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Las Vegas
The online advertisement listed a jaw-dropping price: Three days of sightseeing, including transportation, hotels and entertainment, for $99.
"No way," I told a colleague. "You probably end up spending $99 on the tour and $70,000 on a time share in Barstow."
But the cheapie tour was a genuine deal — and there was never a timeshare pitch. For less money than I spent on my last trip to the supermarket, I was whisked to the Colorado River, the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas. I had some spine-tingling moments of adventure; I got a taste of international travel; and I had a little time left over to shop, gamble and sightsee.
I even acquired a new name: Tammy Chan. And Times photographer Anne Cusack, who accompanied me, was re-christened Becky Wong. But more about that later.
This low-cost bus tour was part of a burgeoning segment of the U.S. travel industry that caters to budget vacationers. Cut-rate companies, based mainly on the East and West coasts, advertise on the Internet and are sharply competitive, offering sightseeing tours for about a third the price of many long-established companies. They slash prices, cut corners — so there's a definite element of surprise, risk and adventure in traveling with them. But the bottom line is this: With transportation and hotels included, this bus trip was a genuine travel bargain, albeit with some downsides.
Early start
Our trip began before dawn on a street corner in downtown Los Angeles. When we purchased the tour online at www.gotobus.com, we were given a choice of 10 L.A. or Orange County departure points; we chose L.A.'s Chinatown. When we arrived, several buses were already there, idling alongside the curb, diesel motors droning and exhaust fumes curling from their tailpipes. Dozens of travelers, pulling wheeled luggage or toting backpacks or suitcases, milled around.
Some of the buses were headed to casinos for the day, others were setting out on weeklong tours across the West. There was low-key bedlam as travelers from Asia, the U.S. and Europe — speaking a dozen tongues — tried to find their buses, no small task since there were no signs.
Anne and I joined the search, finally finding guide Chris Quach, who pointed out the correct bus. We boarded, joining a dozen people for an hourlong stop-and-go ride picking up other passengers. When we reached the San Gabriel Valley, we changed buses, picked up an additional 40 people and hit Interstate 10 in Big Yellow, a.k.a. Bus No. 18, our home away from home for the next 56 hours. A large sign on the side said Seagull Travel; a smaller sign in the window read Sincere Travel, a discrepancy that was never explained.
One good thing about Big Yellow: It was easy to spot in parking lots. But 18 had drawbacks too: It was vintage 2001. The front windshield was fractured in two places, the seats were frayed, and layers of grime coated the overhead storage bins and the velvety, rainbow-colored ceiling panels.
The best indicator of Big Yellow's years of service became clear as it started to climb the Cajon Pass. The bus wheezed and coughed when the driver revved it for the assault on the 4,200-foot summit.
Big Yellow vibrated so loudly that conversation was impossible; worse, the elderly bus was shimmying continuously side to side on the twisting mountain highway. I made the mistake of looking out the window as the road looped around a cliff and saw the land drop off into nothingness.
The blood drained from my face.
"Dear Guardian Angel," I said silently, as I always do when I'm on the edge of a panic attack, "please help this bus get to the top of the grade safely and I'll be good the rest of my life."
My fellow passengers had grown quiet, and I wondered whether everyone was saying some variation on this prayer in their own languages. Most of the travelers were Asian, but there were a few Europeans, Aussies and a handful of visitors from the Eastern U.S.
Our guide decided it was time to take our minds off the road.
"You know the words 'outlet mall'?" he asked. "Today, our first stop will be to shop. Polo, yes!"
Quach, a Vietnamese native, had introduced himself earlier in English, Cantonese, Mandarin and Vietnamese. Now, he told us about our route, again, in four languages. As the tour progressed, we became accustomed to this routine, which gave the journey an international flavor. It seemed, in fact, as though we were trekking across Asia instead of the Mojave.
We would stop at the Tanger Outlet Center in Barstow, then go on to London Bridge in Lake Havasu City, Ariz., Quach said. ("You know the song 'London Bridge Is Falling Down'? A rich man bought the bridge when it was sinking and moved it to the desert.") Our stop for the night would be on the Colorado River in Laughlin, Nev.
