9/4/99

On A Bus, Dumbstruck

I really seem to get off on buses. In the worst way.

    I once got on a bus in Amsterdam and asked the driver if he goes to a particular platz.
    "I don't speak English," he said in perfect English.
    Here we go, I thought. I had enough of that when I lived in Quebec.
    Forgive me, I said, but I am visiting your country. I come in peace.
    "You're in the wrong country," he sneered, still making himself perfectly understood. "Here we speak Dutch."
    "I don't know Dutch. It's just like German, isn't it?" I knew enough to know I had insulted him gravely. Point for me.
    By now he was fulminating. "When I go to your country I have to speak English! When you come here, you speak Dutch!"
    "It's a good thing you don't understand English," I countered, "because you're a #*&@!%!."
    Anyway, on and on it went. He didn't let me off at the platz I wanted,  making me walk 40 minutes. (Point for him.) At least he had the courtesy to tell me I'd missed my stop. In perfect English.

THAT INCIDENT came to mind when I read a recent report in this here paper, headlined: "Egged teaching its drivers English." The story went on to say that the course uses "a special curriculum that stresses the phrases the driver is likely to use in his contact with passengers."
    I am in shock. What, they're learning English and not Dutch? What if my Amsterdam driver wants to visit?
    I must say, I have never come across linguistic chauvinism from an Egged driver. There are two reasons for this. Israelis don't want to admit they don't speak English, and even if the driver doesn't, you can always count on a couple dozen Israeli passengers to leap forward and help translate. We're like that. (During my entire travail in Amsterdam, not one kindly person offered to help me. I would have thought there'd be at least one Israeli emigrant on board.)
     Anyway, I think it's a great thing Egged's doing.
    Why, just the other day, I got on a bus (you're laughing already), and thought I'd try conversing with the driver from left to right.
    "Hello!" I said.
    He put out a hand to take my money.
    "How much is it?" I said, real friendly-like.
    He glared at me.
    "Do you speak English?"
    "Ts," he clucked, in that annoying Israeli way. But at least we were communicating now.
    I gave him a pile of 10 agora coins and asked if that's enough. He gave me a dirty look, opened his window and flung them out onto the street. It seemed I had given him enough, because he didn't ask for more, in any language.
    "You go to Rehov Yafo?"
    He gave a half nod, which means the same in both languages. I felt I was getting somewhere.
    "Where should I get off?"
    "Yafo," he answered dully.
    I asked him to tell me when we get there.
    "OK."
    Perfect English! I'd broken through.
    "Oh, by the way, can you tell me where to get the bus to Tel Aviv?" I was egging him to speak English, and he knew he was being egged.
    "Egged."
    And then he said the most amazing thing. Still playing the dumb tourist, I remarked how nice the weather was, and how difficult it must be to drive a bus among such bad drivers, and it must be a tough life in this country what with all the terrorism and long years of army service, and I had read in a newspaper that bus drivers were being taught English, and he jerked a thumb toward the back and said:
    "Sit."
    That was all I needed to hear. I sat.
    Presently, a young woman got on. Blonde, buxom, with legs and everything.
    "Hello!" she said to the driver.
    And he said: "Welcome, welcome! How are you today and good morning, thank you for taking the bus, we are proud to be of service, where would you like to go today, I am happy to help, welcome to Israel, you want a special tour? It is my pleasure, madam. I speak English good, yah?"
    He turned on to Yafo and looked in the mirror at me. "Allo!" he barked.
    "Is this my stop?" I asked in the same language as the blonde.
    He cranked his head sideways, which I took to mean "get out."
    I know it was really nasty, but I had to say it:
    "Have a nice day, sir!"
    "Yalla," he growled.
    Next time I get on his bus, I thought to myself, I'm going to speak Dutch.

THE MOST embarrassing moment of my life happened on a bus.
    It was in Montreal, where speaking English is as rude as spitting.
    The drivers there aren't even friendly in French. They're at war with the public. They hate people. They probably even hate buxom blondes.
    Anyway, I got on the first stop of the 128, which goes down Park Avenue -- oops! -- rue de Parc. There were still a few minutes before the bus was scheduled to push off.
    It so happened that it was my last day in Canada before I made aliya.
    I paid the fare and sat in the frontmost seat.
    The driver made a noise, and for a wild moment I thought he was trying to make conversation. Turns out, he was. I was the only one on the bus, so it had to be me he was being friendly to.
    This was a first.
    I burbled a pleasantry, as did he, I responded, he chuckled, I grinned, and this went on for a while, in a mix of French and English.
    We were fast becoming pals.
    He started out on his route, and began to take on more passengers.
    At one point, he said, nicely enough, "I think it would be proper if we spoke French, la langue de la milieu." 
    I had made such a breakthrough, I wasn't going to blow it by being obnoxious. I agreed.
    My French, I should explain, is worse than my pitiful Hebrew. Much worse.
    But I struggled along, making myself understood. What we spoke about wasn't really important: it was a genial, lighthearted conversation. Every so often, he said something I didn't comprehend, and instead of bogging things down by asking him to repeat himself, I laughed: "Yeah! Ha, ha, ha!"
    We got to be so buddy-buddy, I thought we were going to exchange addresses and keep in touch.
    The bus was filling up.
    I forget what led up to it, but I mentioned my father.
    He said something I didn't comprehend.
    "Yeah! Ha, ha, ha!"
    Everyone else comprehended him perfectly. The bus was now packed, but it had fallen into an agonizingly mortified silence.
    The driver went white. He looked like he wanted to cry. He stared ahead at the road, saying nothing for a few moments. Then, in a strained voice, he said -- in English:
    "I don' t'ink you hunnerstan' what I say. I say my fodder, 'e die two week ago."
    And I laughed.
    I got off at the next stop, got on a plane and fled the country.