I’m taking an InterCity train. I’ve coughed up the crowns to do it and it’s worth the money. Instead of the somewhat claustrophobic compartments there are actual seats, with newspapers on them no less. Kind of classy, this.
It’s 10 in the morning, that golden hour when you’re still leaving somewhat early, but you have the chance at having no one next to you. There is no one next to me. I like this. I need my space. Personal space is something that differs from culture to culture. Later I’ll go to Japan and marvel at the way I can be at someone’s elbow and still have them not notice me. Meanwhile I’ll come back to the United States and roll my eyes at the way Americans occupy space like no one else upon this land: open, direct, unashamed. We walk this earth not just like we own it, but as a matter of fact. It’s a message to others, a warning.
Maybe the Germans were the same. Maybe they believed they were entitled to occupy more space than your average person, particularly Jews, homosexuals, activists of all stripes. It makes no sense. I mean, who the fuck decides? The same type of people who chose to slam planes into buildings?
Maybe the world belongs to those who move faster, decide first.
The train is moving now, creeping at first, rocky, then picking up rhythm, giving me a blur outside my window. Quickly we leave the buildings behind; the city is now but a memory, something that happened to me rather than is happening. You think about these niceties when you teach English. Students will quiz you on it. They’re learning to play by the rules. You never did. You don’t know how and you have no interest in finding out.
