Public Transport
December 31st 2006 05:51
One of my very first thoughts upon moving to Sydney was ‘Why on Earth does everyone sit in morbid silence on public transport?’ It really baffled me, the skittish country tadpole thrown into a pond of stoic toads. I was used to an atmosphere of perhaps over-friendliness – one definitely filled with familiarity and clear of my own confusion and feelings of vulnerability.
It was not long before the mystification of city living was alleviated and I was able to get on with life as an urban student, feeling at peace with the mass. During this time, my pressing issue with the seeming unfriendliness of commuters on public transport was resolved: They’re not being unfriendly, everyone is just avoiding the inevitable Lunatic in their midst!
You all know exactly who I’m talking about. It’s the person who no-one sits next to even if they have to stand, the person with several unexplained stains around their groin who is trying desperately to catch your glance with their good eye. It took me a long time to learn how to spot them, and even longer to get myself out the situation where I’m left conversing until the end of my journey. So far, in my first twelve months of life in Sydney, I have been asked enough horrific personal questions to fill and novel and warrant therapy. Some of the more printable ones are as follows:
”You are beautiful, my darling. My daughter looks just like you. If you come with me, we can share a meal and perhaps some heroin.”
“Hi Digger! You’ve got tits!”
“I bet I can guess your star sign, I am the smartest man you will ever meet” (This one was actually interesting, the man was quite creepy but he did guess my star sign without me saying a word.)
And finally, perhaps the best advice ever given to me by anyone:
“I don’t know why you’re bothering with University love, it’s too hard and it’s full of witches and monks.”
As uncomfortable as the conversations can be at times, it does make for some food for thought. I wonder frequently when I speak to anyone, especially people with some age and experience, what they have gone through in their lives. I feel dreadfully inexperienced and about as tough as a clam without a shell if I think about it for too long. Maybe we should talk more, if only to realize that our precious little bubble of life isn’t the only one.
It was not long before the mystification of city living was alleviated and I was able to get on with life as an urban student, feeling at peace with the mass. During this time, my pressing issue with the seeming unfriendliness of commuters on public transport was resolved: They’re not being unfriendly, everyone is just avoiding the inevitable Lunatic in their midst!
You all know exactly who I’m talking about. It’s the person who no-one sits next to even if they have to stand, the person with several unexplained stains around their groin who is trying desperately to catch your glance with their good eye. It took me a long time to learn how to spot them, and even longer to get myself out the situation where I’m left conversing until the end of my journey. So far, in my first twelve months of life in Sydney, I have been asked enough horrific personal questions to fill and novel and warrant therapy. Some of the more printable ones are as follows:
”You are beautiful, my darling. My daughter looks just like you. If you come with me, we can share a meal and perhaps some heroin.”
“Hi Digger! You’ve got tits!”
“I bet I can guess your star sign, I am the smartest man you will ever meet” (This one was actually interesting, the man was quite creepy but he did guess my star sign without me saying a word.)
And finally, perhaps the best advice ever given to me by anyone:
“I don’t know why you’re bothering with University love, it’s too hard and it’s full of witches and monks.”
As uncomfortable as the conversations can be at times, it does make for some food for thought. I wonder frequently when I speak to anyone, especially people with some age and experience, what they have gone through in their lives. I feel dreadfully inexperienced and about as tough as a clam without a shell if I think about it for too long. Maybe we should talk more, if only to realize that our precious little bubble of life isn’t the only one.
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