Fever Dream Part 1: The Day I Missed the Bus

    I’m sitting on a wooden bench outside the Galveston Island Brewery, having just wrapped up two pints of what has instantly become my favorite drink, the mojito seltzer. With two days left before I venture back north, discovering this place has been a pleasant surprise, like discovering a home away from home. My eyes are fixated on a graduate student, discussing the time she visited an African country to do some field work. Her discussion proceeds to intertwine with rambling tangents of how she became a PhD candidate, the PhD world as she’s come to navigate it, and her life. Counting with my fingers, we were only four questions in… but it seemed that those questions were all she needed to share her many, unsolicited life stories. To be fair, I’d probably do the same if I were that inebriated and had a lot to say. I might've even included several dramatic reenactments to ensure my own unsolicited life stories were justly retold.

Picture 1. The Galveston Island Brewery. Source

    As she carried on, I began to shift uncomfortably on the rigid wooden bench. I was fighting the urge to ask a follow up question, knowing that its answer would be somewhere in the eye of the inevitable rambling storm. I could tell by looking at my friends’ faces from across the bench that they were also fighting between exhaustion and staying engaged with the graduate student. Given this, I felt that additional questions would be received poorly by them. I secretly hoped one of my friends would interject with Well, look at the time! We should probably head home at some point, but it never came. As the early evening turned to night, a question crossed my mind, How did I end up here? I had only sat on the bench so I could pet her dog.

Picture 2. A visual representation of a late evening at the Galveston Brewery. 

    Eventually, the bartender came to our rescue, announcing the last call for drinks, giving us enough time to stand up and find an organic end to the conversation. But that question lingered, How did I end up here? Here I was drinking at a brewery, with strangers turned to friends, far from New England and moderate humidity, and on an island that was previously unknown to me. It's wild how things can change so quickly.

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    Did you know that there are many varieties of samosas that can be fished from all over the world? Knowing this fact encouraged my decision to travel to the southern part of the United States this summer. I wanted to see what types of samosas the Gulf Coast had to offer. More specifically, I found myself in Galveston, Texas after being accepted to attend a summer intensive program hosted by the University of Texas Medical Branch (UTMB) where I completed a research project with a focus on data analysis and explored my interests in statistics and medical research.
    
    I didn’t know Galveston existed before being accepted into the program. On top of that, I was reminded almost every day there that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. These reminders included the tropical climate, the palm trees, the gray pelicans soaring through the sky, and the apathy that island residents showed to street flooding after almost every storm. Perhaps one of the biggest reminders of being far away from home was the mere fact that I was on an island where North American land intersects a vast ocean that could take you anywhere in the world. The stark contrast of living cautiously during the COVID-19 pandemic over the past two years to living on an island among its carefree dwellers on the opposite end of America was ludicrous. Even now, disbelief creeps in, as if I was thrust into a different world a la the multiverse.

Picture 3. Pictures capturing some places in New England and Galveston, Texas.

    For this short series that will highlight my time in Galveston, I have chosen to denounce my title as the Samosa Fisher of New England to claim my transient identity as the Gulf Coast Samosa Fisher. All in all, this trip was a series of unexpected experiences. In fact, it was these series of unexpected experiences that prompted the following recurring thought throughout my stay, Am I having a Fever Dream? But I guess it really happened, so please enjoy the following memories:

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The Day I Missed the Bus

    Once I set foot in Galveston, I gave up the ability to drive my own car and the freedom to travel anywhere I could drive to. The main mode of transportation around the island was a school bus that would take us from the dorm houses to either the local grocery store, Kroger’s, or the UTMB campus. This meant that exploring Galveston was almost exclusively limited to walking.

    It was on the second day of the program that I found myself having trouble adjusting to an early morning routine. My initial plan was to wake up around 6:30-6:45 am, shower, get dressed, make breakfast/pack a snack, and be ready for the bus “By 7:25 am” (as per the program director’s email about the bus schedule). In my head, the instructions were clear: be ready and out the door by 7:25 am for the 7:30 am bus–Got it.

    By 7:25 am. If you're a chronically late person by trade like myself, you’ll know that the minutes matter. My initial plan, as denoted above, was an idealistic routine that a chronically late person fools themselves with. In reality, here's how my mind quickly re-structured this routine: With the end goal of being ready By 7:25 am, I would wake up and start getting ready around 6:50-6:55, gradually picking up the pace, before making my way down the stairs by 7:24 and out the front door by 7:25. The first day went by just fine because I happened to wake up earlier than usual and was downstairs by 7:20, excited to start the day. I didn’t anticipate running into any issues until the following week, when the holes in my routine would start to appear thanks to misplacing toiletries, not knowing what to wear, or because the Snooze button on the alarm retired from its duties after many attempts of trying to wake me up.

    However, my troubles began on the second day itself. I had been walking on the fine line between being on schedule and running late all morning as I hustled through my realistic morning routine. While making my way down the stairs, I took note of how suspiciously quiet the house seemed–I was living with 6 other people and morning chatter wasn’t uncommon. I checked the time on my wrist watch: 7:26 am. Standing at the bottom of the steps, I absorbed the eerie silence of an empty common space. They're probably just waiting for me outside, I thought to myself. The bus doesn’t officially leave until 7:30 am anyways. I calmly opened the door and looked out at the street, where to my disbelief, I saw that the bus was gone and so was everyone else.

