The Bus Driver from Watford

For the last couple of weeks I’ve been meaning to write about another experience I had in London, which I visited earlier this month for gay pride weekend.  Upon my arrival on a sunny Friday afternoon at London Luton Airport, I bought a Green Line bus ticket to get into town.  The ticket clerk, a fairly young black woman, was the most indifferent employee I have ever encountered.  She did not even look up from her magazine as I approached the counter.  Not only did she not care whether I bought a ticket from her; she seemed acutely annoyed that I was there, asking her only to run my credit card through the machine so that I could board the bus.

But when I got on the bus, I was taken aback in the opposite direction – the driver could not have been cheerier.  Perhaps I’m too cynical, but I generally expect bus drivers, especially on routes such as this, to be less than thrilled with their lot in life.  But this man clearly took a lot of pride in his bus and his job.  For example, before we left Luton, he stood up halfway, turned around and announced brightly, “Ladies and Gents, seatbelts please!”  A few minutes into the ride, an older couple sitting in the front row struck up a conversation with him.  I was sitting two rows back, close enough to eavesdrop.  The couple were British but lived in Ottawa; he was an engineering professor who had been visiting at a local university.  They, like me, had just come in from Berlin, where they had been sightseeing.  They asked the driver where he was from.  He was Pakistani, but born in Watford, the suburb we would soon be driving through en route to London.  In Watford he had met his wife, an elementary school teacher also of Pakistani descent; they had two children.

The conversation turned to the bus service itself.  The couple asked how often the buses ran; the driver proudly said there were departures every 20 minutes around the clock, adding, “I find that pretty amazing.”  This bus company must treat its drivers really well to get this much gratitude and, even, wonder, I thought.  The driver described the kind of buses the company uses, how often they are fueled and serviced, and how long the typical shift runs (three round-trips to the airport and back).  The company employs 14 drivers, he explained, and they are overworked; in fact, his wife and kids were leaving the next day to spend six weeks in Pakistan, but he was unable to get vacation time and would be working through the summer.  He would be driving his family out to Heathrow the next morning before beginning his shift.

The driver then asked the professor for some advice for his younger brother, who was studying engineering and had to decide which subfield to pursue.  In his own case, the driver added with a bit of regret, his grades were not good enough to pursue a field like engineering, and thus he had ended up as a bus driver.  It was clear he hoped for better opportunities for his own children; at one point he noted that his kids were the stars of their respective schools.  I thought it interesting that such a seemingly intelligent man, so devoted to education, was satisfied with his work as a bus driver.

Shortly before our arrival in London, we made a very sharp turn onto a small street.  The woman from Ottawa commented to the driver how well the bus maneuvered.  The driver shrugged off the suggestion and said it was because of his many years of experience that he was able to make such a turn.  He added, “Your husband will surely know what I mean – when you work at something for many years, you become very good at it.”  I found this a strangely old-fashioned comment – as if the woman herself could not have become so good at anything over the years to have had that same experience.  Perhaps, I wondered as we pulled into Baker Street, the driver was more traditional and conservative than I had imagined.

***

Less than 48 hours after I disembarked, I was waiting on Gloucester Place in London for the trip back to Luton.  The bus pulled up as a light rain began to fall; I looked in and saw it was the same driver.  I was initially glad, for I expected he would get us to Luton quickly and safely.  But I could tell right away the driver was in a different mood this day.  I had my laptop out when he pulled up and opened the door, and as he walked by he said to me nastily, “I certainly hope you’re not expecting to show me your ticket on there.”

Once all of us were seated, he shoved off without bothering to ask us to fasten our seatbelts.  When we stopped at the next bus stop to pick up more passengers, he opened the front window and announced sternly to the crowd waiting outside, “I have only three seats left on this bus.  I will not open this door to let anyone on until I have only the first three people to arrive here.  Everyone else will have to wait for the next bus.”  There’s a fine line, I thought then, between taking pride in one’s work and brandishing a bit too much power.  On Friday the driver’s pride had seemed charming and useful; today it was troublesome.  Perhaps, I wondered, had his mood shifted because he had dropped off his wife and kids at Heathrow the day before and now faced months of working and living alone?  Or was it simply because it was a stormy Sunday afternoon, with a bus bursting almost full of cranky passengers, while Friday afternoon’s bus had been nearly empty? 

