I have always been a train geek. While the other kids in Cresco (the odd name of my home town is attributed to an unknown 19th century typesetter whose misspelling in a railway timetable altered forever the course of history for the town of Fresco, Pennsylvania) played football or shot holes in road signs, I sat under the ruined roof of the disused railway station and imagined great steam trains rumbling in to my little town, impatient engines belching steam and smoke while tourists from New York and Philadelphia streamed from the carriages and into the resort cabs.
When Steamtown, USA moved its collection of historical trains from Bellows Falls, Vermont to Scranton and the town honoured their arrival with that most American monument - a shopping mall - I trespassed in the trainyard at night, clambering through ancient Pullmans and onto rusty tankers like some middle class teenaged hobo. As an adult, it was mostly the joy of travelling by train that made my three hour commutes from Downingtown to New York bearable.
So when my friend Clive informed me that he and a friend were going Interrailing in February, I was jealous. The idea of travelling around Europe by train, bumping and clanking through the meadows and mountains of the Continent was so appealing that I got to thinking - why not do the same? After all, the kids are just about old enough to make long stretches of inactivity bearable, the rail network in Europe is reasonably well-run, if not entirely profitable, and there are many places I'd lik to see.
Clive suggested that I let the kids plan the trip. Caroline's keen, but Michael shows little interest apart from swiping around the rail map on the iPad. We spent a good part of last weekend working out an itinerary (Caroline's been an active participant throughout, although I must admit that I've done most of the deciding).
Our general plan is to take the Eurostar to Paris on the Thursday before Easter and an overnight train from Paris to Rome. We'll spend Easter weekend in Rome (and hopefully meet up with our friends the Becks who are sailing their yacht Moxie around the world - if they can ever tear themselves away from the sun-drenched Mediterranean) and then dawdle our way for two weeks along the coast, heading in the general direction of Spain. We'll stop at a few places along the way (Cinque Terre for sure, maybe Nice). Our only real obligation is to get to Barcelona in time to catch another overnight train back to Paris and from there back to London, school and work.
I'm unreasonably excited about this trip. My commutes (by train, of course) these days are spent reading travel books about Provence and the Ligurian Coast, and squinting at endless columns of 6 point Times New Roman in the European Rail Timetable. I'll let you know how it all works out.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Details
I was in a pub last week with a bunch of guys, some I'd known for ages and others whom I'd just met. One of the just-mets showed us his third nipple. Just like that.
At the risk of offending all bearers of superfluous nipples, i think that little show defines the term 'too much information', at least from someone I'd known for only a few hours. I generally like to get to know a person a bit before I go showing them my body parts, extraneous or otherwise.
Don't get me wrong - I wasn't offended or disgusted by this. Well, maybe vaguely disgusted. The issue for me was that I'd have preferred to have had a choice in the matter. Generally such a choice would involve having the opportunity to decide whether I like a person enough to want to spend more time with them - to at least have a foundation of a relationship before I have dirty laundry or spare nipples thrust full in my face.
I realize this probably sounds shallow, and maybe it is. We're told that we should accept (or not) people for who they are, warts or extra nipples and all. I agree with this. But I like to start slow. I will happily sit for hours and talk with you about a painful childhood or a difficult divorce, but before we get to that, I'd like to know a bit about how you think, how you see the world, whether we have something in common. Otherwise you're just dumping your shit on me and I'm not so interested, thanks very much.
I wonder, though, am I unusual in this regard? Do 'normal' people share every detail of their lives and bodies with everyone they meet? Has the relentless progression of social networking caused a permanent northward shift in the 'normal' level of sharing?
I have some 'friends' on Facebook that I rather wish I hadn't. If you use Facebook, you probably have some, too. They're the ones you accepted friend requests from without thinking, back in the early days, when you were trying to get the numbers up. The people you knew a long time ago, the people who share every detail of their life with no attempt to make these details interesting, humorous, or even particularly relevant.
Why do I not take the same liberty and tell these people to keep their details to themselves? I suppose I'm sort of lazy, for one thing. Moreover, though, I won't do that for the same reason that I didn't tell the guy with the extra nipple that he'd shared too much, too soon. Because I'm polite. Too polite, really, something I must change, I think.
