Every time I think I've experienced every possible bus disaster I run headlong into the next.
Take this morning. It was 8-something am, which, may I point out, is EARLY. I was waiting calmly for my friendly neighborhood 144 to take me to Manly when my keen eyes saw it approaching from beyond the closest traffic light (thank goodness I had new contacts in). Naturally I sprang to my feet, sprinted the three feet to the curb, plunged out my arm as far as I could reach and jumped vigorously on both feet. (All of those steps, as you'll see, are integral. Forget any one and the bus will not stop. All the drivers are blind, except they can sometimes spot you if you do all that wearing green polka dots, but even then it's a gamble.)
Amazingly, the bus stopped and I climbed gleefully on and contentedly slathered myself in sunscreen for about two blocks until it turned right.
The 144 is not supposed to turn right. It is supposed to go straight. Everyone knows this, but none of the other three people on the bus seemed concerned so I figured maybe I was just getting the scenic route around the block (Australians are friendly like that, you know). But we didn't go around the block. We kept going lots of different directions, actually, until finally I broke down and broke bus etiquette (thou shall not speak to anyone thou doesn't know) and asked the couple in front of me where the bus was going. Manly, they said, which was good. But I was still confused. "Is this a 144?" I asked. "Nah," the man said. "It's a 132."
Now I can't blame your stomach for not falling right there, but it really ought to have. Let me explain: the 132 is the route Moses would have taken if he found it in the desert and didn't want to ruin God's plan by speeding things up, but thought it'd be nice to give everyone the chance to sit down a bit for awhile. It's a nice bus if you want to take a tour of Sydney without paying what the Original Bus Company tours charge and don't care about seeing any of the major sights, but it's not exactly the one you want to find yourself on at almost-9-something am when you're supposed to be starting beach volleyball at the hour. Thank goodness I'm not the sort who always has to be everywhere on time.
For months I thought Australian children were born with an innate sense of busing it. It wasn’t until I overheard three primary school boys discussing whether or not the express bus we were on would stop at their intended destination that I realized they aren’t; they simply are forced to develop it very early on.
Anyway, I was going to offer a top ten of bus disasters not because they're amusing (you think they're funny? you try some and then get back to me), but then realized that there were way more than ten of them, so instead we've got something of a running list of woes. You might want to find some Kleenex now.
--First and foremost: you never know
where they’re going to drop you. You see your street (if you’re lucky enough to recognize it) go whizzing by and anxiously press the button, moving rapidly toward the door to assure the driver you do want to get off, perilously poised as he lurches round a corner, double ups the speed ante and leaves you frantically clinging on and memorizing every street you pass in hopes of finding your way back. This has happened to me. Seriously. On George Street.
George Street is the main drag in Sydney and it really takes a bit of talent to get lost on it, but I had every intention of getting off at Wynyard (in order to catch my next bus, of course) when suddenly I watched Wynyard fly past. Oh, I made it back, don't worry. Ye of little faith. There are far worse things that can happen with buses. Keep reading.
--Another dilemma is of course that you’ve been told it’s amazingly easy, all you have to do is jump on any bus to Neutral Bay and switch there to either the 143 or 144, whichever goes through, only not the 180 (the 145 of course having been discontinued last year due to lack of use), unless of course you don’t mind a healthy walk at the end of your ride, in which case the 180 wouldn’t be all that bad. Easy as pie, a trained monkey could do it.
The first problem I spotted with this was not merely remembering the bus number, but determining where precisely Neutral Bay was; the second, when I was there; and the third, where within to disembark (I’ll never get the hang of "alighting").
The bulk of this problem was solved, though, when I realized that American suburbs cover a much larger geographical base than Australian ones. Aussies, in good British measure, find a line of shops, plonk a bus stop in front of them and create a new town. Americans tend to add a few Wal-Marts first.
In any event, that still left me, most probably, unless Neutral Bay proved to be an Aussie exception, a mere two options of stops – one at either end of the line of shops. I was mercifully saved from picking the wrong end by asking a woman next to me where exactly I could get off if I wanted to change buses for North Balgowlah. She very kindly suggested the second and even rang the bell for me at the appropriate moment, a gesture for which I was highly grateful.
