The future belongs to public transport.
This is what experts and the Ministry of Transport tell us, and what demography and the environment say.
And this is also what common sense says every time we look for parking up to Bush, get stuck in one of the endless traffic jams that have become the Israeli version of quality time, or just say "Hagomel" after driving the Negev roads.
Weaning off the private car is not going to be a simple or easy matter.
One of the most famous lines of the Hive band rhymes "I broke up with the private" to "I was sentenced to death".
But there will be no choice, and someday we will have to say goodbye to the romantic and overwhelming idea embodied in the private car.
From the cinematographic images of freedom, the arm sunbathing in a noble manner on the windowsill, feet on the dashboard, and the strange dream about an open roof and a tough beauty in a handkerchief and sunglasses.
know what?
It may be that some of us will still own a private car.
But like in New York, and like rich people who keep a horse outside the city, that vehicle will wait patiently for the annual vacation, or for long weekends.
most of the trips - is it still not clear to any of us?
- We do it in the middle of the night, and it's good one hour before.
In preparation for the public transport reform, which came into force this week, I decided to take action.
I had several trips to the center and to the north, and contrary to my habit in the last decades, I left the car where it was, checked how the Rabbi Ko was doing and announced to him that he had mercy on joining what is known as the "community of passengers".
The wife and those around her reacted with astonishment.
Something in the air smelled like adventure.
Concerned looks were fixed on me, the kind of looks that divide fathers who have suddenly decided to give themselves over to some kind of age crisis.
They kept asking me if I remembered to take everything.
What will I say: if I had announced my intention to circumnavigate the world in a hot air balloon, dedicate my life to the search for the ten lost tribes, or bungee jump using equipment purchased on the "Stock on the Dollar" network - the reactions would not have been much harsher.
By and large, in short and in general terms, I was pleasantly surprised.
Mainly from the train services.
I sat down with a cup of coffee, opened a book or a computer, and everything was simple and easy and above all very accurate.
Much of the travel sickness I remember from my prehistoric youth has miraculously improved.
In those distant days you could wait for hours at a remote station only to find out at the end that it was canceled at all.
Or the last bus has already passed.
In general, every trip on an unfamiliar line is remembered by me as an experience of continuous apprehension.
Just don't miss the station.
And that the driver will not forget to stop.
And that it doesn't turn out that we went on the opposite route of the line again.
All these worries passed away like the cigarette smoke that in those days suffocated the spaces of the carriages and buses.
Today, every trip is accompanied by non-stop information.
Schedules, directions and names of stations are blared from every speaker and screen, at the stations, on the platforms, during the trip itself, and of course also from the side of my smart-ass, who never stopped interfering with the trip, if necessary or not.
I used to be a bus boy.
In those days, the parenting public was not sufficiently aware of the concept of a "baked child", as well as the image implications of wearing a lanyard around the toddler's neck with the winning combination of a key and a card.
When you add this class to the uniform outfit, including the blue school cap on which "Tachchmoni" is embroidered in large letters, you get a rather bleak result.
In those days, it's a bit hard to believe, first graders were already sent independently to take a bus to school.
We learned to stand up for old people and pregnant women even without the parents being there, and also to climb like monkeys on the bus poles to call the driver to stop at the next stop.
But the main characteristic of us, the children who lived far from school, was the admiration for the bus driver.
There was no child I envied more than the driver's child, who sat next to him on vacation and sick days, on a special seat close to the steering wheel.
And no, there was no object in the world that I coveted more than the bright accessories of the bus.
I am of course talking about the coin sorting device.
on the card puncher.
And also on the cool leather collar that wrapped the gear stick.
If they had asked me in those days what I would rather have as a birthday present: Gerry Cooper's gun, Johan Cruyff's shoes, or the driver's coin port from line 18?
There is no doubt that I would be plunged into an agonizing dilemma.
At a certain moment, and quite understandable for the time, the magic associated with the word "public" faded.
Mythical bus passengers like Benny Begin received a caress that was mixed with disdain.
Now all this must change.
Is there a chance that the return to public transportation will also restore the glory of the driver and his shiny accessories?
Is it even possible to go through a deep reform and a change in the order of life, without also taking into account considerations of myth and fame?
Here I am forced to regretfully state that the continued disconnection between the bus driver and the passengers does no one any good.
On the test trips I made, the bus ride was much less pleasant than the train, and not only because of the smooth traffic on the tracks, but also because we repeatedly encountered ragged, nervous and angry bus drivers.
They didn't talk to the passengers on their right and didn't make eye contact with them.
But through the window on the left, they didn't stop having loud and endless arguments with drivers.
Mainly colleagues - other bus drivers.
So it is true that it is always better to have someone else fight in your place with the other drivers on the road, but the experience was nevertheless miserable, exhausting and not pleasant at all.
This bad matter is of course related to the severe lack of manpower, which leads to congestion on the one hand, and to the acceptance of unsuitable drivers on the other.
And it's a shame, because if we've already agreed that there's no other choice, and we're moving to Chabat, the transition should be pleasant.
Which brings up a few points:
1. A profound and necessary change such as a transition to public transportation cannot be based only on solemn announcements or legislation.
Someone also needs to run the business.
Recruit drivers, for example.
2. Due to many fashionable debates about public transportation on Shabbat, not so much attention is paid to the fact that there is no train between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv either on Friday morning or on Mochash. To be honest, even on weekdays the service ends in the early evening.
3. Reform is one of the coolest words in public service.
Government offices usually wave at reforms, even when it is not clear how much benefit has grown from them.
Currently, the explanations attached to the public transport reform are a piece of a logic puzzle and a song of praise for a migraine.
Friends, this should not be an admissions test for the space and cyber system.
It's all a popular shuttle service.
I have already mentioned here the ancient custom of my grandmothers
, who used to get up in the middle of the T'av Av fast, in the midday heat, and prepare the house for the coming of the Messiah.
They cleaned and scraped like on Passover Eve, dragged furniture and beat carpets, and sometimes also moved a brush and whitewashed the walls.
The head was already hurting when they put almond cookie molds in the oven and looked out the window.
Because on the day of destruction salvation is also supposed to grow, and you will know where the Messiah will decide to stop for a cup of tea before he turns history upside down?
Woe to us if he actually arrives here and finds a mess and dirt.
As the years pass I understand that this custom, as innocent, sweet and extreme as it may be, also contains within it the deep understanding that there is no point in sorrow without hope.
And that there is something spoiled, even kitschy, in devoting yourself to the manners of mourning without leaving room for optimism and correction.
And no less important: when the fast was over, and it became clear again that the Messiah was not coming, everyone bit into their cookies with a smile without any sign of bitter disappointment or heartbreak.
I miss that, the light and deep combination of faith and irony.
shishabat@israelhayom.co.il
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