So if someday, you find this post and realize, "Hey, I'm not connected to him on Facebook anymore," let me say that I'm sorry. Sorry that I didn't have it in me to tell you personally that I'm just not that interested in your weekly visits to the grocery store, your endless whining about being tired, or your griping about your family.
OK, 'unfriending' people from one's youth not really much of a step, but it's a step. "But wait," you say, "if you cut out everyone who slings more detail at you than you really care for, will there be anyone left?" Yes. Because if I genuinely like you, if I've gotten to know you and you me, no amount of detail is too much - bring it on.
See you on the other side.
At the risk of offending all bearers of superfluous nipples, i think that little show defines the term 'too much information', at least from someone I'd known for only a few hours. I generally like to get to know a person a bit before I go showing them my body parts, extraneous or otherwise.
Don't get me wrong - I wasn't offended or disgusted by this. Well, maybe vaguely disgusted. The issue for me was that I'd have preferred to have had a choice in the matter. Generally such a choice would involve having the opportunity to decide whether I like a person enough to want to spend more time with them - to at least have a foundation of a relationship before I have dirty laundry or spare nipples thrust full in my face.
I realize this probably sounds shallow, and maybe it is. We're told that we should accept (or not) people for who they are, warts or extra nipples and all. I agree with this. But I like to start slow. I will happily sit for hours and talk with you about a painful childhood or a difficult divorce, but before we get to that, I'd like to know a bit about how you think, how you see the world, whether we have something in common. Otherwise you're just dumping your shit on me and I'm not so interested, thanks very much.
I wonder, though, am I unusual in this regard? Do 'normal' people share every detail of their lives and bodies with everyone they meet? Has the relentless progression of social networking caused a permanent northward shift in the 'normal' level of sharing?
I have some 'friends' on Facebook that I rather wish I hadn't. If you use Facebook, you probably have some, too. They're the ones you accepted friend requests from without thinking, back in the early days, when you were trying to get the numbers up. The people you knew a long time ago, the people who share every detail of their life with no attempt to make these details interesting, humorous, or even particularly relevant.
Why do I not take the same liberty and tell these people to keep their details to themselves? I suppose I'm sort of lazy, for one thing. Moreover, though, I won't do that for the same reason that I didn't tell the guy with the extra nipple that he'd shared too much, too soon. Because I'm polite. Too polite, really, something I must change, I think.
So if someday, you find this post and realize, "Hey, I'm not connected to him on Facebook anymore," let me say that I'm sorry. Sorry that I didn't have it in me to tell you personally that I'm just not that interested in your weekly visits to the grocery store, your endless whining about being tired, or your griping about your family.
OK, 'unfriending' people from one's youth not really much of a step, but it's a step. "But wait," you say, "if you cut out everyone who slings more detail at you than you really care for, will there be anyone left?" Yes. Because if I genuinely like you, if I've gotten to know you and you me, no amount of detail is too much - bring it on.
See you on the other side.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Resolution
I've resolved to write more in 2013. I don't know what 'more' means in this context, since I've written almost nothing in the past 18 months, so the bar's set pretty low.
I also don't have a specific notion of what constitutes 'writing'. There's this blog, certainly, languishing in a corner since last year. It will receive some attention; but there are also three stories that I'd started work on, one as long ago as 2010. Maybe 2013 is the year those will see daylight.
The trouble, you see, is that I have both a very short attention span and a low tolerance for mediocrity, at least in my own work. Combined, these two traits make it nearly impossible to finish a first draft of anything longer than a paragraph, since a first draft is by definition rough and imperfect. The numerous typos and grammatical errors I make when I get in full flow drive me nuts, but correcting them while I write distracts me from the act of writing. I can't write longhand either - I don't think the same way with a pen in my hand as I do in front of a keyboard.
Another challenge is that I don't always have something to write about. Like today, for example. The only subject I have to write about today is how I'm going to do more writing. How interesting is that? Not particularly, not even for me, and if I'm not interested, it's a good bet that no one else will be, either.