The coup de grâce, however, was yet to come.  Sitting around me this time were a group of five young French women who seemed to be lesbians.  (It can be hard to tell sometimes!)  I was sitting in the second row, next to one woman, and in the front row sat two pairs of young women, one on each side of the aisle.  A few minutes after our coach finally got on the motorway toward Luton, the two lesbians in front of me started making out and touching each other.  I thought it was a little unusual, but not bothersome.  Suddenly, however, the driver shot them a glance and reprimanded them sternly: “Ladies, what you do on your own time is fine, but this is a public bus and that behavior is unacceptable.”  The women stopped touching, looked at each other and talked quietly to themselves in French.  The woman next to me leaned forward and said something to them in French as well.  (I wished my French were better, so that I could eavesdrop, and maybe commiserate with them.)  It somehow seemed ironic that George Michael’s “Father Figure” was playing on the bus radio at this very moment.

My first thought, of course, was that the driver would never have said the same thing to a man and woman doing what the women were doing.  What a shame, especially on gay pride weekend, for these women to have to endure such an upbraiding, especially when no other riders had said a word to complain.  I wondered if this could, or would, happen in the U.S.  I wondered whether he would next tell me I had to put away the gay pride magazine I was reading, which contained some quite explicit sexual ads. 

I also wondered:  Did the driver have it backwards, in making this a public-private issue?  If this were truly a public bus, would he be entitled to tell the passengers what they could and could not do?  As it was, this was a semi-public bus, and perhaps (although the driver didn’t say so) the bus company had rules against such behavior.

True, the women were a bit brazen, sitting in the very front seat in full view of the driver, and doing a bit more than kissing.  But even so, the driver’s reprimand was unnecessarily nasty.  And with that my opinion of the bus driver from Watford came full circle.  A man who first impressed me with his cheery outlook and dedication to his job proved to be something of an intolerant brute drunk on his own power, such as it was.  Perhaps indifference has its advantages after all.

One footnote:  Interestingly enough, according to Wikipedia, Watford is well-known because of the popular  British expression “North of Watford,” which is “a light-hearted, yet derogatory” expression used “typically by those living in the south of England to describe any part of the United Kingdom situated more than a relatively short distance North of London.  It is a euphemism for ‘provincial’ and by extension ‘unsophisticated’ … its use has contributed to a mildly negative association with the place name.”  Wikipedia adds that Watford “is the first major town encountered when traveling north from London and therefore forms a well-known and obvious landmark to define a provincial town.”  Provincial town, provincial people?

Softening a Harsh Language

Many people think of German (rightly) as a harsh-sounding language, especially compared with the Romance languages.  One thing I have found quite interesting, though, is that unlike English, German has many words whose sole function is to make sentences sound more pleasing, or more polite.  For example, the simple sentence “What is that?” would be literally translated as “Was ist das?”  But normally, Germans will say, “Was ist das denn?”  The “denn,” as I understand it, is simply to make the question sound better to the ear, and less abrupt.  It would almost be rude to simply say “Was ist das?”

In fact, the Germans will often add a fifth word to this sentence, and say, “Was ist das denn, eigentlich?”  This translates literally to, “What is that, actually?”  In translation it seems to reveal that the speaker is slightly embarrassed not to know the answer to the question.  But this is said so often, that I think it is really another way to make the question sound softer and more polite.  Perhaps it is because German as a whole can be so harsh and so strict, that they throw in these extra words to soften things up.  They can make translation (and sounding like a native) much harder, but these extra words constitute an interesting device, and one that we rarely use in English.

