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Waiting at the Greyhound bus depot

on July 27, 2009

The bold sign over the Greyhound station in Oakland says “BUS” in big letters, each bigger than a man.  There are no windows, only doors to buses.  The doors lead to terminals where the buses pull in and stop.  During the day, the doors are the only source of sunlight. At 7 a.m. on a Wednesday, the station is already warm despite the emptiness.

The security guard gets up from his stool. He  waves a metal detector over my body to check for weapons.  “Where you headin’?” he asks, as if he has asked that a million times before.

“Nowhere,” I say.

The answer does not seem to surprise him. “Do what you gotta do,” the guard said, scratching the gray whiskers on his dark face, betraying not a hint of interest. His mouth showed a missing tooth or two. “Just don’t stay here long.”

The station on the corner of San Pablo Avenue and Castro Street isn’t the busiest of Greyhound’s 940 termainal nationwide (that would be New York City.) Nonetheless, Oakland’s buses are often full.

But Oakland is, in many ways, typical of bus terminals where the poor and working class go for transportation when they don’t have a car, or can’t afford a train or plane ticket or don’t know how to drive.  Of the nearly 25 million people carried by Greyhound last year, most traveled less than 450 miles. Two-thirds make less than $35,000 annually.

Greyhound reports its business has fallen because of the recession. Despite the economy, or maybe because of it, a Greyhound station is nonetheless where the poor, the cash-starved or the merely transient find a sense of community, however fleeting and however long the wait, which can be hours and sometimes days stretched over different terminals for cross-country trips.

As an undergraduate at the University of California at Berkeley, I would make my annual treks to a Greyhound terminal every Thanksgiving and Christmas. I climbed those steel steps onto the bus a low-income student,  occasionally hungry,  but knew at least that my father waited for me in downtown Los Angeles the long eight hours away.


Private Mike Moore, a newly recruited Marine, is on leave from his base in Oklahoma. Originally from Santa Rosa, he is about 6 feet, 3 inches, and can barely get through the terminal without banging his head on something.

At 19, he seems older, his voice raspy for a teenager and a noticeable stubble darkens his light complexion. His dirty brown boots do all the talking as he gallops across the terminal. Going home to Santa Rosa from Oklahoma is no easy task, and Private Moore has called a  Greyhound bus or terminal home for the past three days.

His month-long leave is to visit friends, family and, most of all, his girlfriend. “She’s beautiful, man,” Moore said, reaching for a superlative. “Like those girls in those magazines.”

He leaves the terminal to buy a new cell-phone charger at a nearby Radio Shack. He didn’t need one before he got on the bus in Oklahoma. While in transit a thief took his luggage and threw it out onto the highway, while the bus was speeding down the road.

The thief finally tried to throw himself out of the moving bus until Moore grabbed him by the waist and tackled him to the floor and waited until the police arrived at the bus.

The private now finds himself in Oakland without his laptop computer, andhis country-western compact disks.  He thinks the thief probably threw those out of the bus, too.

“My CD’s are like my children,” Moore says. A sympathetic  stranger lets Moore transfer hundreds of songs onto the soldier’s iPhone, some of them country.

“Music is like drugs, it gets passed around,” says Moore. “It’s like family. We’re all brothers.”

Moore is at Greyhound because it is cheap. As a serviceman, he can travel anywhere in the country for $200. “It’s two grand to take the plane,” he said. “I can suffer for three days,” said Moore of the Greyhound schedule from Oklahoma to Santa Rosa.


By 9 a.m., scores of people have trickled into the terminal. The next bus leaves for Reno and many who are waiting for it are gamblers.

“This is going to be my lucky day,” said a middle-aged Filipina woman as she sits down. “It’s gonna be my lucky day. Yeah.” She said, like other Filipina women, she loves to gamble.

Another elderly woman, an African American from San Jose, is also excited. “I’m taking $10,000 with me,” she said, declining to give her name for fear of thieves. She’s been making these trips for 15 years. She’s never won the big one, but wins enough to finance future trips.

“If I lose it all, pick me up on the highway,” she said, as others laughed along with her.

Anne Smith is not a gambler.  A graduate student in biochemistry at the University of Nevada at Reno, she is returning to campus after an unsuccessful search for a summer internship. “It’s so competitive. And I’m a good candidate, but you know what? There’s like 300 other good candidates.” She made a little summer money working at her mother’s landscaping business in Oakland.

