A Long Bus Ride from New York to Abington
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Carol was waiting in the lobby near the elevator when I got off. She appeared relieved to see me and immediately asked if I had "been purchased by the high and mighty." I did not answer directly but grabbed her hand and hurriedly led her out of the hotel toward the subway, all the time explaining in broken sentences what had transpired and what I had agreed to do. When I announced that I was leaving New York at six o'clock, she stopped me abruptly in the midst of a busy sidewalk crowd and asked me to repeat what I had just said, which I did, as I looked directly at her. Then we continued walking in silence for several minutes -- she not because she was angry or hurt, I expect, but more because she did not know what to say. And neither did I. But soon the heavy weight of the moment was lifted somehow, and we began again sharing questions, answers, suggestions, and "what ifs?"

First to my room where Carol helped me finish packing, then to my landlady who took my leaving without comment. The fact that I had paid for the second week in advance but had used only half of it made her happy, I'm sure.

Then over to Carol's apartment for a glass of wine and a few minutes of rest before rushing back uptown for me to catch the bus for Washington and Abingdon. ("Where in the world is Abingdon?" she had asked earlier.) The details of our farewells that afternoon remain clear in my memory, especially since I thought about them every day for the next three months I was away from her -- she in New York and I in the southwestern tip of Virginia.

About five o'clock, we went back to the same "Automat" where we had eaten the first night we were in New York. "Let's go there for old times' sake," she had suggested before we left her apartment, even though neither of us was hungry. "For old times' sake" seemed ridiculous in a way, for we had been there only ten days before, but those ten days had become almost a lifetime for us both. It is hard to explain, but that's the way it was.

To carry out the sentiment Carol had expressed, we took one piece of fresh apple pie from its little compartment in the wall of the Automat and divided it. That, along with a glass of fresh milk was our farewell supper together.

A fast subway ride to Times Square, a hurried purchase of a bus ticket, and a fond farewell at the bus door with me hugging Carol with one arm and holding my suitcase and now battered raincoat in the other are now but fond memories of my departure from Carol and New York on that tenth day. Never in my life -- before or since that first visit to New York -- has so much been packed into such a short time for me.

The long night of riding on that Greyhound bus -- through Newark, Philadelphia, Wilmington and on to Washington -- was only sleep for me. I remember nothing about it. And the next day's continuation across the Potomac, through Fairfax, Stanton, and the Shenandoah Valley was a mixture of exhilaration at the gorgeous scenery, and a deep sadness about what -- and whom -- I had left behind in New York.

But as the bus rolled into Abingdon, Virginia, "The Home of the Barter Theatre" a big sign read, and came to a stop in front of Martha Washington College, which was to be my home for the next three months, I became excited allover again about the stage and its possibilities for me. The theatre, with all that meant, was still in my blood.

This is it; this is where I start, I thought. And before I stepped off that bus, I made up my mind I was going to do my best and capitalize on whatever befell me -- good or bad.

Chester C. Travelstead
February 26, 1982

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