Never in my life did I contemplate that I would spend so much time in transit, but now that I do I am the keenest observer of what is right and wrong with the buses and trains of Sydney and the Hunter. I am the consumer who needs to sit on the boards of Cityrail and Sydney Buses.
Spending so much time travelling has also allowed me to develop a new fashion-related game I call ‘Defy the Weather’; it’s somewhat like the children’s lookout game ‘I Spy’. It started last year when I started noticing people who, to my fascination, had totally thumbed their nose at the weather.
There were men in shorts on the coldest days of winter, women in July wearing summer dresses and grasping thin cardigans around them with a frigid desperation, their bare legs shivering. At what point did these people not notice it was mid-winter?
In the last couple of weeks my favourite ‘Defy the Weather’ contestant was a woman I spotted on one of Sydney’s rare scorchers, a day when the temperature soared past 30 degrees. Throw in dripping humidity and you get the picture. But there she was denim shorts (check), singlet top (check) and knee-high grey ugg boots (say what?) I felt anxious just looking at her calves and feet encased in all that sheepskin.
‘Defy the Weather’ can be played anywhere, but public transport gives you such a large number of potential game winners it’s the games natural home. The rules are simple:
- Assess the weather
- Define the worst thing(s) to be wearing for those conditions
- Go find the person wearing it
I see lots of women expertly doing makeup despite the rocking of the train, but my favourite ‘train as personal bathroom’ moment was a male one. A businessman, who carefully unpacked his battery-packed electric razor from his briefcase, had his morning shave and calmly folded up his shaving gear and packed it away. Getting out a moist towel to wipe his face, he finished with a splash of cologne and was perfectly poised to leave the train just as it pulled into his station. Now there is someone who knows about time management.
Another great thing about public transport is the opportunity it gives you to blatantly listen in to other people’s conversations; it’s the supreme snoop fest.
My overheard conversations have ranged from hair-raising horror stories to dialogue which would slay any stand-up comedian. It has included the world’s worst parenting threat (on the 428 bus), mother to little girl: “You’ve been so bad that when we get home the police are going to take you away”. On hearing this news the small child started screaming, bringing a new round of extraordinary threats from her mother.
Eastern Suburbs buses provide an international demographic for this snoop fest. Recently a Canadian was explaining to his compatriots that “right here” (i.e. at the five ways intersection at Paddington) was where “all the homosexuals of Sydney live”. “Ooooohhhh” sighed the Canadians pressing their faces to the bus window only to observe, no doubt to their disappointment, the mostly heterosexual upper middle class of Paddo going about their deli shopping and heading into the decidedly straight Royal Oak Hotel for a drink.
International backpackers regularly re-enforce racial stereotypes, which is disconcerting but undeniable. European males flirt and charm like it’s their birthright. Recently I watched as a young Italian train traveller slid up to a group of girls, sitting himself down in the middle of them and laying it on til they were soon giggling and cooing. A group of young Anglo males watched with undisguised irritation. For well over an hour they had been eyeing off the girls, daring each other to make the first move, yet the solo Italian backpacker with his expert eye came, saw and conquered making himself the centre of their attention within two stops of getting on the train.
This year’s favourite overheard public transport conversation (so far) goes to a trio I’ll call Sean, Sean’s friend and Miss Finland. Sean was an Irish backpacker, accompanied by an unnamed male friend (also Irish) and Miss Finland was the pretty Nordic princess in Sean’s sights on the 380 bus. Sean’s friend was uncomplicated, he was hungry - really hungry - and his sole focus was when, where and how quickly they were going to eat.
They were sitting behind me and first caught my attention when Miss Finland was asking Sean what sports he played. He eagerly explained ‘hurling’ which Wikipedia defines deftly as ‘an outdoor team game of Gaelic prehistoric origins and played for at least 3,000 years and thought to be the world’s fastest field team game and one of Ireland’s native games.’
Miss Finland heard ‘curling’ and nodded enthusiastically. “Yar! Curling!” Helpfully Wikipedia defines this as ‘a sport in which players slide stones across a sheet of ice towards a target area. It is related to bowls. Two teams take turns sliding heavy, polished granite stones across the ice toward a target.’
There was a ‘Hurling? No…curling’ and ‘Curling? No…hurling’ misunderstanding which I could completely understand. To my English language only ears Finnish is a fiendishly impenetrable language and Finnish-accented English is really something to hear. Between Sean’s Irish brogue and Miss Finland’s limited English they were really doing it tough, but chemistry knows no linguistic boundaries and I admired their dogged persistence to find some common ground.
But Sean’s friend wanted none of it. “Sean” he pleaded “When are we going to get something to eat?” Sean ignored him. And so the bus ride, and Sean’s budding romanced, was punctuated by his friend’s increasingly desperate hunger pains. “Sean, look that pub has a bistro”. “Can we get off here Sean? That pizza place is still open”. “Sean, I’m dying of hunger”. But Sean remained unmoved; he was focused on Miss Finland.
Sean’s friend could stand it no more and wailed my favourite overheard line of 2012.
“Awww Sean……..I’m so hungry I could eat a toddler!”
