Israeli Bus-Boarding for Intrepid Beginners

Invited to visit Noa's family, I attempt to board the bus from Jerusalem to Golani Junction. “Are you ready for this?” the woman behind me asks. She’s Israeli but speaks excellent American-accented English. “You’ll want to keep your elbows out. Every time I visit my brother in New York I just watch in amazement at the orderly little lines people form to get on the bus!”

I make a pact with myself. No shoving. I will not push ahead of anyone who has been waiting in front of me. But I will damn well hold the line against the people behind me. As soon as the bus pulls in to its assigned slot, I place my hand on its still-warm front window, creating a neat barrier against the black-hatted gentleman to my right. The crowd begins to press forward and I’m well-positioned to mount the stairs. From my left, people begin weaving into the breach created by the less-assertive. I slip my left hand around the large backpack worn by the teenager in front of me. I won’t push ahead of her; I’ve made a vow. But after she goes, I go.

Holding my arms out firmly, now the shoving of the crowd only serves to propel me toward the steps of the bus. It’s working. Just behind my left arm stands a young woman holding two bicycle wheels. I’d seen her husband earlier, carrying the bike frame and using it as a plow to part the crowd. With unbelievable gall, the woman raises a wheel over her head and inserts it in the space between me and the person ahead of me, clearly intending to follow the wheel right on past me. Not gonna work, I resolve. I’ll ride this tide up the stairs behind a bike wheel and a severed hand if I have to.

And I basically do. I hold the line; she can’t insert her body into the space she created with her wheel, nor can she extract the wheel. Not my problem. That was a decision she made. The crowd presses us forward and my feet find the stairs, triumphantly. Shuffle shuffle, shuffle shuffle. She follows on awkwardly, giving me a half-hug, her wheel wedged against my knees. I hand my ticket to the driver, wriggle past the wheel, and take a seat - a good one, in the front, unassigned. Seated comfortably, I prepare to give Wheel Woman a politely apologetic smile, but she moves past me without so much as a reproachful glance.

I guess she’s boarded this bus before.