Trolleys are whimsical vehicles used throughout the United States which mostly serve tourists in historic areas. These towns usually market them as being luxurious modes of transportation that will convey their visitors to another, simpler, and more elegant time. Naturally, the transit system in surrounding Mary Baldwin follows the same model. As a tourist retreat, the surrounding town advertises its small town perks as much as possible: the big green buses are designed to look like old trolley cars, and many of the stops are popular destinations. These rides are supposedly a wistful escape from the rush of modern life - especially for people from larger Virginian cities.

While on my first trolley ride, I believed the marketing. A feeling of lavishness and nostalgic overwhelmed me after I sat down on the vividly stained wood seats. The young couples and families who joined me on the ride made me feel comfortable and homey. I enjoyed feeling like I was part of history in a small town that values its heritage. The entire experience was very suited to the atmosphere of small town America: cozy, affluent and highly rooted in tradition.

I enjoyed my experience so much that I decided to return. On a brisk Thursday afternoon, I once again sat on the sturdy green metal bench and waited for the big green bus to pass by. Like before, a friendly face greeted me and granted me free passage with a greatly appreciated student discount; but this time when I turned to the aisle, nobody was on the bus. The air was still as death, and the lighting from the windows provided a ghastly air to the place. I shuffled through the benches and found a seat in the back, where I hoped I could observe any passengers who would undoubtedly board at the next stop.

I looked out my window as the trolley whooshed to a halt at the fated ‘next stop.’ My hopes were high because a young couple with a baby was seated at the bench. A baby and new parents might cheer up the grim trolley, and make the atmosphere similar to my previous ride . To my disappointment, they were just using the bench as a resting point and had no intention to board. Instead, a scraggly old man reeking of cigarettes made his way up the steps. “I ain’t got no quarter,” he gruffly told the driver. As a dutiful employee, she refused to let him ride. With an annoyed air, he rolled his eyes and dug around in his pocket. After a while, his grubby hand emerged, clutching a coin. As he headed down the aisle, his nauseating stench grew stronger. I could see dandruff in his unkempt beard and his headphones that seemed to be pieced together under his sunbleached baseball hat. He must not have washed himself or changed clothes in a very long time. Of course, he sat in the seat right next to me and just made my ride more unpleasant.

The worst part was that he never got off. I guessed he was homeless and simply had nothing better to do. We awkwardly sat in silence as every stop passed by. I didn’t get off either because some of the areas we passed through were a bit scary. Unlike the well-kept downtown area, they were filled with dilapidated houses and neglected yards. I had never noticed neighborhoods like these before.

As I returned to the safety of my campus, I had learned my lesson. Not every trolley ride was going to be a portal to an idealized time. For most of the day, it carried the ordinary people and the victims of our sadly flawed country. These aren’t the people who have the spend hundreds of dollars to enjoy the leisures of small town luxury; they are the people who can barely afford to hitch a ride. Rather than showing me a beautiful weekend retreat, this bus ride had shown me the shadowed reality of small town America. If this is what making America great again means, I'll pass.