The following takes places on a bus in Tennessee. By this point I was traveling fairly regularly on the Greyhound, and I found the entire experience an excellent time to catch up on all the sleep I wasn't getting in college.
But I soon realized that this particular trip was not going to be filled with glorious napping; the lady who sat next to me really wanted to talk. About anything and everything - paying no head to my headphones and sleepy glares. Her age was hard to estimate; she had one of those faces where the lines are manifestations of hardship, not years. Somewhere between 30 and 50 is where I'd put my guess, but who knows if that is even close. But she did have some pretty awesome bright red hair.
She talked about her job (she restored marble statues, which turns out to be fascinating work), her convoluted love life (her refusal to marry her rich boyfriend because she was not 'in love with him') and why she got her butterfly tattoos (to remind her that you can always start over, and to never bring pain to her loved ones). I know, you are probably thinking, "Seriously, how often do people tell you about their tattoo symbolism?" Not often enough, my friend, not often enough.
Eventually in our rambling discussion she asked me where I was from. I mentioned my hometown, in Arizona. She immediately lights up and goes "Oh I know that place! I went to prison near there!"
She then proceeds to tell me that the women in my town are crazy; those meth-heads are rough.
Oh Arizona, what am I going to do with you?
Tl:dr - Lady was cool and I'm glad I woke up to talk to her, but my town needs a better PR campaign.