Back in Graz

Both cars I usually could rely on are now broken. The blue Yaris Verso was severely crashed in an accident and the pale blue Renault today wasn’t working anymore. Something with the light machine. Great. So I was forced to rely on local public transportation to meet up with Lisa for another visit to our beloved Café Promenade. And I instantly noticed the harsh difference in traveling with public transportation between Graz and Berlin: Everything is smaller here, slower and more drunk.

After the café I accompanied Lisa home and the tram was more empty than full, the only people were drunks and juvenile groups that also stunk of alcohol. Others were coughing and breathing extremely hard while exhaling alcoholic fumes. Man, if there was smoking allowed the tram would’ve exploded from all the hazardous gases floating around.

When riding home I hopped into one of the last buses, the 31, that were going into my direction. I entered the vehicle through the front doors and slipped through between the bus driver and a drunk man who was talking to the driver… at least he was trying to. I took a seat in safe distance, but close enough to follow the conversation.

The drunk was a middle aged man, according to his still brown hair not older than 45, but his face looked much older. He wore a greenish T-Shirt reading United States around the picture of a pitbull, all silk printed in yellow. Old black tracksuit trousers and heavy walking shoes complete the picture of the man with the very raspy voice.

I quickly took out my notepad and began noting down what was being said to provide you an in-depth insight into an ordinary working day evening chat in an bus, somewhere cruising around Graz.

The drunk is telling his life’s story to the driver, who he calls Robert, about grief with women and alcohol. Robert remains silent, mumbles from time to time something that is neither approval nor denial. He swears and swears, worse every time: “Those fucking women with their fucking ways!”

Now another passenger sitting on the other side of the aisle speaks up:

Now I notice the woman, sitting close to the drunk too. He looks at her. She is ignoring him and stares ahead, straight into the wall behind the driver, that is only inches away from her face.

the passenger continues in a firm but friendly voice to pose no threat to the drunk. He turns around.

He coughs.

he nods at the driver. A small pause before he continues

He stands up and walks clumsily the few steps to the passenger who talked to him.
“Oh no! Come on, leave me alone!” he says but the drunk found a new one to chat with and lets his worn figure fall into the seat opposite the passenger in the red sweater. The drunk continues.

Now his sentences lose most of any structure, he only continues from where he usually gets his beer and that booze does no good to him. But all of a sudden he jumps up.

He takes the seat again where he was sitting in the first place.

The drunk sighs and turns around again.

Now the red passenger jumps back into the monologue making it a dialog again.

The drunk slowly turns his head and utters something that sounds like an apology to the blond, that still hasn’t moved an inch. He continues babbling in her direction. She talks back, her face not turned into his direction. Now I notice that she must be having a phone call.

An other passenger got on the bus and takes the seat in front of me. He has black styled hair and a preppy sweater and is probably around 17 or 18. And he smells even worse than the drunk who still babbles. The boy giggles.

I stand up and push the button because the next stop is where I need to get off. As I exit through the middle door the blond also gets off through the front door and disappears in the other direction.

One reminder: When there are drunk people on the bus in Graz, they are no(t always) punks or homeless or poor souls. They are just the common lower-class inhabitants of Graz, some of them going out, some of them coming home, all of them smelling terribly of booze and sometimes a little Boom-Chicka-Wah-Wah mixed with old sweat.

Both cars I usually could rely on are now broken. The blue Yaris Verso was severely crashed in an accident and the pale blue Renault today wasn’t working anymore. Something...

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