Home from Kassel

As I sit on a bus in Atlanta, a rarity for me, I think back to my time living in Germany and all of the bus and train rides I collected in five years.

It was a totally new experience to ride public transportation when I went to Germany for the first time at age 15. Buses to school, streetcars to go shopping, and subways in Berlin. I felt so grown, so independent. I loved it and once I left, I couldn’t wait to go back and recreate that exciting feeling of freedom and access.

When I was 26, I moved to the small village of Bad Emstal, just outside of Kassel in Central Germany. It was one of the villages I had stayed in during my first trip 11 years prior. I had planned to really immerse myself in the language and culture which meant working and navigating my life like a German: on public transportation. 

Germans are known for their punctuality, maybe not über-punctual like the Swiss with their perfect timepieces, but regularly on time nonetheless. The German sense that life runs smoothest if you arrive when you say you’re going to arrive and depart when you say you’re going to depart creates the expectation that their buses and trains be predictable, dependable, and prompt. 

Along those same lines, and not only connected to transportation, Germans tend to be incredibly systematic in how they navigate their day-to-day. At grocery stores, everyone knows that you put your items on the conveyor belt and quickly pack the items back into your basket as the cashier rings them up so that you are fully ready to pay as soon as the total is given. It’s a system. It works. Everyone knows. Likewise, separating your garbage into types (paper, glass, organic, and plastic) is non-negotiable. It's a system, a way of life, and everyone adheres to it. 

Naturally, I expected the buses and trains to follow that same sense of order, holding tight to the German stereotype. Well, my life riding buses and trains in Germany left me with a different view of the system and how Germans really are once you’re on the inside.

First of all, I can’t say that everything ran with precision, but the expectation that it should was deeply embedded in the German mindset. My Bus 52 route from Bad Emstal Am Hang to Kassel-Wilhelmshöhe train station was supposed to arrive at 6:44 a.m. every morning. However, the second someone’s watch hit 6:44 a.m. and the bus hadn’t arrived, the pacing, muttering, and taps on the watch faces began. “Das glaub’ ich nicht!” (I don’t believe it!) was commonly heard. Or even better, “Wo bleibt er denn, bitte?” (Where is it already?) Never mind that traffic can fluctuate, passengers may have questions, or even construction can impede the flow. Agitation over even a one-minute delay was palpable. But more than that, I can remember many mornings standing in the rain, snow, wind, or heat, and the bus not arriving for five or ten minutes after the posted arrival time. The system was flawed for those lacking patience.

But the worst part was not loosey goosey timetables. The worst part was getting on, riding, and getting off. Yes, I would have waited an extra fifteen minutes if it brought with it an orderly boarding procedure, kindness during the ride, and a little less chaos exiting during peak travel times.

Mondays were interesting days because I taught early in the morning and headed home from the city just before lunchtime. At that time of the day, the fellow bus riders were seldom business professionals, but more often older, likely retired riders who had spent their mornings at the doctor’s, getting their hair done, or meeting a friend for coffee. In my late 20s at the time, I was often the youngest person on that particular route. The bus was also not quite as full as during rush hour. That meant there were enough seats for each rider, as long as the Omas didn’t set their bags in the seat next to them and take up extra space.

Let’s see if I can set the stage for what should have always been an easy bus ride, but seldom was. 

Bus 52 originated at Königsplatz. However, the drivers had small breaks between routes and parked about 100 meters from the actual bus stop where they ate, read, or occasionally powernapped. That meant that the riders waiting to head back in the direction of Bad Emstal stood curbside staring at the driver eagerly waiting for the bus engine to turn on, the door to close, and the bus to move up a smidge to begin the boarding process. Unfortunately, the bus didn’t have a specific stop designation, just somewhere along a stretch of the sidewalk. That left the exact stop to chance and no one ever knew if the bus would pull up the full 100 meters to the end of the bus zone, or maybe just halfway because that was the day the driver was having. The randomness made it entirely impossible for the riders to queue up and wait. Instead, the moment the bus started rolling forward, the crowd of passengers began to either walk up to the spot they hoped the bus would stop at or, even better, they would walk alongside the bus so that once it stopped, they might be the lucky first passenger to board. This process often reminded me of musical chairs. You try to walk slowly and strategically when in front of the chair, but race ahead in between chairs. And when the music stops you hope you are in the exact right position to take a seat. Riding Bus 52 was often the same concept.