Passengers (and the occasional driver) are the one saving grace of buses – huddled masses dependant upon each other for survival – who can be generally depended on to help, at least when they’re not desperately memorizing streets themselves.
--Okay, then there was the time I did everything -- everything! -- right to wave down the bus I wanted. It stopped a ways before the stop, which was a little unusual, but not unheard of, so I scampered on down. As soon as I reached the bus it took off, then stopped a little ways after the stop. Accordingly, I re-scampered, and arrived panting and slightly disgruntled to find a stubby finger pointing to its sign: "set down only."
--Then there was the driver who told me to get off at the wrong stop. I had been doing very well following directions to get to my friend's place and asked the driver to please tell me when we got to the corner of King and Broadway, which he agreed to do. After passing a landmark or two my friend had told me were close at hand I went up to ask if my stop was coming up soon. Yes, he said, just wait three stops and get off. Having always been an obedient sort, I waited. Traffic was bad, though, and I called my friend to explain. She asked where I was and I said I saw a coffeeshop called the Giraffe, at which point she explained I'd passed her stop and should probably get off immediately and start walking backwards. Thanks, Mr. Driver.
--My friend Holly fared even worse than me, though. She'd asked the driver to tell her to get off in Seaforth, but he forgot. It wasn't until she went over the Spit Bridge that she suddenly remembered she hadn't gone over it going the other way. Oops.
--Then there's the times you know (oh, the joy!) your stop is coming, you press the button and ... nothing. The buzzer doesn't work. That leaves you running madly to the front, pressing every button you pass on the way and finally getting the driver to grind to a screeching halt as he happily tosses you out of the bus. "You might want to check the buzz--" you attempt to say to the exhaust, which doesn't seem overly interested.
--Even once you think you've got the hang of a particular bus route, they like to do something crazy like change where the stop is. Case in point: a brand spanking huge new Apple (computers, not fruit) opened up on George Street and all I can figure is that someone pulled some strings and got my Barrack Street stop moved from Barrack Street to in front of the brand spanking huge new Apple store, which is wonderful for people who want to go brand spanking huge new Apple stores, but bad for people who want to get on E68 buses. Guess which sort I am.
--Then there was the Friday night I was riding home a bit later and a bit more exhausted than usual. I'd really just spaced out for a bit when suddenly I noticed that my surroundings were not what they were supposed to be. I again broke bus etiquette and asked the man next to me if we were really on a 185. He thought we were, but was just as confused as I was. We knew we'd both reached a low point, though, when I shamefacedly admitted that I really had no recollection of whether or not we'd driven north over the Harbour Bridge or not ... and neither did he.
We peered fretfully out the windows, trying to determine where in Sydney we might be, but neither of us could work it out until he remembered that after a certain time of night bus routes sometimes change so as to get more people closer to home. We finally worked out we'd taken the scenic route through North Sydney, which, might I add, is considerably more scenic by day.
--My favorite bus situations are the buses that just never, ever come. Holly and I experienced what I'd always thought would be a one-off time of this with the 7:15 168 out of Wynyard, but then it happened to me in North Balgowlah (it was cold and rainy and I looked so miserable a nice lady took pity on me and gave me a lift instead) and then
again on the 7:15. This time I was prepared. This time I called 131500. And five minutes later after I made it through all the voice recordings and wrong people and I finally talked to a nice man who told me there'd been an accident on the Spit Bridge, but that my bus would probably be there in the next five minutes, but definitely by 8. I waited till 8. At 8:15 I hopped on a 185, and at 8:30 I lodged an official complaint. I haven't heard back since.
--Now I know the drivers and bus people and everyone can't help some of the things that go on. One particular Monday morning springs to mind: it was, naturally, the same Monday morning that my phone had run out of credit that there happened to be a major accident on the Harbour Bridge and all the buses got terribly rerouted, but actually traffic was so horrendous almost everyone got out of the buses and walked. I followed suit and so had a very nice ferry trip across the Harbour instead of the usual bus ride. I was an hour late for work; had I stayed on my bus, it'd have been about three.
