…that God created man, and man created the dryer.
Honestly, between the two of them, I do not know who is the best.
So, like anyone of you who lives by themselves, I had given up long ago ironing all my clothes, relying on the fabric softener, trusting in its mysterious “ironing” (please some of you confirm this point of view, otherwise I think I am the only one who has lived for years with their clothes rumpled).
With a dryer the situation changes.
Throw everything in and the clothes ends up warm, soft and do not need to be ironed.
You may wonder how what the point of this post is.
Give me a few more seconds…
I had to come to Australia to discover the use of the dryer, which almost justifies the trip by itself. Not too bad for the three dollars per “use” otherwise, I would wash for necessity and dry as a hobby.
You’re thinking about your fucking business on a bus, looking out the window, with a flat encephalogram the ocean passing in front of you, when suddenly you get a blow on the shins from an unspecified source.
You turn around giving the most annoyed, cranky expression you can do, trying to communicate that in that moment only hate makes you feel alive, then you realize that to cause the whole thing is a man with Parkinson’s disease who is trying to get to the exit.
These things can change you inside, at least for the next two minutes.
In that time you realize once again that people in Australia are different, even ones on the bus.
Anyone of you who have used buses in Italy, had definitely been victim of one or more of the following phenomena:
– Clinging to a bar to stand up and discover that who did it before you had sneezed at least thirty times in his hand.
– Enjoying the ride distracted by gigabytes of mp3, when someone coughs on your head with an unhealthy and stagnant “had it for years” cough.
– Finding a seat then being shifted off it by an old stale woman, who seems like they’re going to die in a little while and sitting on this seat, is her last mission.
– Suddenly being hit by a cloud of smell as a mixture of: old age thrust, minestrone re, re, re, re-boiled, naphthalene, clothes of the 40s, various diseases, accumulated sneezing. The source of this smell has to be identified in the other 50 people in attendance, all over 80 except you and the driver.
– Being suddenly shoved by a stranger, half sick, that uses you as a handle to the first micro-braking stop.
– Be covered by a blanket of repulsive breath of the person who’s standing 2 cm from your face that just ran up the single stair to get on the bus
– Exchange the person in front of you for the authentic Cleopatra’s body, left for hours in the July sun.
– Developing a compelling desire to pass a tongue of fire on the bars, before you can cling and contracting TBC.
In Australia it’s different.
You don’t need much: an average age lower than thirty years is enough to completely change the situation. In the bus, for instance, there are many more seats, so you do not run the risk that someone will snatch you earphone from your ears while they fall in to a helpless landslide on the ground.
Above all, however, they are all careful not to touch you in any way, do not push the line to get in or off and if it happens you hear from them a repeated “sorry”, as if they had broken a spell. You can’t not respond with a kind smile and apologize in return.
Nobody complains about the fact that having and showing their ticket to the driver is compulsory to get on the bus. Otherwise, the bus will not leave, causing the instant wrath of everyone, which could lead you to being immediately branded as a disturber of the public peace and a destroyer of many rights. The driver has also the power to do more thorough checks on the people as they get in. Inside the ticket machine not only can stamp your ticket, but it also check its validity, consisting of a magnetic card with an expiring code, so if you’re part of a latch you’ll hear a beeeeep and people will get angry for you causing them to be late. The driver will then “suggest” you to get the fuck out the bus even if you’re in good company.
In Italy, some people might think that Australian’s have too many rules.
Imagine getting a fine despite having a ticket, but not being able to have it stamped even if you tried to, because you couldn’t get past the human barricade between you and the ticket machine… then let me know if you prefer having the rules.
Follow the rules and no one will annoy you.
Above all, no one breathes in your face from four inches projecting in your mind images of desolate and sterile landscapes and making you discover with horror that bat soup really exists.
This post is also available in: Italian