Tufesa bus from Guaymas to Nogales is $410 pesos, about $41USD one way. I had seen a ten-peso discount offered for prepayment so I had bought the ticket two days earlier, but even though the website and a sign at the depot showed the discount, I was charged full price.
The bus was an hour late, which would have had me worrying about missing my flight except that I was catching the 5pm bus for a 6:35am flight. Surely, I thought, 13 hours would be enough time. As it turned out, just enough time.
The first leg of the trip, to Hermosillo, was uneventful other than the excessive wideness of the man sitting next to me. I spent an hour meditating on narrowness. At Hermosillo he got off and another fellow with two sons (18 and 13) got on, the father next to me, the boys (both muy guapo) sitting across the aisle. They live in LA, and their English is very good (the boys don't even have an accent). Lorenzo and his family had been visiting his mother-in-law in Hermosillo, and he had to go back to work. At 43 he has lived in the US for 24 years, is a naturalized citizen and has bought completely into the American Dream: a $750,000 house, the older son headed for law school, his own business that keeps him working from 6am to 8pm every day. Interestingly, what he wanted to talk about was his plan to buy a little house on the beach in Kino Bay, Mexico where he and his wife could retire when he turns 55.
At Hermosillo we were asked to disembark so the bus could be cleaned. Caramba! I left a little grocery bag with crackers, cheese and a water bottle on the floor of the bus and the cleaner must have thought it was trash and took it away. Lesson learned. In the waiting room I met one of the other passengers, Leonora ("call me Leo") who has a business buying used clothing in LA and bringing them down to sell at tianguis.
When we stopped at the army checkpoint around 10pm for a "revision militar" the procedure was more involved than if we'd been driving a car. With a car, we pull up next to a teenaged soldier sporting camos and a big gun, who asks where we're going and/or where we're from and waves us on. With the bus, we disembarked, the luggage was pulled out of the compartment and gone through half-heartedly while we stood around for about 20 minutes, stretching our legs, some of us taking advantage of the large supply of snacks for sale nearby.
At the Nogales border we disembarked downtown around 2am. We thought the bus would be searched but this time they only examined our passports and other documentation. Back aboard, I dozed for what seemed like a minute and then I was in Tucson, trying to wake up, looking for a taxi in the rain, and very glad I was traveling light. The taxi ride to the airport was $15, shared with two other passengers.
I indulged in a very good double espresso at a 24-hour coffee kiosk downstairs at the baggage carousels, brushed my teeth and sat reading my book for a short while, hoping the check-in line would be shorter if I gave it some time. The line was comprised of dozens of excited young teenage girls (all chaperoned by their parents) from all over Mexico, wearing red t-shirts and matching jackets, all headed for Toronto for an intensive English study course. By the time I got to the check-in machine, scanned the barcode on my passport and got my boarding pass, it was time to hurry off to the plane.
When I got off the Continental flight at Houston at Terminal E, I thought I couldn't be far from Terminal B so I started walking. Along the way I checked in with the Capt on the cell phone, stopped at Starbuck's for a double espresso and (shame, shame) a cream cheese danish, which wasn't even very good. I was carrying my own pillow, like a little kid with her blankie. Otherwise I was encumbered by only a very heavy backpack.
But I soon found that Houston Airport is so large, I had to catch a shuttle bus to Terminal B. So I got to Gate 84B, sat down and pulled out my laptop hoping I could get a blog started, when the desk agent called: "Anybody here going to Tulsa?" Luckily I was there to hear her, because the gate had been switched! (This happens almost every time I fly.) I had to go downstairs and half a mile down a long corridor, and I could hear my name being paged as I ran. At the new gate I was ushered outside, and actually walked across the tarmac to board a very small jet. I checked, thinking it might have propellors. I haven't boarded a plane outdoors since sometime in the sixties. A blast from the past!
Tune in tomorrow for the next exciting episode.
The bus was an hour late, which would have had me worrying about missing my flight except that I was catching the 5pm bus for a 6:35am flight. Surely, I thought, 13 hours would be enough time. As it turned out, just enough time.
The first leg of the trip, to Hermosillo, was uneventful other than the excessive wideness of the man sitting next to me. I spent an hour meditating on narrowness. At Hermosillo he got off and another fellow with two sons (18 and 13) got on, the father next to me, the boys (both muy guapo) sitting across the aisle. They live in LA, and their English is very good (the boys don't even have an accent). Lorenzo and his family had been visiting his mother-in-law in Hermosillo, and he had to go back to work. At 43 he has lived in the US for 24 years, is a naturalized citizen and has bought completely into the American Dream: a $750,000 house, the older son headed for law school, his own business that keeps him working from 6am to 8pm every day. Interestingly, what he wanted to talk about was his plan to buy a little house on the beach in Kino Bay, Mexico where he and his wife could retire when he turns 55.
At Hermosillo we were asked to disembark so the bus could be cleaned. Caramba! I left a little grocery bag with crackers, cheese and a water bottle on the floor of the bus and the cleaner must have thought it was trash and took it away. Lesson learned. In the waiting room I met one of the other passengers, Leonora ("call me Leo") who has a business buying used clothing in LA and bringing them down to sell at tianguis.
When we stopped at the army checkpoint around 10pm for a "revision militar" the procedure was more involved than if we'd been driving a car. With a car, we pull up next to a teenaged soldier sporting camos and a big gun, who asks where we're going and/or where we're from and waves us on. With the bus, we disembarked, the luggage was pulled out of the compartment and gone through half-heartedly while we stood around for about 20 minutes, stretching our legs, some of us taking advantage of the large supply of snacks for sale nearby.
At the Nogales border we disembarked downtown around 2am. We thought the bus would be searched but this time they only examined our passports and other documentation. Back aboard, I dozed for what seemed like a minute and then I was in Tucson, trying to wake up, looking for a taxi in the rain, and very glad I was traveling light. The taxi ride to the airport was $15, shared with two other passengers.
I indulged in a very good double espresso at a 24-hour coffee kiosk downstairs at the baggage carousels, brushed my teeth and sat reading my book for a short while, hoping the check-in line would be shorter if I gave it some time. The line was comprised of dozens of excited young teenage girls (all chaperoned by their parents) from all over Mexico, wearing red t-shirts and matching jackets, all headed for Toronto for an intensive English study course. By the time I got to the check-in machine, scanned the barcode on my passport and got my boarding pass, it was time to hurry off to the plane.
When I got off the Continental flight at Houston at Terminal E, I thought I couldn't be far from Terminal B so I started walking. Along the way I checked in with the Capt on the cell phone, stopped at Starbuck's for a double espresso and (shame, shame) a cream cheese danish, which wasn't even very good. I was carrying my own pillow, like a little kid with her blankie. Otherwise I was encumbered by only a very heavy backpack.
But I soon found that Houston Airport is so large, I had to catch a shuttle bus to Terminal B. So I got to Gate 84B, sat down and pulled out my laptop hoping I could get a blog started, when the desk agent called: "Anybody here going to Tulsa?" Luckily I was there to hear her, because the gate had been switched! (This happens almost every time I fly.) I had to go downstairs and half a mile down a long corridor, and I could hear my name being paged as I ran. At the new gate I was ushered outside, and actually walked across the tarmac to board a very small jet. I checked, thinking it might have propellors. I haven't boarded a plane outdoors since sometime in the sixties. A blast from the past!
Tune in tomorrow for the next exciting episode.