A third - or fourth, I've lost track - difficulty is finding the time to write. Given my short attention span, writing for me is an all-consuming avtivity. My thoughts are increasingly slippery and when I lose my grip on one, it swims away quickly, lost forever in a flow - or more accurately, a trickle - of other less interesting thoughts. I can't tell you the number of Really Good Ideas that have escaped over the years by blending in with others. Writing, like fishing, requires all of the patience and attention I can gather. I don't catch many fish, because the requirements for doing so are at odds both with my own predisposition for distractedness and with the rhythms of a young family. The kids just don't seem to get that I need to be left alone when I'm writing, and to tell the truth, as grumpy as I get when they interrupt me ("Dad? Dad? Daddy? Daddaddaddaddad!" "What?" "Hi!"), I can't bring myself to tell them to get lost. Writing is, after all, a wholly discretionary activity. It doesn't feed us or clothe us, and I'd really rather spend time with them than do just about anything else. Besides, let's face it, they're going to have to support me when I'm old so I'd better be nice to them now before I forget who they are.
Finally, there's the thorny issue of subject matter sensitivity. There are topics I'd like to write about, topics that would make for funny reading, but I can't because it would be impossible to sufficiently disguise the people involved. They would instantly recognize themselves in the material, and that would be bad for everyone. (If you're wondering right now whether you're one of these people, you've made my point for me.)
Maybe I should revise my resolution: I'll write more when I have an inoffensive subject, when I have enough time, and when the ideas leap like spawning salmon into the jaws of a cleverly-placed bear. In other words, I'll write in 2013 about as often as I wrote in 2012.
I also don't have a specific notion of what constitutes 'writing'. There's this blog, certainly, languishing in a corner since last year. It will receive some attention; but there are also three stories that I'd started work on, one as long ago as 2010. Maybe 2013 is the year those will see daylight.
The trouble, you see, is that I have both a very short attention span and a low tolerance for mediocrity, at least in my own work. Combined, these two traits make it nearly impossible to finish a first draft of anything longer than a paragraph, since a first draft is by definition rough and imperfect. The numerous typos and grammatical errors I make when I get in full flow drive me nuts, but correcting them while I write distracts me from the act of writing. I can't write longhand either - I don't think the same way with a pen in my hand as I do in front of a keyboard.
Another challenge is that I don't always have something to write about. Like today, for example. The only subject I have to write about today is how I'm going to do more writing. How interesting is that? Not particularly, not even for me, and if I'm not interested, it's a good bet that no one else will be, either.
A third - or fourth, I've lost track - difficulty is finding the time to write. Given my short attention span, writing for me is an all-consuming avtivity. My thoughts are increasingly slippery and when I lose my grip on one, it swims away quickly, lost forever in a flow - or more accurately, a trickle - of other less interesting thoughts. I can't tell you the number of Really Good Ideas that have escaped over the years by blending in with others. Writing, like fishing, requires all of the patience and attention I can gather. I don't catch many fish, because the requirements for doing so are at odds both with my own predisposition for distractedness and with the rhythms of a young family. The kids just don't seem to get that I need to be left alone when I'm writing, and to tell the truth, as grumpy as I get when they interrupt me ("Dad? Dad? Daddy? Daddaddaddaddad!" "What?" "Hi!"), I can't bring myself to tell them to get lost. Writing is, after all, a wholly discretionary activity. It doesn't feed us or clothe us, and I'd really rather spend time with them than do just about anything else. Besides, let's face it, they're going to have to support me when I'm old so I'd better be nice to them now before I forget who they are.
Finally, there's the thorny issue of subject matter sensitivity. There are topics I'd like to write about, topics that would make for funny reading, but I can't because it would be impossible to sufficiently disguise the people involved. They would instantly recognize themselves in the material, and that would be bad for everyone. (If you're wondering right now whether you're one of these people, you've made my point for me.)
Maybe I should revise my resolution: I'll write more when I have an inoffensive subject, when I have enough time, and when the ideas leap like spawning salmon into the jaws of a cleverly-placed bear. In other words, I'll write in 2013 about as often as I wrote in 2012.
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