Story time! Weirdest moments on public transit around the world

Yesterday, I was on my way to work as usual, standing idly next to a Dunkin Donuts kiosk in North Station, waiting for my train. An elderly lady sporting headphones and cigarette breath approached me and screamed hoarsely, “I’m gonna put your friend IN A BOX! TODAY!” When I looked around, startled, wondering who she meant by “your friend,” she leaned in close and yelled in my face, “THAT’S A COFFIN!” Then she walked away. Now, I don’t consider myself a superstitious person by any means, but not gonna lie, that one kind of freaked me out. I am happy to report that a full day has gone by and my friends are all still kicking.

Just a day in the life of an American public transit commuter.

I’ve had some rather weird experiences on buses and trains in other countries as well, and I think being outside my geographical and cultural comfort zone just added a whole other level to the strangeness. This isn’t a post about things that just seemed odd because I was a clueless foreigner and didn’t get it. This is a post about moments where I felt like okaythis is REALLY bizarre and I’m PRETTY SURE it’s not just bizarre to me.

Taghazout, Morocco, June 2015

After a day by the beach in the sunny hippy Moroccan surf town of Taghazout, three friends and I boarded a crowded bus for a half hour ride to Agadir. It was hard to see what with all the people packed on the bus, and hard to hear what with my Darija level being pretty basic, but there seemed to be some sort of altercation going on at the front of the bus between two teenage boys and the driver. One of them must have not paid his fare, or for whatever reason the driver did not want him on the bus.

Then a man in a neon vest that said “Agent de Controle” appeared on the scene. (This doesn’t exactly translate as “Agent of Control,” but that’s what my brain spontaneously registered it as, and I think this story’s a little funnier if you translate it that way.) He argued loudly with the two teenagers, and they stepped off the bus but kept shouting at him. A small crowd of young men had gathered outside the bus by this time, bickering loudly. Some of them seemed to be on the side of the driver and the Agent of Control and some were on the side of the fare-hopping teen.

Then the Agent of Control took off his jacket and handed it to the bus driver. An internationally recognized signal that this ish is about to get REAL.

Outside the bus, the bickering had degenerated into a giant shouting match, and the Agent of Control flung himself enthusiastically into it. And then it was a full on brawl. They were all shoving each other- the Agent of Control and the young men on his side versus the troublemaking teenager and his sidekicks. No one was actually hurting each other. No punches were thrown. There was just a lot of shoving and shouting.

Then they were all running, in a pack, shoving and shouting while running. They disappeared behind a building and reappeared a few minutes later, still shoving and shouting. They made a few laps around the building. Shoving and shouting. While the bus driver and all of the approximately fifty million sardine-packed passengers silently, calmly watched.

And then the brawl died down as quickly and mysteriously as it had started. The Agent of Control stepped back onto the bus, a little sweaty and out of breath, got his jacket back, waved goodbye to the bus driver, walked away, and we were on the road. A row of teenage boys in the back of the bus drummed and sang us all the way to Agadir. All in all, not a bad day trip. But seriously… what just happened?? What was that?

Paris, France, February 2012

When the man got on my metro car at Chatelet, he looked like any other Parisian commuter at rush hour. Thirties, short brown hair, glasses, nondescript clothes. He was holding a book. He did not sit down.

He opened the book, delicately cleared his throat, and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to deliver a poetry reading.”

That’s so nice, I thought. On the Paris metro, it’s not uncommon to hear a musical performance in your subway car, a hat always passed quickly around the car before the next stop. So why not a poetry reading? How artsy and sophisticated. How French. I caught a glimpse of the book’s title. Poesie. Poetry.

The man cleared his throat again and began to read. A few lines in, I wrinkled my brow. What? Did he really just say what I think he just said? He kept reading. Yes he did, he sure did. Ouch, my ears, my ears! This was the dirtiest, most vulgar poem I had ever heard in my life. Thank goodness it was not a long poem.

He looked up. “Which shall I read next, ladies and gentlemen? Page 18 or 43?” He looked around expectantly. I did too, to see everyone else’s reactions. The tourists were chatting with each other in their languages and tuning him out. The French people were pretending he wasn’t there. They didn’t look shocked or offended. Just bored and mildly annoyed. Suddenly he was looking straight at me. “Mademoiselle, what will it be? Page 18 or 43?”

“Euhh… euhh… quarante-trois,” I stammered. What else could I say? Maybe page forty-three would be a poem about, I don’t know, daffodils. But his smile slowly spread into a wicked grin. “Page 43! Excellent choice. Excellent choice.” He flipped the pages. Well, merde.

