Intercultural gesticulation

I was feeling kind of underwhelmed anyway.

I'd been down under for two weeks with The Diplomat without feeling like I knew what Australian 'culture' was. I figured Hugh Jackman, fit and frisky on a surfboard, might do the trick.

The beach: the answer to all cultural mysteries.

I'd missed my beaching opportunity on the east coast because god was punishing the nation for selling it's soul to Oprah the month prior.

'Oprah's Ultimate Australian Adventure' probably sounded good to the tourism board at the time, but do you really want thousands of middle-aged Angel Networkers asking for the nearest Outback Steakhouse and telling Aboriginals how to live their best life (according to this month's edition of 'O')?

Anyway, I couldn't blame god - it was all doomsday floods and hurricanes on the Great Barrier Reef, so westward ho!

Beach bag full of SPF and David Sedaris, I waited for Number 411 to take me to Scarborough Beach, outside Perth. As the bus came rambling down the deserted roadway and I stood up, taking my bag and walking three feet to the 'Bus Stop' signpost, money in hand - exact change, thank you!

I believed these efforts to be obvious international signals for 'I'd like to ride your bus! And - I will pay!'

I watched the bus approach. I saw the driver look at me. And then I watched the bus sail right past.

What the effy eff?

I then did what every woman ignored by a man does. I ran after him.

I caught up at the next light, breathy but willing to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. I had already learned direct eye contact in Australia does not equate acknowledgment of one's existence.

I rapped on the door.
He looked at me.
I pointed to the door.
He kept looking, indifferent.
I pointed to myself, then the door, then made an 'open' motion.

He shook his head no and put his hand up in the air, waved, then pointed at me and shook his head again.

Wave? He wouldn't pick me up because I didn't wave?

It was quite a change coming from free-wheeling South America, where the designated bus stops are wherever somebody wants to get on. No Latino - or accompanying farm goat - is left behind. Waving optional.

I furrowed my brow, rolled my eyes sidelong, stomped a little for effect, then mimed my ascent from the bus stop bench to the bus stop sign and flopped my hands forward in an appeal to just let me on the damn bus already.

This is what Oprah's soulless Australia had reduced me to: a temper tantrum with a public servant. A'la charades.

At this point, all the other passengers became interested in our mime-off, and I'd like to think some asked him to just open the door for this nice foreign lady who maybe had a wave impediment? But the driver wagged his index finger at me, the international sign for 'I am a patronizing figure of authority and you are not.'

The light changed and he left me standing to brood in a viscous bisque of irritability. This is the Ultimate Adventure? Somebody get me a koala to hug, stat.

I changed my strategy and made a complete fool of myself, again, flagging down the next 411 with every limb and digit flopping in the air. I also changed my ticket to leave Australia a week early.

After all that, Hugh wasn't even at the beach.