--Besides the dramatic misadventures, though, there's plenty of little, regular nuisances: not having a seat and having to stand up for half an hour springs to mind, as do tickets getting bent up and bad smells. But like I said, little, regular nuisances.
--A bigger problem is getting on the wrong bus entirely. Twice it's happened that I've been on a bus I was convinced was going to stop at a certain place, yet it had utterly no intention of doing so. Once I found myself stranded halfway between home and the Warringah Mall, and once I found myself a suburb (why is it only an American-sized suburb when you're lost?) north of where I wanted to be. Yes, I made it back; no, I was not a happy camper. Resigned, actually, I think is how you could describe my attitude. It all goes so much better when you just get it in your head that bus disasters happen and all you can really do is the hokey pokey: turn yourself around and wait for the next bus, that's what it's all about.
--So lots of times you don't know where to get off. It's embarrassing, utterly humiliating. I hate it. You feel so stupid, eyes glued alternatively to your map and your surroundings, fingers at the buzzer-ready, ears attuned to overhear any useful comments. Usually I err on the side of getting off too early, which tends to mean a healthy walk. I was perfectly healthy before the walk, though, thank you very much. I took the bus because I didn't want to walk in the first place!
--Now this one hasn't happened to me, but I've seen it happen to others, and it's downright cruel. There's someone who can't get out of the bus on time and so another passenger yells out, "back door!" and generally the driver reopens the door and lets the passenger out. Generally.
--Most of the time you can make a bit of racket on a bus and no one gets too bent out of shape, at least publicly. But my morning bus ride is silent. It's not so much a stony silence as a how-the-heck-could-anyone-talk-before-7:30-am? silence, which I empathize with utterly. Except one day I had a phone call. It was awful, I was trying to talk to my Dad, who didn't understand why I'd suddenly started whispering and wanted me to speak up so he could hear the reason and I ended up getting frustrated with the whole situation, cutting Dad off and undoubtably leaving the rest of the bus convinced I was a complete waste of a daughter. Great way to start the day.
--One of the most frustrating bus situations I've ever experienced is the bus that comes
while you're checking the schedule to see when it's supposed to come, but darts off before you locate the current time and routes. Alternatively, there are buses that just decide not to stop because there's others in front of them (but you needed THAT one!), or because they're already full (and you're late for work!) or sometimes, aren't they sweet, for no reason at all.
--A different sort of dilemma is the talkative driver. He crops up on those days when all you want to do is get back to the city as soon as possible because the Sunday public transport trek took two hours and fifteen minutes and now you're going to be late for church, but you know, he's from Macedonia and came here to make a better living (all his family's there) and thinks you really ought to get married because 24 is actually a good age for that, you know, and if you left a boyfriend behind in America, you really shouldn't hold out for him because he's not going to hold out for you, that's just how it goes, you really ought to marry an Aussie, and soon, Macedonia's actually quite chilly this time of year, you know.
--Buses, unfortunately, can change their numbers at will. You never catch a subway doing that. Take the London Underground: have you ever caught the Piccadilly line going, gee, I'm awfully chirpy today, I think I'll be the Jubilee line now? Of course not. But buses do. It pulls up and it's a 185, then suddenly there's a shuffle, a quick costume change and voila, it's the new 186, which of course is fine if you live north of Curl Curl. Guess who doesn't.
--Of all my bus adventures, though, my favorite was on the E68. The E68, you see, that express bus of express buses, is the one that stops directly on my lovely street. But one day it would seem the unfortunate E68 got itself in a bit of kersnuffle and couldn't find its poor way home. It bounded energetically right just after the "someone tell him to go left!" call had sounded, and the poor E68 found itself spun into, horrors, the route of the 144 or perhaps even the 143. Befuddled, it betook itself to the side and pondered gravely for some moments before settling suddenly on its newfound course of action, spinning out amongst traffic to pull (brave little soul) a 3-point u-ie to the other side of the median. And then on it putzed, brave little bus, chugging merrily down the hill where it appeared quite content to follow the road's natural left before a resounding shout came from everywhere on that small, delicate bus's interior, "straight ahead!!" And straight that brave little bus went, over kerb and all. Good little bus. Don't you just love the E68? I do.