This poem was, if possible, even more offensive than the last one. And keep in mind I wasn’t even understanding more than half of it because it’s not like they put words like that in high school French textbooks.

“Palais Royal, Musee du Louvre,” announced a female voice over the intercom, and the train slowed to a stop. “Have a lovely evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the man said, and he was gone. But not before I caught another glimpse of the book’s title. Not “poesie.” Pornesie.

Paris, France, January 2010

This one isn’t so much weird as scary. You know how that announcer voice in train stations always tells you to mind the gap between the train and the platform? Well, I was at Gare du Nord and there was a big gap and I didn’t mind it. And I actually fell in. I was carrying heavy suitcases and I lost my balance trying to lift them on the train and… actually, never mind how it happened. I fell in the gap, you guys. This is a real thing that actually happens to people. So, yeah, mind the gap.


Agadir, Taghazout, & Paradise Valley

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a grand taxi to Tangier. And a six-hour train ride to Casablanca, grading homework the whole way as usual. And an overnight bus from Casa to Agadir. Way, way down south.

Morocco’s CTM buses are clean, comfortable, and reasonably priced. In case that isn’t enough, CTM offers the option of traveling by “CTM Premium” for a few extra dollars. I took my first CTM Premium bus on this trip to Agadir, and it was definitely the nicest bus I have ever been on. Comfortable leather seats with foot rests allowed me to actually get some sleep on the overnight trip. Passengers are offered a newspaper (French or Arabic?) and a water bottle upon boarding the bus, and there is theoretically wifi, although it doesn’t always work.

Agadir was devastated by an earthquake just over fifty years ago, and almost completely rebuilt. Thus, it has a different feel from many Moroccan cities. Its souks are spacious and neatly organized, instead of a winding maze of narrow streets crowded with vendors and shoppers. (Think New York instead of Boston.) Its marina district feels like Miami. Agadir’s kasbah was one of the few parts of the city to survive the earthquake. The kasbah sits high on a hill overlooking the city. The words “God, Country, King,” in Arabic, are carved into the hillside and lit up at night.

Marina at night. "God, Country, King" on the hillside in the distance.
Marina at night. “God, Country, King” on the hillside in the distance.
View from the Kasbah
View from the Kasbah
Right before I thought it was going to bite me. Camels are mean.
Right before I thought it was going to bite me. Camels are mean.
Henna on the beach! Yes, the beach in November.
Henna on the beach! Yes, the beach in November.
Can confirm: It is exactly what it says it is!
Can confirm: It is exactly what it says it is!

One of Agadir’s streets is lined with small restaurants serving harira, a delicious Moroccan soup. We ate here two nights in a row, at a table on the sidewalk, and ordered the special, a bowl of harira with a hard-boiled egg, dates, and chebakia on the side. I also ordered msemmen with amlou, a delicious dip or spread made from almonds, honey, and argan oil, a southern Moroccan specialty. Like peanut butter, but better.



Taghazout is a beautiful little seaside town, about half an hour from Agadir by grand taxi. It is home to breakfast cafes and surf shops, fishermen, Moroccan surfer hippies (which, yes, do exist), Australian expats, tourists in search of surfing adventures, and goats wandering the streets. The whole town has a chill, relaxed, welcoming atmosphere.

We arrived in Taghazout early on a Saturday morning and, after coffee and breakfast at an outdoor cafe, we headed over to a local hostel/surf shop combo to meet up with our instructor for the beginning surfing lesson we’d signed up for. We were each handed a wetsuit and a surf board to carry up the hill and place on top of the van that would transport us to the beach. Then we signed a liability form acknowledging that surfing can result in serious injury blah blah blah. Oh wait, no, we didn’t. This isn’t lawsuit-crazy America. Should I also mention that our instructor was googling “how to teach surfing lessons” in plain sight? But we were paying the equivalent of $30 for a three-hour lesson and all-day board rental, so we couldn’t exactly complain.

This was the day I learned that I am absolutely terrible at surfing. Let’s just say I drank a lot of salt water. But it was fun.

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Paradise Valley is nestled in the Atlas Mountains, and its name speaks for itself. So much beauty. We wandered along dirt paths and slippery rocks, past tiny mountain cafes and cliff-jumping teenage boys. While strong winds shook the tree branches around us, we sat in one of the little cafes and ate goat tajine, using bread as utensils, the five of us all eating from the same dish, which we were used to by now. It was absolutely delicious.

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On the way back to Agadir, we stopped at a cooperative where two women were in the process of grinding argan nuts to make argan oil. Below is the grinder used to press the oil out of the nuts or kernels. The disks are what is left over once the oil is removed.