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In search of quiet.
There is a “quiet car” on the MetroNorth train and other transit lines, too. Certain commuters (after my own heart) treasure and protect their time in that car. They’ll shush people and point to the Quiet Car sign. I like them. But they don’t have to worry about me telling them that out loud.
Lately, I’m saying no thank you, even to the happy noise from kids on scooters or dribbling basketballs. No cell phone talk from that loud lady in the distance who just has one of those voices that carry, no ringing binging buzzing phone of my own. No notifications pushed to laptop. No traffic, trucks in reverse, deliveries, or 18-wheelers on the distant highway. No planes overhead. I will also say no to the boosted bass on that car down the block, and to the neighbor’s insistence on gas-powered leaf blowers.
I long for quiet and it’s so very hard to find in the suburbs, just as hard as it was in the city. The places that I go to catch a moment of it are the places that others go, too — and they bring their kids. And the yoga teacher, no matter how much I like her, usually talks too much or plays that one song I loathe or uses too much essential oil which is really just noise of a different kind.
Even sitting in my own home, there’s the relentlessly ticking clock that announces pesky increments even though I snapped off the second hand. There are the printer gears, the…
