Writer's Block
On the vanishing joy of being interrupted
There’s something unrelentingly romantic about train travel. It thrills the blood. Anything can happen on a train, and at least on this side of the Atlantic, standing on a train platform with a ticket in hand and gazing expectantly down the tracks conjures up old-time America. George Bailey had it right when he declaimed—on a train platform, no less—the glories of anchor chains, airplane motors, and train whistles. Airplane travel isn’t what it was, but trains: well, they’re still the wild west. Stand on a train platform in the late summer sun and watch what happens. As the train comes tearing down the track, straining furiously against the iron bit and blowing its mighty whistle for all its worth, shadowy cowboys come whirling to life, galloping beside the tracks and bearing with them the tang of unrelenting western romance. Just you see if they don’t.
My plan for the train ride was simple. Sit down, face a blank screen, write. What better place for it, than ensconced in the roiling belly of an iron beast and scudding south through the gilded pine forests of North Carolina. I needed inspiration, and I needed the uninterrupted time. I’d been counting on both—a presumptuous move, and my first mistake. The cherished plan immediately foundered.
I had a seatmate.
“Hello,” said she, sparkling and bright.
“Hello,” said I, calm and quiet. It seemed the thing to do. Train travel is a relic of an older epoch, so polite greetings remain customary.
She hadn’t caught me at my best. I’d made it on the train, true enough, but only by the skin of my teeth. I’d left my phone in the car, and since we no longer live in the age of payphones, I couldn’t call for help. So I got a paper copy of my ticket at the station counter, chewed on my options, and as the train pounded down the track, I decided to board. We’ve become too dependent on our devices, at least I know I have. Why not make a sudden bid for freedom?
As it turns out, such sudden bids can be risky propositions. Sadly (blessedly?) for my sake, I emanate an apparently irresistible magnetic field that attracts talkers. It’s like a bat signal but instead of becoming a superhero and flying to people’s aid, I not infrequently find myself in need of strong and emphatically silent rescue. No such luck. Antonietta—Tony—had a lot to tell me. We began with her cats (two of them), moved on to the state of her marriage (beautiful), then forged ahead into the particulars of her son’s relationship with his in-laws. No sudden phone call beckoned me away. No screen light drew the conversation naturally to a close. We had six hours to go, and nothing but time.
Had there been such an escape hatch handy, I probably would have used it. More’s the pity. Needless to say, I didn’t get any writing done. Instead, I learned about another person, someone I’ll never see again until we find ourselves, God willing, on the long train Home.
Tony grew up in Boston—one of my favorite cities in the world—in a family that spoke only Italian. In her early forties, she made patisserie at a famous Boston hotel. Apparently, the kitchen manager was a pill. He insisted on wearing a tall white chef’s cap even though his only job was stalking around the kitchen in his pristine chef’s attire, ensuring the morale of his many underlings was sufficiently high. His daily ritual worked—giggling, and I’d imagine eye rolling, materialized in his wake. The kitchen was enormous, big enough for an unwary sous chef to get lost in the endless aisles of, well, whatever they keep in huge hotel kitchens. Tony didn’t say as much, but I bet a lot of life was lived in the labyrinth of that kitchen. Cooking begets camaraderie. When Tony’s husband proposed, the couple foreswore a big wedding in favor of preparing for the arrival of their son. But in true Boston fashion, the kitchen staff wouldn’t take no for an answer and banded together to make the couple’s wedding cake.
I wish I could have seen it.
Our train arrived in Raleigh two and a half hours late, but that was no matter. My head was spinning with Boston’s little Italy as I disembarked. Tony’s husband was waiting on the platform, hands in his pockets. Truth be told, he looked pretty ordinary—that is until she came bouncing down the pavement to greet him, grinning like a little girl. I bet his house was quiet and dull as a tomb while she was gone. She lit him up like a firefly.
I do have one regret. Tony’s cheesecake is the envy of many in the Pacific northwest, especially one beloved son’s conniving mother-in-law who shall remain nameless. A well-worded request, and I could have been in possession of the best cheesecake recipe known to man. I almost asked, but the words got stuck in my throat.
Why? Well, I’d like to blame the fit of embarrassing cowardice on my palate. Munching on trail mix in the dark for several hours had dimmed my view of food. Who needs cheesecake, thought I. What I want is dinner, plain and simple.