“I don’t know how to drive and I don’t have the money to take the plane,” she said. “This is the cheapest way I can get to Reno.”


An elderly woman steps off the bus and doesn’t seem to know where she is. Viega Ortiz, has been on the bus from Texas for three days. She said Greyhound at one point lost her luggage, but she doesn’t seem to care. She just wants to see her daughter, who she hasn’t seen in five years. Ortiz saved her money to finance the $161 trip, refusing to ask her daughter for help.

“I didn’t want to ask for money,” Ortiz says. “Nobody has money.”

Suddenly, her daughter, rushes into the station, squeals and hugs Ortiz. They cry. They don’t let go, for long minutes. “It’s been a long time,” Ortiz whispers to her daughter.

“When are you leaving?” I ask. She doesn’t answer. Ortiz has purchased a one-way ticket. Not for a whole year, then she will leave, her daughter said firmly, grabbing her mother by the wrist and leading her out of the station.


Julian Calderon waits while everybody else has come and gone. He  waits for the bus to Tijuana, due at 5:30. He’s been waiting since 11 that morning.

His wife’s sister is terminally ill and Calderon wants to see her before she dies.  He can’t afford Southwest Airlines and doesn’t know how drive.

For nine years, Calderon has been working for county fairs, including the one in Alameda County. He’s the guy who comes in early to put those tea cups together and is the last guy who tears down the rides afterward. Calderon is leaving his work to meet his wife in Tijuana but for some reason, he does not seem interested in speaking about his trip.

But Calderon can’t stop talking about the grapes of his native Veracruz..

“These grapes you see here in California – they’re beautiful to look at,” says Calderon, as if he were discussing women or art. “But they’re terrible. Veracruz. Oh my God. Taste their grapes. Never had better.”

After speaking long and lovingly of produce, Calderon finally turns serious  and speaks about his family. “It gets to you,” said Calderon about seeing so little of his family in Mexico.  “Sometimes the tears start dropping,” he said.

Calderon gets up to get in line and make his trip to Tijuana. He turns around one more time to wave me goodbye. “If you’re in town, go to the fair in Pleasanton,” he says to me. “My brother Carlos works there. Tell him I sent you. He looks exactly like me, a little skinnier maybe.”

It’s evening and twilight has turned the station inside into a reddish-orange. For the first time since morning , the station is silent. By midnight, the station has gone beyond calm into a kind of coma. The only signs of life are  security guards, janitors and  attendants, who help passengers with luggage and questions, at the entrance.

Lillian Anoai, 37, is the last person waiting  in the station. She’s waiting for her sister to come in on the last bus from the last train from Los Angeles. Anoai,  who is a native Hawaiian, waits with her two children who are busily poking around skittles bags, M&M chocolates and sweet worms.

Anoai’s sister has been on the Greyhound bus for a day from Los Angeles and has let Anoai know about the long trip. “You can’t stretch your legs,” she told Anoai by cell phone. “You can’t fit in here.”

Her sister said she won’t ever take the bus again, but she probably will. And Anoai will wait at the Greyhound station in Oakland, as she always does. What choice do they have, asked Anoai. They don’t have the money so they have to wait.


  1. Kyle on July 27, 2009 at 12:48 pm

    You are awesome! Thanks for this report 🙂

    • Steve Saldivar on July 27, 2009 at 12:59 pm

      Your welcome, Kyle! Do you use the Greyhound at all? Saw a few on the freeway today and it brings back MANY memories!

      Currently at MAMA BUZZ cafe, readers should drop in and say hi!

  2. rigo on July 27, 2009 at 2:18 pm

    very enjoyable read.

    I secretly hate this station because i had to say goodbye to my ex-girlfriend when she left for humbodtl so many times.

  3. Kyle on July 28, 2009 at 12:24 pm

    lol I do try to avoid the greyhound when possible. I’ve seen this station a million times biking down san pablo and thought to myself how it seemed like a really vintage sort of classy seeming station even though I knew it wasnt.

    also this story reminds me of some of the things they’ve done on this american life. There was one story about a guy who was supposed to ride the greyhound system for a week or so and get stories. Turns out none of the riders really trusted him even though he’d been riding on it himself for years. There’s a whole bit about how much he’s ridden the system. I dunno its funny.. here’s the link:

  4. Steve Saldivar on July 28, 2009 at 1:02 pm

    I totally have to check out this radio story now!