Maybe buses are a skill that some people and some people just lack, and I'm clearly the queen of the latter category, but may I just point out that I've only been in Australia since January? That's less than a year and every single one of these events has actually happened to me. Really, I had no clue how the southern half lived.
The whole ethos of Christmas is somewhat off down under. Primarily this is due to there being sun instead of snow, which changes things ever so slightly. There's minor little details of dressing from head to toe in I-don't-care-what-as-long-as-it's-warm versus gosh-where's-the-sunscreen? or oh-look-at-the-pretty-snow-I-feel-like-ice-skating-or-sledding-or-skiing versus the man-let's-hit-the-beach mentality.
Secret Santas, Yankee swap, here it's Kris Kringle. (I always thought he was European, but apparently not ...) It's a fairly standard gift exchange the night of a Christmas party -- everyone has drawn a name, buys for a set amount and arrives with a wrapped present to go under the tree (or on the table). At some point in the festivities, Kris (I presume?) stops the hooplah and delivers all the gifts, to much applause and general merriment.
It's kind of common knowledge here, especially among ex-pats, that Australia just has a way of getting in your blood. I suppose it's a combination of the weather, the scenery and a drop of something special in the water, but Australia has a knack for drawing people in. You come thinking you'll stay four months and end up for eighteen.
So there's these gorgeous banners all over Sydney city that tend to make me go a bit shutter-happy. They're great decoration and I'm all for them, but I've got to thinking about them lately and have now raised a whole series of very important questions hitherto unconsidered in modern academia.
The dilemma of the animal on the blue banner is of yet another one of life's little unsolved mysteries. Originally, I thought it was a cute upside down cat, which is why I took a whole slew of pictures of it. However, I later looked at the photos and realized the tail was entirely too long and thin for a cat's and, thinking how this was the Chinese year of the rat and everyone'd made a fuss over that back whenever it was and there had been posters with amazingly cute rats on them, concluded therefore that it must be a rat. My friend, not wanting to introduce an animal not rhyming with HAT to the discussion, opted for a bat, which was also a good plan, as it was the only animal that really fit with the upside down plan, unless of course you count a cat with a long, thin tail stuck in a tree (I do). It does not, however, account for the huge googly eyes. Thus, she hit upon the idea of marsupials at large, by which she did not, alas, mean wombats. I believe possum was what she was going for, actually, and it's the best guess we've come up with, though doesn't rhyme with HAT, so its validity is, naturally, open to question.
So it was 7:30 and I was on my third straight day of being sick and only just beginning to think that the next day I could go slightly stir crazy (two days usually being sufficent to drive me to distraction gives an indication of the severity of my condition) and that my only edible options included toast, the okay-but-not-as-good brand of cereal, pasta (required a bit more preparation than I felt inclined to give), pasta sauce (tasty, but insufficent as an actual meal), the orange juice that stung my raw little insides, tea and toothpaste. I decided to visit the corner store.
Two biggies here: David Jones and Myer. (And, yes, it's pronounced the same, but no, Myer does not sell groceries, develop film or employ half the teenage population of Sydney.)
There's been so many rainbows here! Not every other day or anything, but a good handful of times since I've come, which is considerably more frequent than I would have seen them at home. They're absolutely gorgeous here, huge, stunning ones that reach all the way across the Spit and just make you want to stop and gaze at them until they go away. The pictures don't do them justice. You'll just have to come visit.
This week I heard my first Christmas carol in Australia. (Noel. In Starbucks.)
Sydney absolutely loves summer. The whole city comes alive and everyone's in the best mood. There's festivals, tons of free stuff and the beach! Yay!
Today was Melbourne Cup Day!
and out fancy dresses, hats and fascinators.
I’d cheer for Mad Rush since he had the coolest name, though Zipping and Ice Chariot weren’t bad, either.
where they’re going to drop you. You see your street (if you’re lucky enough to recognize it) go whizzing by and anxiously press the button, moving rapidly toward the door to assure the driver you do want to get off, perilously poised as he lurches round a corner, double ups the speed ante and leaves you frantically clinging on and memorizing every street you pass in hopes of finding your way back. This has happened to me. Seriously. On George Street.
