My paranoia reflexes seem to have gone all funny. More and more, I notice people around me getting agitated about things that don’t have any effect on me at all. I attribute this largely to my time spent travelling – there’s nothing quite like realizing you’re going to be putting yourself in harm’s way more or less daily for several weeks at a time to force you to deal with your instinctive agitation. To wit:
Riding in an ancient bus through the mountains in northern Laos. The roads are hairpins worthy of the Swiss Autobahn, only not nearly as well kept. They’re maybe wide enough for two subcompact cars to pass one another safely, but this bus takes up what looks to be 2/3 of it, from where I’m sitting. I haven’t been able to charge my iPod for days (no power), so I’m reading whatever book I’ve picked up at the last guest house, alternating with long bouts of staring out the window. The scenery is breathtaking. In the distance I can see a huge limestone formation with no roads climbing it. I wonder what it’s called.
Drivers in Laos communicate largely through the honking of horns, punctuated by occasional hurling of epithets, so honking isn’t normally something to worry about. You get used to it – it gets so you don’t even hear it anymore. But when it accelerates in pace as it’s doing now, something in the back of my brain begins to register it again. I ignore it for a minute or so, then look over the seat in front of me, craning my neck to see out the front windshield ten rows away. I can’t really make out what’s happening, but it looks like there’s an army truck headed toward us. I look back out of my window and see, about fifty yards down the fifty degree drop-off, another bus. There’s no railing between the road and the drop. The bus is identical to the one I’m riding in, and it’s clear that it flipped and rolled its way down there. It’s rusted; it’s been there a while. There are no seat belts. The truck is coming toward us. This is about the fifth time I’ve been in a situation where the odds were against my survival since I came to the country two weeks ago, and I just can’t bring myself to worry about it anymore. I tune out the honking horn and go back to looking at the limestone cliffs. Somehow the army truck makes it past us. I guess the road is wider than I thought. I fall asleep.
So when I was in New York over the 4th – actually, this happened on the 4th – there was a fire at our hotel. We woke up around 10:30, after a long long day of shopping at Prada and a late night of martinis at Pravda (couldn’t resist, sorry), to the sound of sirens. It’s a city, we’re pretty used to sirens, so we don’t think much of it at first. But after about 20 minutes of sustained wailing that sounds like it’s getting closer and then not farther away again, it occurs to me (even through my sleepy vodka haze) that hey, this might be something I should pay a little attention to. The view out our window affords us no insight. As we’re trying to work out what we should do, the sirens in the hallway start up and a voice comes over the PA system:
Attention, attention, we are having a smoke situation in the sub-basement. You are not in any danger. All guests above the third floor, please stay in your rooms. I repeat, if you are above the third floor, please stay in your rooms. Do not evacuate.
Riiiight. Translation:
There is a fire in the basement. The fire department is here and they think they can contain the fire. If you all come stampeding down the stairs now, there will be major panic, besides which we risk you being injured by smoke inhalation since all the smoke’s down here and the stairwells will get all backed up. So please, for the love of god, raid your minibars and go back to sleep, people.
I listen to this message, do the mental math, and decide to see if I can in fact sleep through the hallway sirens. It’s been a long weekend already, and it’s not even half over yet. My companion spent the next half hour pacing. I started to get annoyed with him, then thought: is it me? I mean, is there some sort of survival instinct here that’s misfiring and eventually going to make me die a terrible tragic reckless death? We were all fine, everything was fine, and we were only a half hour late to lunch (this last largely because I’m an idiot and put us on the wrong train), but still – was this really a moment to be calm? Annoyed? Frightened? I have no idea.
Yesterday, riding on the El. We’re between stops, we’ve just come up above ground and are between stations, 25 feet or whatever above the street, when we stop. A prerecorded voice on the PA system informs us:
May I have your attention please. This train is experiencing technical difficulties. Your conductor is off the train. Please remain in your seats.
This one doesn’t really require a translation. Something’s up with the train, or the track, or both, and it’s bad enough that the driver had to get out and give it a look-see. At first, everyone’s just annoyed. I’m reading my magazine. I’ve forgotten (again) to charge my iPod, so I can hear the frustrated moans and sighs of exasparation popping all around me. Eventually, the train begins to move again. Ten feet later, it stops. Longer, this time. Now people are starting to get a little freaked out. What’s the matter with the train? Should we try to talk to the conductor? How are we going to exit if we have to? We’re nowhere near a platform. No more announcements were forthcoming. Minutes later, the train started again. Then stopped. Then lumbered on another few yards, then stopped again. It continued like this all the way into the next stop. I was half-expecting to hear an announcement telling us we all should exit and find alternate transportation, but there was nothing. A number of people got off the train anyway. I stayed, with my magazine. Over the next two stops, we came to a halt at least five times. The reactions of my fellow passengers, which I observed with interest, ranged from mild annoyance to borderline panic. Me, I was just happy I had a couple of extra minutes to finish my article.
So, what? Is it me?