That explanation conveys some of the truth, but not all. It’s a good habit to own up to one’s failures, so I will be frank. My pitiable silence must be chocked up to superstition. I was haunted by a chilling specter that many of us, even the brave ones, fear: the tiny Italian grandmother. They look harmless, even sweet, but that’s all part of the ploy. When it comes to guarding family secrets, especially culinary ones, no measure is too severe. In my benighted view, the worst that could have happened if I, an outsider, asked for a family recipe was … pretty awful. But now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can’t stop kicking myself. Tony, if by some miracle you’re reading my ramblings, send me your recipe and I will ask St. Anthony to help you keep the rest of your beloved recipes right where you can find them, under lock and divine key. I level this offer well aware that, in the time-honored tradition of all good Italian grandmothers, your family’s recipes are probably already all under divine guard. My promise is probably moot but it’s worth a shot.
My return journey commenced a few days later. Renewed in spirit and steeled to the task, I resolved to avoid a rerun of the same sorry rigmarole on the trip north. This time, I would write.
Toothless resolution, that.
Fifteen minutes in, and I had acquired yet another seatmate: a tall and weather beaten will-o-the-wisp with white hair, dressed all in black and equipped with all the studied subtlety of a conversational battering ram. He was in the heating and cooling business but because of an unfortunate traffic infraction which he detailed at considerable length, he was out of work and had been that way for a good long while. I assume he was telling the truth. I also assume, because he didn’t own to it, that online poker, which he insisted on explaining to me, again at considerable length, wasn’t doing the sad state of his finances any favors.
It’s a generally good rule of thumb to give people fifteen minutes of grace. Some people need to talk. Some people are lonely, and from the vantage point of eternity, fifteen minutes will look like small potatoes. Enduring inconvenience is sometimes part of being a person and growing in grace. Other times, it’s the direct result of selfishness.
This unpleasant experience was decidedly in the latter category. I’ve never felt inclined to talk at instead of to another person, over their obvious objection, let alone to add literal insult to the injury of stolen time. But to my horror, I can now confirm that some people appear unencumbered by any such compunction. Undeterred by my studied frostiness, my unpleasant seatmate ignored my repeated attempts at getting back to work, in favor of talking non-stop. My only solace during the two hours that followed was the sure and certain knowledge that I could come up with something scathing to say here afterwards, thus to regain some semblance of self-determination and console myself for the lost writing time.
After two hours of endurance, I found myself out of patience and, subsequently, out of my seat. The incessant chatter, served with a heaping helping of self-deprecation, loud sighs, and generally uninvited commentary, was simply not to be borne. And so I pitched camp in the noisy corridor by the train door, furiously picking off nail polish and scowling. Mine was the fury that only women know: the helpless anger of hapless kindness.
A flicker of Rosseau’s ill-founded premise about the highly desirable unity of man with nature emerged from the ether. Yes, I thought, he would be a good test case. He’d certainly be much better off outdoors, preferably the ruggedest wilderness going, with a couple of large and hungry bears to keep him company. Same story for me, really—anything to put a lot of miles between me, my train, and this pest, preferably with a mountain or two between us!
Sadly, I didn’t get a chance to put Rosseau to the test.
Tired of hiding, I screwed my courage to the sticking point and made a dash for my belongings. My unpleasant confrere was in my recently vacated seat, sprawled across my bags—which I grabbed post-haste.
“I’ve found another seat,” said I, “where I can get some work done.”
“Just like a woman, they never know what they want.”
“Exactly,” I returned, in no mood to debate the finer points of the feminine mind.
Speechless, aghast, and aggravated, I marched away, with my things, in high dudgeon and took refuge in the dining car where I had a front seat on more of the human drama, the human tragedy, the human experience we’re all part of as we rocket through this world of ours. Truly, anything can happen on a train.
There’s no lesson to be drawn from all of this, even now—other than this simple one. Unless you’re an Italian grandmother willing to fork over a family recipe in return for generally pleasant company, should you find yourself unwittingly seated beside a writer on a train, know this. If you’re inclined to conversation, you’re taking your life in your hands. Should your witty banter, winsome remarks, or unpleasant badinage make a strong impression, you may end up immortalized—alive and well, put down to best advantage, tenderly remembered and carefully treated . . . or . . . otherwise.
