I’m standing in the lobby of Southwest Christian Church. It’s the middle of the week. Me and about 35 other grey-haired fellow travelers are going on a bus ride. Those who are not grey visit the salon often.

This is what my life has turned into.

I can remember pulling up to a Western Sizzlin in Griffin, maybe 30 years ago, about the same time a tour bus pulled into the parking lot. We were young. Three kids in tow. I had steak and a salad bar on my mind.

We were walking toward the entrance as a herd of Greys got off the bus. We started walking a little faster. Pushing the kids. I knew that if we didn’t beat that group to the door, we could go from being 3rd in line to being 43rd in line in a heartbeat.

Right now, all over the United States there are tour busses full of retired folks headed out on excursions to see interesting things. They are wearing sturdy shoes. They carry sweaters with them in case they get cold. They store their canes and walkers in the carriage compartment under the bus. And they will descend on unsuspecting restaurants like buzzards on roadkill.

Today, I am one of them.

I am somewhat of a peculiar person of interest at Southwest because I am an irregular visitor, and because I am married to Marion, who is their close friend. I show up from time to time like a homeless stranger looking for a handout. Also, because a number of these fine people actually read my stories.

One lady rolls her eyes at me. “I reckon we’ll be reading about this trip later this week,” she says.

Poor thing. She’s probably right. “You never know,” I say.

The herd gathers up in a line headed for the bus. Our bus driver stands off to one side like a sentry at his post. I step out of line to offer him a handshake.

“Tell me about your belt buckle.”

Willie is his name. He’s sporting a black and gold buckle the size of a rodeo buckle. He’s the kind of tall, thin drink of water that might have earned him the nickname “Stringbean” had anyone been inclined to call him that. Black slacks. Polished black alligator cowboy boots. A white shirt with a red vest and a red tie.

His buckle is polished. There’s a horse rider in the middle. Across the top are the words “Buffalo Riders.” Below the horse is the name W.A. Spencer.

“My sister gave this to me for Christmas a few years ago,” he says. “My grandaddy served with the Buffalo Riders in WWI. They played a big part during WWII, as well. By the time the Korean war came along, the Buffalo Riders disbanded when they were integrated into the regular Army.”

I can understand why he wears it with pride.

Marion and I are at the end of the line. We move along the aisle to the last seats at the back of the bus. There is only one place I can think of that is colder than a tour bus in the middle of a hot June morning, and we are not here to order waffles.

Willie is riding the HOV lane north on the downtown connector. The Atlanta traffic is the usual carnival. We glide off the interstate on what I would call International Boulevard, but the street names have changed a dozen times since 1975.

The bus sways through the narrow streets. Light poles pass by, inches away from my window. We are making our way across town to The Varsity.

Good Lord, we are eating lunch at 11:00 in the morning.

I can’t tell you when the last time was that I ate at The Varsity, the iconic hamburger and hotdog dive of Atlanta. It’s one of those places that you have to eat at if you are going to understand the culture of this city.

Everything around this place has changed so much. Georgia Tech has grown up across the interstate. The skyscrapers hover around like massive Sequoia trees. But The Varsity remains pretty much the same greasy diner as it was when I first visited here as a kid in the 60s. The same floors. The same long counter. The same guys and gals behind the counter barking out orders.

There are signs everywhere honoring the most familiar sound of this place. “What’ll ya have?” That may be the proper form of it, but I remember more of a slur that was barked out repeatedly in rapid fire succession. “Whatchuhav, whatchuhav, whatchuhav?”

To a boy, this was intimidating. The counter seemed as long as a football field. Throngs of people placing orders. Servers in red paper hats shouting to the kitchen. Ordering a meal here is like the chaos I’ve seen on TV at the opening bell on the floor of the NY Stock Exchange.

You have to know the lingo. “Give me a heavy weight, strings, and an FO.” That’s a hotdog with extra chili, fries, and a frosted orange.

I know a lot of people avoid this place. They say things like, “Stay close to the toilet,” or “Bring your Rolaids.” I don’t care. The onion rings are the best. The food has never bothered me. Besides, it’s not as much about the food as it is about the experience.

We all waddled back to the bus at about 12:15 and headed over to the World of Coke Museum. Willie is all smiles. His bald head is shining in the sun as the herd departs the bus single file.

The story of Coca Cola is near and dear to us Georgia folks because it all began right here in our own back yard. A small pharmacy. A secret elixir. Add some bubbles, and the rest is history.

Coke is the most recognizable worldwide product ever marketed. When the drink left the soda fountain and went into mass production, the Coke team put the challenge out to the manufacturers to develop a bottle that “could be identifiable by touch in the dark and one that could be recognized even if it lay broken into pieces on the ground.”

I’d say they hit a homerun on that one.

As we walked around the museum, I saw the Coca Cola of my youth. I saw the machine that sat in Byron Coker’s barber shop. I saw the cooler in Roy Greer’s gas station where I could reach in and pull a Coke up and out of the ice. They even have a tasting room where, from a small cup, I drank the formula that reminded me of the salted peanuts that I used to shove down through the neck of the bottle at Booger Mobley’s store.

We all regret that they ever changed the original formula.

By 2:30 the grey herd was back on the bus. Willie got us back to Southwest in good shape. The excursion was a resounding success.

I’ve been retired two years, now. I’m not sure that I’ll be a regular part of the herd.

But if Willie is driving, I just might be.