THE WHEELS ON THE BUS GO ROUND AND ROUND

This was the sign announcing the bathrooms in a local restaurant, kind of creepy don't you think?

I ride buses all the time in Jerusalem. I don’t want to borrow my friend Vardit’s car and even if I did, I think I would be scared. I practiced driving last Saturday when nobody was on the road except Christians who I hoped had a more pleasant driving style than the Jewish/Arab Israelis. In any case, the buses are a trip from the drivers and passengers to the routes and fares. Here are some brief comments.

Maps: There are about 60 bus routes and one Hebrew map on the web which identifies the routes of 5 of the most popular lines. There are no other maps of any kind, nothing is posted at the stop, except the number of the bus, if you want to know where a bus goes, you have to ask, and everyone asks all the time. I met a guy at a bus stop and he asked me “what bus goes to the Central Bus Station” and I responded very confidently, “Only Bus #6.” (which was true). He then proceeded to approach everyone of the other 10 people at the bus stop and asked the same question, all with the same answer and then as each new bus arrived (#’s 9, 19, 32 and 18) he asked the same question of each bus driver. Finally, a #6 came; he asked and then got on board. Every person at every bus stop seems to go through the exact same process.

Note: asking directions in Israel seems to be a social custom much like when people chat about the weather or sports in the U.S. Even when you pretty much know where you are going, you still ask people who look clueless for directions. Another variation of this insight is that people often give wrong directions, it is very unusual for someone to say, "I don't know where that is." Instead, people seem to prefer giving bad information rather than admit that they simply don't know, even I have gotten into the habit of just pointing in any direction and confidently saying, "its right over there."

Drivers: Bus drivers are clearly made of different stuff than the rest of us mortals. They often are on their cell phones, some even read the newspaper while driving and they are constantly talking to other drivers eventhough nobody can hear them except the passengers. To start with, bus drivers have to handle all the fare payments. A standard fare is 5 shekels and 9 argots which means anyone paying their fare in cash will have to get change (this would not be true if the fare was an even number like 5 or 6 shekels) Then everyone’s fare is different, seniors, students, children, and soldiers and there are different paper passes like all day, two day and one month, and 10 pass, 50 pass, all of which have to be hole punched by the driver.

Now here is the fun part. The driver is always in a hurry so the bus races up to the stop, quickly opens the doors and then while people are piling in, the doors close and the bus takes off. There are loud screams of protest of passengers who didn't make it on or off. Then while the bus is leaving the stop and merging into traffic, the driver start punching tickets, making change and processing all the different fares and tickets. It’s really an amazing operation. Of course since the bus goes so fast, it is constantly accelerating or suddenly stopping, which throws all the old people who are standing INCLUDING MYSELF, all over the inside of the bus.

Passengers: It is trite to say that bus passengers are aggressive and impolite, that goes without saying. What is fascinating is the diversity of the people with these characteristics and the many styles they display. To start with, nobody lines up, EVER. When the doors open a group of people get off at exactly the same time and in the same place as the people who are getting on. There are certain rituals, such as the asking for directions (see above) and depending on the mood it seems that some bus drivers always say “no” the bus doesn’t go there or “yes” the bus does go there, but I don’t think the answer is ever correct. There are continual arguments, most of which I don’t understand because they are in Hebrew. Fares are always disputed, as are seat arrangements and of course people are just normally having arguments about politics and life in general.

Cell phones are everywhere and are constantly going off, people answer and talk loudly without much objection from nearby passengers. Ultra-orthodox men will not sit next to women for fear that they will touch them so there is a lot of moving around. There are special orthodox buses run by the city in which women MUST sit in the back and men sit in the front. Everyone brings bags of stuff, mostly groceries and it is not uncommon for a person to sit in one seat and put their bags on the adjacent seat, even though the bus is packed with people. This of course results in more arguments. In all fairness, I must point out that most young people do give their seats to old people, LIKE ME. The first time it happened I was really shocked and thankful, now I always expect it and am upset when it doesn’t happen.

Every morning I take the #18 bus to my Hebrew class and one day I noticed this plaque at the bus stop. Five years ago on February 22nd a #18 bus was blown up by a suicide bomber and 8 people were killed. One of them was the owner of Vardit's first dog. It was a chilling feeling seeing the memorial and thinking about what it meant and what had happened on exactly this same spot.

Obviously, the scariest part is the possibility of a terrorist attack. People are always watching and racial profiling. I saw a driver refuse to open the door for a weird looking Arab guy with a big package. Of course every bus has a couple of 18 year old soldiers with machine guns and amazingly that gives one a feeling of security.

Traffic: The buses seem to always be playing a game of chicken with taxis and old people. Generally, the rule is that a taxi will always back down, but that old people never back down. I was on a bus that nail a taxi, then the taxi chased the bus for several blocks and cut the bus off and then the two drivers really went at it. On the other hand, old people walk right in front of a moving bus and simply dare it to hit them. So far the bus has always backed down, but there have been many close calls. Since many of the old streets are very narrow and cars tend to park on both sides usually half-way up on the sidewalk, the distance between two passing buses can be only a few inches. Surprisingly, I seem to be the only person on the bus who thinks this is a close call and I am constantly covering my eyes and expecting the worst, but apparently the few inches is more than enough space because nobody ever gets hit.

SOCCER FEVER: CATCH IT

Two prominent signs in the U.S. Cultural Center Library which announce the new WiFi system of free on-line computers. Actually, the library is great with a huge DVD selection, current American magazines and lots of English language books on Middle-Eastern affairs.

It was a dark and stormy night...; really it was.