When the bus stopped and the door opened, one might imagine that Germans would politely line up single-file and calmly wait their turn to get on the bus. However, this couldn’t have been farther from my experience. Time and time again, those late-morning octogenarian riders, who were presumably toughened by the war, would head towards the open door from all angles. There was pushing and cutting ahead. There was a quiet determination permeating the small crowd. They used their age as a weapon, and it worked. I would back up and let the Omas and Opas step in front of me. One by one they walked the aisle and filed into a row, taking an aisle seat and putting their bags next to the window. This ensured that they would have the row to themselves. This also meant that those who got on the bus later would inevitably have to stand until their stop. 

On one occasion, I kindly waited for the elderly passengers to board, and although I was at the very first stop, there were just enough people on the bus that every row was occupied. Every row, not every seat. 

I made my way from the front to the back, looking at each passenger pleadingly to show some compassion and scoot over so that I wouldn’t have to ask and risk being told no in front of a very quiet group of determined people. My sensitivity to being a non-German reared itself at weird moments. Bus riding was one of them. Not a soul even looked up. I was completely invisible. 

In the very last row sat a petite woman, older than me and younger than most of the others. Conveniently, she sat next to the window with a small bag tucked next to her on the same seat. Perfect. An available seat where I didn’t have to ask. I could just sit. And the second my ass touched the open seat, she shouted, “Sie hätten fragen können!” (You could have asked!) The unexpected voice in the unexpected tone caused all of the heads to turn back towards us. What’s worse than asking to sit and being told no? Sitting without asking and then being scolded for having done so. Somewhere within myself I found the strength to respond, “Nee, muss ich nicht. Ich hab’ auch eine Karte gekauft.” (No, I don’t have to. I bought a ticket too.) And just like that, all of the heads turned back forward. The woman settled herself back into her seat and said nothing else for the 45-minute ride home.

When I told a friend this story and griped about how brutal the bus riders could be, regardless of age, she gave me great advice. “Mach dich breit!” (Make yourself wide!) she said sternly, indicating that only someone who intentionally takes up space will survive the bus. And thinking about it, that is exactly what the others do. They don’t hesitate. They don’t step back. They make themselves as wide as they can and push their way to a seat. “In Ordnung. Ich mach’ mich breit.” (All right. I’ll make myself wide.)

One evening, I had the chance to put this philosophy into action. I was on the bus home after a long day of traveling around and teaching English at different companies. I boarded the 6:29 p.m. bus at Königsplatz, just in time to squeeze on with the crowd. In fact, the bus was so full, the driver let us board in the middle of the bus normally reserved for bikes, strollers, and wheelchairs. The bus was packed like Bockwurst im Glas. This was not likely an authentic idiom in German, but my creativity in my second language was keeping me entertained on a bus ride from hell.

Despite the tight quarters, the driver’s erratic turns and sudden braking caused all of us standing to be jostled around a good bit. I decided to let my heavy bag sit between my feet and grab onto the bar next to me, which was the bar in front of a woman who also looked eager to get home from work. For whatever reason, this upset her. And no matter where I grabbed on that bar, she tried to pinch my fingers to release the bar. I’m not even kidding. At first I thought this was just accidental as we were all just holding tight and hoping for the best. However, as the ride continued, I started to realize she was just being a jerk. At the same time, I was noticing a commotion with riders pressing the button to request a stop, but not being able to make it to the exit in time before the inept driver closed the door and pulled away. There was a lot of shouting between the driver and the passengers. The next stop, the same thing happened. A couple of people exited, but those not forceful enough couldn’t reach the door in time. Meanwhile, I was still fighting with the grumpy lady about where my hand was supposed to be to prevent myself from toppling over or slamming into someone else. 

And then finally, we reached Bad Emstal Am Hang. My stop. There were at least six people between me and my doorway to freedom. In my head I replayed my friend’s bus riding mantra, “Mach dich breit!” And I did just that. I picked up my bag, stuck my elbows out, and pushed myself past the other passengers like a tight end pushing through the defense. I made it.

Whenever I think back on all those story-ready moments on public transportation in Germany, I smile. I went there hoping to immerse myself in the language and culture, and I returned to the United States fluent in public transportation and making myself wide. And on this day, as I take the half-empty bus during rush hour in Atlanta, arriving a mere seven minutes later than expected and never once making myself wide, I miss Germany and that daily commute home from Kassel.