I live in the City. In Paddington, to be exact, which by technicality, is actually the Inner East of the City. Essentially, the two places are one and the same, however the distinction is made because anything past Darlinghurst is not an ideal walking distance from the CBD.
And thus, twice a day, I catch the bus.
The reference Heathergirl makes to camaraderie is interesting, because by all accounts, it is very true. There is no waving from bus to bus as route numbers pass one another. Instead, drivers who take unauthorised breaks just before the Chalmers Street loading zone glare at one another suspisciously over their self-rolled cigarettes. The 2 way radio transmitter box is always alive with gruff voices barking impatient orders, which are easily heard over the din of the struggling bendy bus motors. But just when one thinks all is lost, the driver - who ordinarily stops for nothing short of a roadblock, and certainly not a red light or a stray pedestrian (I once saw a bus literally take out the drivers door of an illegally parked car) - will hold up Oxford Street traffic so that the 380 can pull into the outside lane.
The passengers keep mostly to themselves, and generally fall into one of four categories: tourist, desk jockey, student, or homeless person.
The tourists are infuriating. They sit on the middle fold down seat and open their upside down, thrift store maps onto you inconsiderately. Some have a habit of standing in the middle of the aisle so they can ask every passenger who passes where Town Hall might be. This is generally on a Bronte Beach-bound bus. Others hold up the boarding line either by counting out their change much too slowly, or paying with a $50 note that cannot be cashed. Worst of all, they incorrectly park their extremely unaesthetic prams, still decorated with a QANTAS baggage check sticker, in front of the fold down seats, preventing anybody else from sitting on them.
The desk jockey's are omnipresent. Most are badly paid, polyester-wearing office workers who plainly cannot charge their transport to the company, and are too frugal to spring for a cab like their cotton suit counterparts. They bundle onto the morning city-bound with black wheely suitcases and ugly imitation leather shoes - both, which they generally wedge painfully against your legs - before flipping open their top-of-the-line mobiles to stage, at a stentorian volume, a conversation over the previous night's inebriation. This is generally with a co-worker that they will be seeing in the following five minutes anyway.
The students are insolent. I have caught the morning 378 five days a week for the past 5 months, and as of yet, I am the only student who has ever given up her seat to an elderly passenger. Some pretend not to hear the less-than-subtle coughs of the tottering aged. They certainly ignore the death stares given by the few that tumble over. The braver among them will actively voice their right to a seat through having paid for a ticket. Others make gesticulative reference to an array of textbooks, laboratory equipment or architecture portfolios to emphasise their overriding need for the space. More arrogant than these, are the students who stand immobile in the aisle with their bulky, Country Road bags, headphones on, directly in front of an empty seat.
The homeless people are the head turners. There is no telling what they'll do. I once had an in-depth conversation with a man dressed in a tatty green velvet tuxedo, who did not hesitate in telling me he had just won the pokie machine jackpot at Star City. I don't think he noticed my distaste for the story as it expanded to include a hotel room, all of his homeless friends, and a Thai escourt service. I was waiting at the pictured bus stop one afternoon, only to be surprised by a woman absolutely screaming obsenities directly in front of me. The airborne spittle was disturbing, but more so was the realisation that she was yelling at her own reflection in the glass of the stop. Going by her abnormally wide pupils, she must have taken soemthing quite potent. A third passenger, weighed down by several cans of Johnney Walker Black placed sporadically in his jacket pockets, imparted his drunken wisdom on relationships to two adolescent out-of-towners. Heathergirl herself was present for his remonstrations...most memorably, the 'ku ku ker chuu' rendition he offered, along with, quite generously, two cans of scotch. And then, of course, there are the regulated fiends, pickpockets and beggars who shuffle up and down the bus, their hair in filthy dreadlocks or knotted quiffs, and their fingernails black with dirt.
A Sydney bus. Crowded, yes - the claustrophobic or olefactory sensitive among us should consider alternate transport, because the likelihood of being forced to make a trip with your face wedged beneath someones underarm is fairly reasonable if you don't snag a seat (and sometimes, even if you do...) That they are unfriendly is inarguable. City folk are not predisposed to be friendly, something that I empathise with completely. Nevertheless, they are interesting.
You might think it strange that I pay so much attention to my fellow passangers. Truth be told, I rather enjoy observing the mish-mash of socioeconomic standings. How could a busload of passengers who live in places as varied as we all do...attractively shabby townhouses, cramped studio apartments, Bondi Junction retirement villages, or the grimey, tiled floor of the ANZ Bank entrance...be anything, if not entertaining?
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