For the whole last week I have been planning to attend the big soccer game between Beitar Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. The 21,000 seat Teddy Stadium, which is an eyesore to my friend Vardit, dominates the view outside my bedroom window so the joy and novelty of walking to the stadium was a big turn-on for me. At 3 in the afternoon I laid down for a nap and at 7:30, was awakened by a brilliant lightning strike and huge thunder clap which shook the house. I should point out that my first thought as I was startled awake was that the “end of days” had finally come to Jerusalem, but alas that was not the case.

I jumped out of bed, threw on my clothes, and rushed out the door. I heard Vardit say, “don’t worry you are only a half hour late.” This is the same person who recently asked me if football is the game that uses the ball shaped like an egg, so that pretty well captures her level of sports comprehension.

As I approached the stadium, the rain was coming down and there were no people milling around outside; curious I thought. I went up to the darkened ticket window and tapped on the glass. A face peered out and when I asked for a ticket, it responded, “we’re closed.” I said, “I want to go to the game.” The face answered, “sorry it’s too late” and disappeared. I couldn’t believe it and at that instant an old Arab man approached me holding a wrinkled ticket and imploring me to buy it in some language I didn’t understand. The image was so weird; here I was on a deserted parking lot, alone with an Israeli scalper and cheers of fans wafting up from the stadium. I said, “how much” and I thought he said in broken English, “whatever you want.” The smallest bill I had was 50 shekels ($12.50) and he seem ecstatic, grabbed the money, delivered the ticket and disappeared into the darkness. An Angel of Mercy, so Jerusalem I thought. I have since learned that the ticket was a free complementary one for no charge; what an American Sucker, the angel must have thought.

An empty stadium, a steady downpour of rain and a kosher hotdog, it doesn't get much better that this.

As I entered the stadium it appeared about 75% empty, but the 25% of the fans in attendance were predictably going nuts. To make a long and very wet story short, the match went on and on to a 0-0 tie at the 90 minute mark. The monotony was broken up by intermittent rain, a surprisingly good, kosher hotdog, and the spectacle of hysterical soccer fans cheering numerous missed shots on goal. It will always be a mystery to me why soccer fans get so excited about missed shots. Anyway, the game went into the injury time. (for those unfamiliar with the rules, after 90 minutes the game can continue for a short time to make up for minutes lost as players rolled around on the ground in pain from being injured) The phenomena is especially interesting because the main scoreboard clock is stopped at “90” and nobody, except the referee knows how long the injury time will last, the only sure thing is that the time will not be long. While keeping one eye on the field, everyone was dejectedly heading towards the exits, resigned to a uneventful tie game.

Magically and unpredictably as this always seems to happen in soccer, there suddenly were a lot of players directly in front of the opponents goal, the ball was rolling around exposed on the ground, everyone assumed that time must surely have run out by now and then BANG, BANG there was a shot, a goal and the game ending whistle. It was the most amazing and cathartic ending I’ve ever witnessed. The crowd was stunned; frozen in time and then exploded with excitement. What a dumb, stupid, exhilarating sport is this game of soccer. It is truly unfathomable to my American sports mind.

RETURNING TO THE ANSWER, THE REST OF YOU CAN REMAIN WITH THE QUESTION.

My traveling companions to Jerusalem. The dog on the left is "Splat" from
Eli's racquetball days and the dog on the right was recently re-named "Bama" and whose origin we think is a prize won at the Marin Summer Faire, circa 2001.

I have returned to Jerusalem, hence the reference to “returning to the answer”; when recently asked, I suddenly realized that I had forgotten what the question was, damn, getting old sucks. Then, a friend asked if I was still going to keep blogging since her aging mother enjoyed reading it, so that is what it has come to, my targeted demographics; women over 80. Anyway, I’ll give a try and see how far I can go and remain interesting and insightful.

I want to use this first installment to review what it takes to leave a comfortable middle-class life in the states. After having disengaging myself from all the ties I had in Berkeley in May, 2008, I returned for a 4 month stay from October, 2008 to January, 2009. It’s amazing how quickly one can load up on “things” and thus have to start the disengagement process all over again. The U.S. cell phone gets reinstated and then gets returned, the Kaiser health plan gets reestablished and then gets cancelled, items that got thrown away never to be need again, like an alarm clock, have to be repurchased. The one thing I didn’t sign up for, an internet connection, was sorely missed and as a result I spent all my time wandering around my apartment and the neighborhood looking for unprotected WiFi. I eventually found “Tinkerbell” some poor unsuspecting internet user who I continually stole bandwidth from. I felt terribly guilty, especially when I must have slowed down her/his connection and then it suddenly came alive when I logged off. Is it illegal to steal bandwidth; if I go to prison for this is it a crime I can be proud of or will my cell mate “Bubba” think less of me.
One last thing, whenever I leave, everyone feels a need to take me for a good-bye dinner. There are lots of pledges of support, cries of missing you, hugs, etc. The first time I left, I even got cute little hand-written messages and gifts. The second time, there were no messages, fewer hugs, but still free dinner. I’m not sure how deep is this well of good-byes and how often one can go to it. I suspect we are getting close to the end. As always, because I was going to Jerusalem, I promised everyone that I would pray for them, but after awhile, even that gets old. I mean, face it, God (or if you prefer the goddess) does not really listen to me, as was obvious when UCLA, the team I prayed for, lost the national championship.

For Harry Potter fans, this is the exciting view at the King's Cross Station where one can board the Hogwart's Express. I took this picture on my layover in London and apparently some kids have thrown themselves at this wall trying to get on the train.

Two views of the huge apartment complex facing my friend Vardit's house in Jerusalem. On the top is the view when I left Jerusalem in the fall, on the bottom the view today. I present this picture to refute the believe that Jerusalem is a timeless city in which nothing changes.