Obama Speaks Tonight

For some reason I can’t say the above sentence without singing it to the tune of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”  In any event, Obama speaks tonight in Berlin’s Tiergarten to an expected crowd of 100,000.  Obama has been on the cover of just about every German newspaper and magazine this week, has the support of 76 percent of the German populace, and the German magazine Der Spiegel has even already dubbed him “president of the world.”

You would think I would be thrilled to be here for this historic moment–what luck, to be living in the city that is host to the only public foreign policy speech of his trip.  Why, then, do I have so little Lust (interest) for going?  Okay, part of it is not wanting to stand in the sun for three hours holding a spot, waiting for his 7 pm speech (if he starts on time).  But frankly, I also find this speech a bit odd and even out of place.  Sure, if he were newly-elected, this would all be appropriate and exciting.  But in the middle of a presidential campaign this just seems weird.  If this is not a campaign rally, as his staff has asserted, then what is it?  Just a Senator giving an ordinary speech?  No, of course this is a campaign rally, one of the most significant — if not the most significant of all — of the 2008 campaign.  This speech will have far more international coverage and, probably, greater worldwide impact in terms of Obama’s image and (if elected) eventual influence than any domestic rally.

Normally I consider myself an internationalist.  I support the consideration of comparative international law in American jurisprudence, for instance, and believe the U.S. and other well-off nations have a very strong moral imperative to help those in need regardless of their citizenship or location.  But in this case, it does not feel right for Obama to be campaigning on foreign soil before he has won the presidency.  I don’t disagree with his listening tour in Iraq and Afghanistan; that was important and appropriate as a fact-finding mission and also in order to show his ability to lead the armed forces.  Even his stops in Europe to meet with foreign leaders can be justified, along the same lines.  But a massive public rally on foreign soil?  That, I fear, is not only theoretically inappropriate, but also bad politics.

Big Babies

There was an article a couple of years ago in the New Yorker about how Europeans have become taller, on average, than Americans.  As I recall, the article attributed this largely to diet, and specifically the fact that Americans today are eating a fast-food diet more akin to that of a poor nation.  Since I’ve been in Germany, I’ve definitely noticed the size difference.  Whereas in New York, I (at a little over 6’1”) am used to standing out a bit in the typical bar, here it’s not uncommon for me to be in a bar and feel surrounded by taller men.

Whether cause or consequence of these bigger people, the baby strollers here in Germany are positively gigantic.  They are the SUVs of strollers – typically bearing four large, thick wheels that look more like the wheels you’d see on a Vespa than on a regular old-fashioned stroller.  These strollers are so wide that when viewed from behind, you might think they were one of those strollers for twins.  But no – just one very special German baby fits in each.  I was on an S-Bahn (commuter) train recently and a group of four mothers and small children boarded my car.  With four of these behemoths between them, it was literally impossible to pass through the train car – and these cars are already really wide, built to accommodate numerous bicycles as well as people. 

I assume these super-sized, seemingly indestructible strollers are available in the U.S., but I have never noticed them – even on the Upper West Side.  Maybe they’re just too big for the typical Manhattan apartment.  But they seem like a good idea, as they make traditional, small-wheeled strollers look completely flimsy by comparison.  (Plus, the German models can also be used to transport at least a week’s worth of groceries.)

I always thought America was the land of super-sizing – but maybe we’ve been super-sizing the wrong things!

The Waterfront Spirit

I visited Hamburg for the first time over the weekend.  Located at the junction of the Alster and Elbe Rivers, Hamburg is Germany’s main port city and the second busiest port in Europe (after Rotterdam).  Water is everywhere – the city has twice as many bridges as Venice and Amsterdam combined.  Although it’s not directly on the ocean, you can feel and smell the water in the air.  And with all the fish restaurants, boats and waterfront promenades, you’d think you were somewhere on the Atlantic.

