom known to man. I was successful in this venture. No bathroom trip was needed. And there was an added bonus.

The bus was packed—over booked, in fact, so much so that there was not one available seat. After giving up my single for a nauseatingly in love couple who wanted to sit together, I set up camp in a window seat behind a large, burly man that most West Village/Chelsea sets would probably define as a bear. Even though he proceeded to have two forty-minute cell phone conversations throughout the trip, I forgave him, because the man had a laptop DVD player. Due to my seat angle, I had a perfect viewing space (albeit reversed) through the window reflection.

Yes folks, on my way home from DC, sandwiched between a large man who was nearly sleeping on my shoulder and a creaky, mysteriously breezy bus window, I watched Adventures in Babysitting and Clueless the whole way home.

How much better could it get?