    I checked my watch–always two minutes ahead to counter my tardy habits–which read 7:27 am…which means it was 7:25 am. Reality was taking its time, but slowly sinking in…I missed the bus. But it's only 7:25 am! I tried to listen for the lingering sound of a school bus driving nearby in the hopes of still catching it. To my dismay, the street was devoid of any noise except for birds chirping in the distance and the occasional car driving by. Where was this bus? Adding to my disbelief was that I was in a new and unfamiliar place, stripped of my access to a car, slightly dehydrated from the heat, and now alone on a quiet morning far from any program affiliates. Missing the bus has never been on my bingo card. Despite being a chronically late person, I don't think I've ever missed a bus ride. Have I come close? Sure, many times, it comes with the territory of being late. But I've never quite missed the bus.*

    Merging my disbelief with a need to take action, I calmly called a Taxi service that I had Googled seconds before, and sheepishly updated my program director on the situation. To be honest, the actual situation wasn't a big deal. I was on a small enough island to get to campus within 10 or so minutes by Taxi and had plenty of time before the morning lecture started. Not a minute after completing my call, I watched a stranger walk up to the street and stare out in disbelief–it looked as if he had also missed the bus. I later found out that this stranger was a student who happened to be attending a different summer program at UTMB. Henceforth, I will refer to him as The Right Guy at the Right Time. Feeling relieved I wasn't the only one who had missed the bus, I took him up on his offer to split the Uber ride to campus and cancelled my taxi.

    I learned from campus orientation the day before that the program lectures would be in two adjacent buildings. After the Uber driver got us to campus, and after convincing the stern, sunburnt security guard to let me into the building, I promptly ran up three flights of stairs to the classroom I had been in yesterday–only to quickly turn around and run down the stairs upon realizing that it was the wrong building. Running out the entrance door, I passed by the security guard who was closely watching me. I yelled over my shoulder, Wrong building! and could hear the echo of a hearty chuckle subsequently follow. Luckily, the building I had to be in was close enough to hastily walk to. In the end, I made it to the classroom with a minute to spare. And all was well...

Picture 4. The Ashbel Smith Building, aka "Old Red."

    Or so I thought–you see, I ended up missing the evening bus back to the dorms–this time, only by a few seconds. The lectures on the second day had ended earlier than scheduled, leaving ample time to explore the campus before the bus finally arrived at 5:00 pm. While other program attendees sought to find a different way back home, I opted to hunt down Old Red (The Ashbel Smith Building) and take some pictures to send to my parents. This whole ordeal ended up being shorter than I anticipated--there's only so many pictures of a building you can take. As such, I texted my friends to let them know I was making my way back to the bus stop. Within a minute, I received a response** that the bus was already there--An hour early? Awesome! With a tall cup of coffee in tow, I booked it back to the stop. Despite being within a few hundred feet of the bus stop, the closer I got to the bus, the smaller it looked. When I finally reached the stop, I stood there and watched as the bus disappeared into the distance, letting it sink in that I had yet again missed the bus and was once again stranded on the island. Since I was clearly the target for nuanced chaos on this particular day, I'll add that while waiting for the Taxi, I accidentally spilled my coffee into a bush. Having gone several days without having any caffeine, my stimulated heart broke as my stock dwindled before my eyes–all in a day's work, right? Luckily, the Taxi driver, who I had abruptly canceled on in the morning, was forgiving enough to drive me back to the dorm house and help me conclude my chaotic second day. You'll be glad to know that since this incident, I never missed the bus again (for now at least).

Some post-incident reflections:

• For the rest of my time in Galveston, I learned to become immediately uncomfortable whenever it was suspiciously quiet downstairs. There also became a set of observations I would use to hasten my pace while getting ready…Was the light morning chatter dwindling? Did the shuffling around the common area coincide with backpack zipping? And were breakfast bowls and spoons clinking as they were placed in the sink? This was all criteria to haul ass down the stairs and out the door. Perhaps a more useful observation, I would also periodically check to see if the bus was still outside from the upstairs kitchen window, and take off like the speed of light with the hope that the bus didn't leave in between the time it took me to get from the stairs to the street.  

• The miracle Uber ride dropped me off at a part of campus that was on the opposite end to my class building. The Right Guy at the Right Time introduced me to a shortcut that brought the polar ends of the campus together, cutting an otherwise 20 minute walk in half. I made it to my class on time much thanks to that shortcut, and continued to make consistent use of that route throughout my time in Galveston.

• I was pretty impressed by how calm I remained throughout this whole worst case scenario. Chalk it up the maturity (nope); natural ability to remain calm (maybe not); adaptability skills I acquired from having been a medical scribe (getting closer); or the blunting numbness that accompanied my disbelief of having missed the bus, which made it hard to freak out externally, but easier to focus on my goal to get to campus (yeah sounds more like it). 

• This is the first time I met Right Guy at the Right Time who remained a recurring presence during my time in Galveston. 

*I think my tardiness tends to get its strength from being in charge of my own transportation because ultimately, choosing to feel ready and when to leave becomes more flexible. Whenever it feels good to me.

**You might be wondering–before I missed the second bus, I was receiving texts, so why didn’t someone say something to the bus driver? In the morning, no one realized that I wasn't on the bus--I mean who misses the bus on the second day, right? The short answer is: I do. But we've already gone through this--that's what this whole piece is about. Moving on. As it turns out, we later found out that the evening mishap was the result of unclear coordination between the bus service and the program coordinators. What was mistaken as the 5:00 pm bus that came early was actually meant for a third, separate summer program. At the time of the incident, the students in the bus had communicated that all of them were present to the bus driver who then took off at the speed of light. By the time I received texts to update me on what happened, the bus was already on the move. 

Until next time...