The online advertisement listed a jaw-dropping price: Three days of sightseeing, including transportation, hotels and entertainment, for $99.
"No way," I told a colleague. "You probably end up spending $99 on the tour and $70,000 on a time share in Barstow."
But the cheapie tour was a genuine deal — and there was never a timeshare pitch. For less money than I spent on my last trip to the supermarket, I was whisked to the Colorado River, the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas. I had some spine-tingling moments of adventure; I got a taste of international travel; and I had a little time left over to shop, gamble and sightsee.
I even acquired a new name: Tammy Chan. And Times photographer Anne Cusack, who accompanied me, was re-christened Becky Wong. But more about that later.
This low-cost bus tour was part of a burgeoning segment of the U.S. travel industry that caters to budget vacationers. Cut-rate companies, based mainly on the East and West coasts, advertise on the Internet and are sharply competitive, offering sightseeing tours for about a third the price of many long-established companies. They slash prices, cut corners — so there's a definite element of surprise, risk and adventure in traveling with them. But the bottom line is this: With transportation and hotels included, this bus trip was a genuine travel bargain, albeit with some downsides.
Early start
Our trip began before dawn on a street corner in downtown Los Angeles. When we purchased the tour online at www.gotobus.com, we were given a choice of 10 L.A. or Orange County departure points; we chose L.A.'s Chinatown. When we arrived, several buses were already there, idling alongside the curb, diesel motors droning and exhaust fumes curling from their tailpipes. Dozens of travelers, pulling wheeled luggage or toting backpacks or suitcases, milled around.
Some of the buses were headed to casinos for the day, others were setting out on weeklong tours across the West. There was low-key bedlam as travelers from Asia, the U.S. and Europe — speaking a dozen tongues — tried to find their buses, no small task since there were no signs.
Anne and I joined the search, finally finding guide Chris Quach, who pointed out the correct bus. We boarded, joining a dozen people for an hourlong stop-and-go ride picking up other passengers. When we reached the San Gabriel Valley, we changed buses, picked up an additional 40 people and hit Interstate 10 in Big Yellow, a.k.a. Bus No. 18, our home away from home for the next 56 hours. A large sign on the side said Seagull Travel; a smaller sign in the window read Sincere Travel, a discrepancy that was never explained.
One good thing about Big Yellow: It was easy to spot in parking lots. But 18 had drawbacks too: It was vintage 2001. The front windshield was fractured in two places, the seats were frayed, and layers of grime coated the overhead storage bins and the velvety, rainbow-colored ceiling panels.
The best indicator of Big Yellow's years of service became clear as it started to climb the Cajon Pass. The bus wheezed and coughed when the driver revved it for the assault on the 4,200-foot summit.
Big Yellow vibrated so loudly that conversation was impossible; worse, the elderly bus was shimmying continuously side to side on the twisting mountain highway. I made the mistake of looking out the window as the road looped around a cliff and saw the land drop off into nothingness.
The blood drained from my face.
"Dear Guardian Angel," I said silently, as I always do when I'm on the edge of a panic attack, "please help this bus get to the top of the grade safely and I'll be good the rest of my life."
My fellow passengers had grown quiet, and I wondered whether everyone was saying some variation on this prayer in their own languages. Most of the travelers were Asian, but there were a few Europeans, Aussies and a handful of visitors from the Eastern U.S.
Our guide decided it was time to take our minds off the road.
"You know the words 'outlet mall'?" he asked. "Today, our first stop will be to shop. Polo, yes!"
Quach, a Vietnamese native, had introduced himself earlier in English, Cantonese, Mandarin and Vietnamese. Now, he told us about our route, again, in four languages. As the tour progressed, we became accustomed to this routine, which gave the journey an international flavor. It seemed, in fact, as though we were trekking across Asia instead of the Mojave.
We would stop at the Tanger Outlet Center in Barstow, then go on to London Bridge in Lake Havasu City, Ariz., Quach said. ("You know the song 'London Bridge Is Falling Down'? A rich man bought the bridge when it was sinking and moved it to the desert.") Our stop for the night would be on the Colorado River in Laughlin, Nev.
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