For many students here, the Dartmouth Coach is their primary mode of transportation to and from campus. But for me, the coach represents much more than that it signifies a beginning and an end to the term, an escape, a return, a homecoming, a hello and a goodbye.
I will never forget that feeling freshman fall of stepping off the coach into the September sunshine for the very first time as H-Croo danced around us and we unloaded our backpacks and great expectations from the bus. I made my very first Dartmouth friend (hi, Chloe!) on the way up, bonding over our shared Southern roots and our collective worry about the coming winter. I didn't think much then about what the coach signified besides being just a crummy bus with cramped seats, and random movies playing on its tiny screens, allegedly offering Wi-Fi (even though it never works). But in the years after that day, I've made a dozen or more such trips from Boston on the coach, and as I move through my Dartmouth experience, each journey becomes more and more meaningful.
I've started to notice things, like the sign around Grantham, N.H. that announces that you are now entering the Dartmouth-Lake Sunapee Region, or the beautiful vista that opens up on the left side of northbound I-89, giving a glimpse of the green-cloaked New Hampshire mountains for the first time. I listen for the pneumatic hiss from the doors signaling the bus' imminent departure, the hum of those big wheels whirring on asphalt and the grouchy cry of the driver to the hapless passenger who neglects to respect the "no cell phone" rule.
I will always have a few special memories associated with the coach. This past August, I rode the 5 a.m. coach alone down to Boston, trying to catch a flight out before Hurricane Irene hit. I spent the three-hour ride dozing and listening to the bus driver sing to himself. After discovering the log jam at Logan, I promptly found myself headed back to Hanover on the 10:55 shuttle with several other unfortunate individuals, driving north into the coming storm.
There are also the many times I have almost missed the coach, rather ungracefully running across the Green, discarding what little dignity I have, to catch the bus as it is already revving its engine. I would have missed the 5 a.m. coach my freshman fall were it not for the heroics of my friends, who rerouted the coach to Webster Avenue in order to pick me up after I slept through my alarm clock in the Choates. When my sister visited that Green Key, she actually did miss the 9 a.m. coach.
This past spring, I rode in a car to campus for the very first time, catching a ride to Hanover from Cambridge with a friend. Somehow, the vista off I-89 just didn't feel the same as it does from the windows of that big white bus.
I know I'll have a few more round trips on the coach before its time to bid it and Hanover adieu, but I know that I'll savor the experience those pretzels packed in coolers, those awful movies and those beautiful views more and more each time.
I'm not ready to say goodbye yet.
