GETTING TO THE POINT

By Joy Pincus

Published in Fizz Magazine, Fall 2004

 

No matter where you are in Israel, there is a bus that is going to come and find you there. It can be the remotest village where only you and two goats live; there is a bus stop where you and the goats can wait. And at precisely the appointed times, the bus will gently slow down and almost come to a complete stop while you get on.

There's also a little something called the sherut which sounds like someone should offer you a tissue, but is actually a little minivan that runs around nabbing all the bus customers.  You get on and pay the driver, who then starts yelling at you to "Take a Seat!! Sit down!!"  He's afraid you might get a look at the speedometer as he gives the Airbus 777 flying over you a run for its money.

So you go sit in the back and if you're new to the system you might be worried about getting your change. No need. Your five shekels are slowly making their way back to you, from the driver down through every passenger. "Whose money is this?"  "Is this yours?" "Hey, I need small money. Do you mind if I make myself change out of this?"

Once late for an important meeting, I sat directly behind the bus driver, asking every five minutes if we'd reached my stop.  He finally got so annoyed he sent me to the back of the bus and then promptly forgot that I existed. When the language of street signs changed from Hebrew to Swahili, I asked again if we were nearly there.

"Oy vey!" he shouted. (Well, Israelis don't actually say that - it’s a misconception, like thinking that they eat bagels and lox on Sunday mornings.  Firstly everyone goes to work on Sunday mornings, because in Israel Sunday is Monday. Secondly, bagels here are awful and lox is something tragically added to sushi, but that story is for another day.) So he didn't actually say “oy vey” but something equally colorful in Hebrew and probably unprintable.  He then made a very sharp left turn, crossed over the highway SUBDIVIDER, and went tearing off in the opposite direction until we saw another bus.  Jumping out, he ran to explain to the other driver where I needed to be and that I shouldn't have to pay, and then shooed me on board. 

I own a car now and I miss those bus-riding days, but driving a car in Israel offers its own thrilling moments and I'm amassing an equally colorful array of Israeli highway stories. Next time we’ll discuss: "Driving in Israel" - just like the popular video game, only more exciting!