Phones as Sheilds

    

Early winter morning at the train station in a seedy part of a city is depressing and lonely. A handful of people occupy a fraction of the plastic seats when I arrive. Fluorescent lights buzz, bouncing light off the worn linoleum floor. No one makes eye contact though everyone who enters is furtively sized up in quick glances. Then, eyes avert; heads bend to phones, thumbs swiping them rhythmically.

A weatherman on the t.v. in the corner looks slightly harried as he reports closed schools and roads, or accidents slowing traffic because of last night's snowfall. Scenes sent from viewers' phones of freshly-formed snowmen waving stick arms, or foot-deep snow mounding patio railings as the sun rises, are interspersed with commercials. The yay-no-school-today scenes are mute contrasts to those of downed trees, flashing patrol lights and reports of power outages.

One guy a few seats over looks like he must have spent the night here, maybe does so frequently. A waft of sour odor confirms the hunch as he hitches up his dirty backpack and moves outside for a smoke, then disappears.

This is going to be a long trip, I thought as I sought my own solitude to write or read without the distraction of the t.v., or conversations between new arrivals and the ticket agent. Since I don't have a smart phone, iridescent green earplugs signal my desire to be left alone. Would earbuds have been a more courteous gesture?

Earlier reports by the harried reporter prompted my host and me to head out early, fearing bad roads and traffic delays. We encountered neither, in fact much less traffic than usual, so had made it to the station in record time – a full hour before scheduled departure.

But the train arrived almost two hours later than scheduled. By then, the almost-full station waiting room was noisy with conversations among people dropping family or friends off, giving awkward last-minute instructions to have a safe trip, call when you get there. Most of those not in conversation were still staring at their phones or pacing outside, impatient for the train's arrival. The t.v. host with lists of closures had been replaced by cooking shows.

It was, as anticipated, a long trip with frequent delays to let other trains pass. Once we rolled out of the station and the conductors had everyone accounted for, I left the gloomy passenger car for the brightness of the observation car – always my favorite perch to watch the countryside glide by. If you pay attention, you'll likely see bald eagles, deer, even otters along the many riverways woven through Amtrak's Cascade route. Conversations seem more friendly in the observation car, the mood more lively. Is it because of the brighter, natural light?

I sat near a young man whose dress and demeanor suggested he could have flown, if he'd wanted to. Soon, we were in conversation and my suspicion was confirmed. He was headed all the way to southern California, over 24 hours of travel (if the train is on time – very unlikely). He'd been visiting a friend in Seattle. When planning the trip, he realized he'd always flown and had never seen the country in between, so booked the train instead. So far, he was glad he'd chosen the slower option. I would wonder about it early the next morning, when his train should be arriving at his home station.

Our conversation wandered through backgrounds, trips, professions. I learned about his favorite aunt who had purchased a house in Haight-Ashbury in the '60's. When she sold it (surely at a tidy profit in this historic district), she bought a triplex in downtown San Francisco, then rented that out and moved to a nice cabin in the Sierra Nevada mountains - her ideal combination of solitude and paradise. Such an interesting life. Wise and timely investments by this school teacher insured an enjoyable retirement. The young man had traveled quite a bit – still single and flexible, with friends in various parts of the world to visit. He'd recently been to the wedding of a British friend in Poland. Turned out we'd probably been in the same town in Nicaragua at the same time a decade ago. Our conversation moved on to South America and he wondered aloud about the cost of living in Ecuador. Well, it happened that a woman across the aisle had lived there, working as a teacher just a few years ago, so she joined the conversation. The father of a young family next to us was reading to his daughter in Spanish – more people to draw into the conversation. The teacher who'd lived in Ecuador noticed the book I was reading, Hillbilly Elegy by J.D. Vance, and said her book club had just finished it, so we compared our impressions. When I mentioned “Pawpaw,” Vance's grandfather, it drew the woman next to her into the conversation since she was from Louisiana and said that's what grandfathers are called there too. She and the teacher had been stranded at the Seattle airport by the snow storm and had finally decided the train was their best bet to get home: one to Portland, the other to Vancouver, Washington. Strangers less than 24 hours ago, flying in from different parts of the country and otherwise unlikely friends, they helped each other through a long, frustrating night and found moments of humor in it.

Phones appeared occasionally, but only to check a route, look up an author, or confirm a piece of information, never as a signal to say, “leave me be.” It was refreshing and heart-warming to realize all these strangers had quite a lot in common, something we'd never have discovered had we used phones, books or earplugs to discourage conversation.

Yes, it was a long trip. But a surprisingly enjoyable one that will overcome the initial dread of phone-obsessed strangers the next time I'm in a train station early of a dark, cold winter morning.