It wasn’t until I spent a few hours in Hamburg that I realized something about my time in Berlin:  this year will be the first time I have lived anywhere not on the ocean.  Whether in New York, Boston or Los Angeles (briefly), I’ve always lived literally within about eight miles of the ocean.  Next year, when I move to San Francisco, I will resume that pattern.  But Berlin is, despite ample lakes throughout the metropolitan area, the River Spree and a number of canals, essentially landlocked.  It lies 150 miles from the closest open body of water, the Ostsee (Baltic Sea).

The fact that Hamburg is on the water, and Berlin isn’t, goes a long way toward explaining why the cities are so different.  In fact, Hamburg reminded me less of Berlin than of other waterfront cities, above all Copenhagen, which lies only 200 miles to the northeast, but also of places as diverse as Barcelona, Istanbul, Venice, New York and even Boston.  With the presence of so much water – whether along the Elbe in Hamburg or along the Hudson in lower Manhattan – comes a certain damp feel in the air, a certain smell in the breeze, and a distinctly cosmopolitan feeling that seems to connect all waterside cities (and especially all port cities) with one another.  It’s a feeling of tolerance and openness to the world that comes with the trading culture – hundreds of years of living with traders and goods passing through from every corner of the world.

There are also more tangible implications of being by the water.  Waterfront cities like Hamburg tend to be healthier places, with long promenades suitable for jogging, cycling or just walking and thinking.  They also tend to have more striking, innovative architecture, with the water providing a contrast, and/or a mirror of sorts, to the buildings constructed along its edge.

But most important, I think, being by the water can provide a kind of healthy perspective, by reminding us that we, our lives, our cities and even our nations, are smaller than the oceans that lie between us.  Standing by the water, looking out at an expanse of blue and seeing ships coming from and going to faraway lands, limits of all kinds – including the limits of national borders – seem to fade away.  We are reminded, in the face of the expansive sea, not only of the possibilities that may await us on the other side, but also of how small we are in the face of the forces of nature.  Back inland in Berlin on Saturday night, riding the subway home, I felt a bit claustrophobic and closed down to be landlocked again, and missed the fresh seaside air.

Not So Fast!

I took the InterCityExpress train non-stop from Berlin to Hamburg.  The train was quite comfortable and well-designed—significantly nicer than the Acela, the fastest and nicest train in the U.S.  Automatic sliding glass doors separating the cabins and sleek recessed lighting gave the train a contemporary look, and LCD screens announced how fast we were traversing the landscape – 229 km/h at one point, or about 142 mph.  (All these features made the train feel a bit like riding a new airplane.)

The downside of going so fast is that just looking out the window made me a bit dizzy, and at high speeds the train would wobble a bit on the tracks, which was also a bit nerve-wracking.  By the time we arrived in Hamburg I was a little motion-sick.

The Trains Don’t Run on Time!

I imagine the most common stereotype worldwide of the Germans is that they make the trains run on time.  Well, I am unhappy to report that on the basis of my experience yesterday, that is a completely undeserved reputation.  I was supposed to leave Berlin for Hamburg at 13:18, but the train had a 120-minute delay.  I’d say maybe this was an exception, and maybe it was the Czechs’ fault in that the train was coming in from Prague.  But more than half of the other trains leaving Berlin Friday afternoon were also delayed.  And when I went to ask if there was a faster train I could switch to, the unhappy clerk kept muttering to herself, “immer Frietags,” always on Fridays.

Another, perhaps lesser-known reputation the Germans have is for being indifferent to customers.  Unfortunately, this reputation often seems more deserved.  Yesterday, while about 40 of us waited to speak to DeutscheBahn ticket agents, two clerks sat at their desks behind their large “Geschlossen/Closed/Ferme” signs, chatting and organizing their desks for about 20 minutes, seemingly in absolutely no hurry to make the line any shorter.