    Hey Rigo, been there, done that. Greyhound is really one of the more interesting places to hang out at.

  5. grouchosuave on August 3, 2009 at 1:02 am

    My tale of “riding the dog” Oaktown stylee, yo.

  6. Monte Ray Cassidy on August 12, 2009 at 2:22 pm

    I rode the Greyhound bus from San Jose to San Francisco. When I got to the San Francisco Greyhound Bus Station, I was tired so I sat down in the seats near the ticket counter. Some men came up to me and said that I could go to their place and party and I did. When I got to their apartment they gave me a drink along with some pills. I took them and after I finished my drink, I passed out. When I woke up later, I was nude and I was very sore. I got “butt raped” while I was passed out. This has happened to me before when I went to San Francisco on a Greyhound bus, in fact it happens every time.

  7. Linda Saldivar on September 23, 2009 at 4:55 pm

    This is a really great read. It makes you think about everyone’s lives and what people have to go through.

  8. martin on November 24, 2009 at 2:14 pm

    very well written, thank you so much for those short stories!! i really enjoyed it

  9. Ache on December 12, 2009 at 4:02 am

    Great post. I found fabulous knowledge over here. I like to read informative blog’s and I found it here.

  10. Kathe Rempel-Davis on December 14, 2009 at 3:59 pm

    I like this bus depot. It’s one of the better ones along the West Coast excepting Portaland, OR, which is just the cream. I found the personal, luggage handlers and security guards in Oakland really helpful and the bathrooms were clean — The depot is an octagon shape, which is so cool, and check out the high domed ceiling with its carvings— they wouldn’t let me take photos of it, Greyhound regulations — how did you rate? There are only vending machines, true, but if you walk out the front door, hang a right and go through the first set of lights — food! A Mexican restaurant, a BQ place (very busy) and a convenience store with great coffee and friendly staff. I didn’t feel uncomfortable with my surroundings but I was there in the daytime — nights may be different. I give this depot 4 out 5 *s, five if they had a coffee bar.

  11. london massage on January 6, 2010 at 3:41 am

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  12. g on May 8, 2010 at 1:59 pm

    Nice story. I did stuff like this on a daily basis back in the day. I guess I am a social creature by nature and just loved interacting with the the characters and every day characters that came in the bus station.I used to work in that exact station back in the late 90’s AND I rode greyhound profusely as an undergrand. My first greyhound ride from oakland to atlanta was GLORIUS!I met so many characters from all over the country, some I would see on future bus trips. I hated flying. My girl lived in Oklahoma too, so I rode greyhound ALOT, so it was very ironic when I started working there…LOL…my coworkers were amazed how I could tell customers what door they needed to go to in cities all over the country…I did it so much. I don’t know about now…but I loved it…For me as a young guy of 22, who never been out of The Bay, greyhound was a chance to see the sites and sounds of the country and the “REAL” people who made it up.It was a wonderful and amazing period in my young life. As far as working there that was a coincidence getting hired there…LOL…but I LOVED working there and servicing the West Oakland community. Not everybody can work at a greyhound, especially the Oakland one. Oakland Greyhound had a reputation all over the country has one of the roughest of all the stations…LOL…My coworkers were like family and it was ans still is the funnest and favorite job I ever had, I couldn’t work there today…LOL…but was a great job for a young guy to sink his teeth in…I learned a lot on the business that actually helped me in my future working career. If you can work for Greyhound, lol, you can work and thrive in any enviroment. LOL…

  13. Lore Dowell on March 17, 2018 at 10:59 pm

    In 1969, I was a 14 year-old runaway from Chicago. I was traveling to Berkely to start my new life. The Greyhound bus driver dropped me off at a corner in Oakland at 2 a.m. The bus depot was closed. There were two men sneaking glances at me while one of them urinated on the street. All of a sudden, a young college student linked arms with me and said start walking and pretend you know me. He was walking home to his parent’s house in Richmond. He was a perfect gentleman, and after I told him my story, he convinced me to call my family and go back home. I’ll never forget this person who juat might have saved my life.

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