Thanksgiving came and campus became an eerie, empty shell. There was no line for coffee, the Quad looked more like a private lawn hostile to trespassers, and I could actually cross the street without being shoved quickly onto the pavement by Republican bumper stickers. Students got out of town, car windows obstructed by a few suitcases and some pillows. Time to eat and drink with family, not forgetting to give thanks.

So I took to the road too, all the way to North Carolina to see my aunt. Without giving it another thought, I booked an overnight Greyhound from Tuscaloosa to Charlotte. And that was that. I always take the bus. It’s cheap and easy. But as I started to tell people this, it dawned on me that I would now have to confront the reality that the means of travel we use has always been a sign of social class. And it’s certainly no different in Alabama.

In principle, we all want the same thing. To get from point A to point B. But the means we use in order to do this comes with much more baggage than I could manage to carry on a three-day trip. The bus has long been associated with what people often refer to as “the poor.” Not just in America, but everywhere else. And it’s rather funny to stop and think that we still pride ourselves on dividing trains and airplanes into economy, business and first class without giving it a second thought. For hours and hours we are literally seated in rigid class formation, threatened by fines if we don’t obey the boundaries. But this has just become one of those things we all accept. Just as many people here accept that the Greyhound bus belongs to the underbelly of American society.

And as I sat alone on a bench at the BP gas station, which is also the bus stop just outside of Tuscaloosa, I could see why. On the table to my right, underneath the blaring household appliance commercial coming from the TV, sat an elderly black couple. They stared intently at their shabby suitcases before one of them said, “I ain’t got a bank account.” They launched enthusiastically into a conversation about unaffordable rent and where was best to hide your money if you don’t have the luxury of a bank to look after it for you.

Behind them sat another man. He had a woollen cap pulled down slightly too far over his forehead. His cellphone was clasped to his ear. At the other end was, at an educated guess, a recently departed lover or wife to who he was pleading for forgiveness. A waitress finished sweeping the counter. I watched her reflection in the gas station window. This was the scene that played out before me.

I felt a little out of place sat with my copy of “Hamlet” and hummus sandwich. But people are people and they can always offer you something. A fellow passenger gave me a blanket and another bought me a cup of coffee. The bus arrived on time, my ticket was a bargain, and I even managed to sleep through the strange movement of the night. I can’t drive, trains are unreliable and air fares cost too much. I’ll be taking the bus next time, even if I do go to college.

Lucy Cheseldine is an English international student studying English literature. Her column runs on Tuesdays.