Then I went to a coffee bar to buy a hot tea to drink while waiting.  I asked for a large size, but the man behind the counter pointed to the sign above his head and explained that there was no large size for tea – only small – even though the large cups sat right there next to the small ones.  I asked whether he could simply give me a small tea, but with mehr wasser.  Judging from his reaction, it seemed as though no one had ever asked for or suggested this before.  But after thinking it over for a moment, the man agreed and made me a large tea.

Better Buses

In New York it’s almost always a bad idea to take the bus.  You see it coming and may think it’s a good idea to get on, but invariably end up stuck in traffic.  It’s usually faster to walk.

In Berlin, the buses are quite convenient.  They generally come on or close to schedule (and electronic signs at many bus stops indicate how long you have to wait for the next one).  People board in an orderly fashion, flashing their monthly passes to the driver or paying the driver (and here they don’t require exact change).  Unlike in New York, people get off only in the middle or at the back of the bus (there are three doors), so that people can board without waiting.  Most Berlin buses are modern, spacious double-deckers, and unlike the subway cars are even climate-controlled.  Most important, there is so little traffic in Berlin that buses can be as fast as subway trains.  In fact, the only traffic that gets in the way is bicycle traffic, as cyclists often use the bus lanes.

Yankees Universe

At least a couple times each week I see people wearing Yankee caps around Berlin – some on people who seem to be Americans abroad, but many on people who appear to be locals.  I have not seen a single cap from any other baseball team since I’ve been here.  I wonder what these people are thinking.  Are they really Yankee fans?  Have they ever seen a game?  Or do they just think it’s cool to wear the Yankees logo because of what they’ve seen on TV or in the movies?

I should strike up a conversation with one of these people and find out why they wear the cap.  Regardless, it’s clear that the Yankees are truly a global brand—even in a place like Berlin, where baseball is almost completely off the radar.  (I did, however, recently read online that baseball actually has an interesting history in Germany, with its roots mainly in the thousands of American military personnel who have been stationed here since World War II.  There is even a small baseball league, in which at one time semi-professional players played.  And there is at least one bar in Berlin that recently broadcast the Yankees-Red Sox series!)

The Wurst Diet

Although there are good restaurants from just about every possible cuisine in Berlin, average people here seem to consume a very traditional and very unhealthy diet outside the home and, especially, on-the-go. Prominent in this diet are wursts of various sorts, fatty meatballs called Bouletten, sandwiches on small and not very tasty baguettes filled with butter and cheap cold cuts, doner kababs, falafel, pizza, potato salad, hot pretzels and other breads/pastry products. Everything is rich, salty and indelicate. The kinds of lighter food options and snacks popular in places like London or New York – smoothies, salad bars, wraps and sushi, to name a few – can be found here, but only in the upscale and/or touristy areas, and even there can be hard to find amid the traditional German bakeries and German or Turkish snack bars.

Nor do people here, including young professionals, seem bothered by this. The first time I went out last month with some of my new friends here to a Biergarten, one of them was hungry and went off to grab a snack, and came back with a bratwurst – not what he really wanted, he said with a shrug, but the only thing he could find. A few weeks later we were at another biergarten, enjoying the summer weather, and wanted something to eat. Our options were pizza, pretzels, bratwurst and Leberkase (a Bavarian specialty that is something like a spongy meatloaf); the side dishes offered were sauerkraut and potato salad. Admittedly, these were biergartens and not regular restaurants. But still, I was surprised that young Berliners really still (and without much complaint) eat such heavy, traditional food on a regular basis.

The topic of Berliners’ traditional and unsophisticated palate came up this week in a conversation I had with a longtime Berlin resident who works at the Jewish Museum here. She explained that the Germans, and especially Berliners, still eat a diet that hasn’t changed all that much from the days when they lived off the land in great poverty. Berliners, she said, have never been willing to spend a lot of money on food and, as a result, their tastes have never caught up to the gourmands living across the nation’s borders with France and Italy (or, for that matter, of Londoners!).

Just another reminder that even in this “globalized” world, sizable cultural differences remain – and that a population’s income and spending power have a lot to do with it.