Observation Focus in Busy Environments
A Journalist’s Diary
Busy and less busy train journeys throughout the last winter and spring offered me a treasure trove of human interactions to soak up. Practicing observational skills is a solid way to nurture a writer’s curiosity and stimulate imagination.
When I digitized the set of observations that made it into today’s post, I also realized another benefit of observation training: it helps with staying focused in busy and distracting environments or situations.
The first situation of this kind dates back to the end of last year. I was on my way to what turned out to be a disastrously unsuccessful photowalk. But the train rides on the busy travel day preceding New Year’s Eve proved valuable.
The four people across the aisle made for a curious family. I thought. I wasn’t immediately clear if I had assigned their roles correctly.
After letting the situation sink in for a moment, I decided the most likely family tree begins with the young mother and her 2-year-old son (maybe 3-year-old) and extends to grandpa and the baby’s uncle.
They occupy the better part of the foldable seats near the train’s exit. There’s a stroller. It blocks all of the foldable seats except one. The vehicle is empty.
Mother and grandfather stand on either side of the stroller and face the young man who sits on the sole available seat. The toddler stands on his right thigh.
The mother looks very young. She’s blond and tall, maybe 175 cm. Her hair is not entirely unicolor, though. Pink strands make for a curious clash of colors.
She wears an army green anorak, but its color has faded, giving it a washed-out look.
The young boy is active, adding to the hectic murmurs from every corner of the carriage.
The youngster jumps around, continuously shouts unintelligible words, and plays with two small toy figures. I can’t make out what they are.
It’s a loud train. All seats within sight are taken, the aisle littered with passengers who couldn’t find more comfortable accommodation. But the boy’s voice overpowers all of that.
At one point, he places one of the figures on his uncle’s head. Surprisingly, that action does not cause a counteraction. Nothing happens. The man — a single earbud sits in his right ear — stares at his phone.
Curiously, the grandfather mirrors his son’s activity to the tee — one earbud, phone in hands, head angled down, zoned out to whatever the screen offers.
Despite the heightened noise levels, there’s little talking on the busy end-of-year train. The young family is also not very talkative. The young mother utters brief commands to her son. Despite trying multiple times, her attempts to calm the young one remain unsuccessful.
He continues to entertain the entire carriage with his natural chaos until one of the grandfather’s earbuds falls out, landing dangerously close to the toddler’s fingers.
That prompts Grandpa to aid his daughter with a few short and annoyed commands directed at the kid.
The grandfather may be in his 50s, a bit larger than his kids. His head has gone bald.
Before I can write more about the grandfather and uncle, my stop approaches. I prepare to exit and see that the toy figures have been deposited in the stroller and the earbuds are back in the ears they belong to.
Months later, I participated in train journeys that gave me small vignettes of curiosity in between hectic travel life.
There he is again. What is he doing? There are ample seats up for grabs. Just take one, dude, I thought.
He walks past me with a busy step, looking distracted, glancing out the window in one and to the floor in the next moment.
It’s the third time he passed me in the two minutes since I boarded the westbound train.
There he comes again, dressed in all black, he’s remarkably unremarkable. Nothing stands out. I try to focus, but the slight uneasiness I can’t explain distracts me.
As my layover stop is announced, I see the slim, slightly hunched black figure with its hurried shuffle stride for the fifth and final time.
I boarded the next train five minutes later and noticed a follower.
The distracting passenger kept me from noticing the presence of the curious black bicycle sooner. But it was there: onboard the first train, on the platform, and now a short distance from me on the second train.
Its owner doesn’t look particularly interesting. The bike overshadows him. It’s shiny and black. And it’s small. That’s because it’s foldable.
The bike looks efficient. The owner — I notice that much about him — has a fluid command of the actions that transition the device from stationary luggage to a movable vehicle and back. It sits there and calmly faces the rush of morning traffic.
How would it ride, I wonder? I imagine its commuting adventures and how it gets its owner from point A to B and back. There’s potential here.
Another day. The same journey. At first, nothing much jumped out. The first scene I noticed occurred on a train station platform.
Delays are announced left, right, and center. The platform fills up. Annoyed people here, a bored group of travelers there. The cold late winter breeze makes everyone grumpily play the waiting game forced upon them.
I take a few steps and try to keep in motion. A woman comes in sight. She looks to be in her 60s and is short and stubby. Despite the general mood, she appears to have a warm personality.
Her hair is short. It is gray with black strands still shining through. She’s dressed confidently. Her elegant coat and hat contrast the leisurely attire most people around her showcase.
I can hear her raised voice, which cuts through the chilled afternoon air. Her phone is in her left hand, the leather folio case flapping in rhythm with her body movements. Whoever is on the other side of the connection is getting an earful.
“Now one is fiiiiiiiiiiinaly supposed to come,” she informs her conversation partner about the latest announcement of approaching trains.
The final train that day started much quieter and calmer.
I am drawn to a sturdy green e-bike parked close to my position. The owner has made himself comfortable, really comfortable.
He is a person of comfortable size and a postal worker. His work clothes give that away: a bright yellow jacket with red accents and lettering.
Fascinating. He reads an actual newspaper. I haven’t seen that in a while.
I judge him to be in his 50s. His gray hair is cut short. His face is decorated with a light stubby beard.
The colorful top clothing is partnered with comparatively dull navy chinos and black trainers with three gray stripes on the side.
What signals comfort to me (aside from his relaxed face) is his lounging posture. He sits sideways on the foldable seat, legs crossed and stretched out.
He is comfortable, but I wonder how that position can be.
Once in a while, he throws a curious glance through his square-rimmed glasses to a group of young adults.
They have been engaged in a vivid conversation about their study experiences for minutes.
I only catch fragments between the unfamiliar sights outside the window, the newspaper reading and bicycle riding postal worker, and the general busyness of the train.
The young men talk about “women power.” One of the lads compares it to “men power.” He sticks with that argument and concludes that society’s handling of life has gotten worse. “That’s all crap,” I can hear him shout loud enough for the entire carriage to notice. And “leaves you without a chance […] don’t even care to verify […] believing straight away […] mobbing.”
I’m fascinated by small moments like that. I can’t stop but wonder what preceded and caused the moment that was on public display, how it continued, and what happened in the gaps I missed. It’s a healthy stimulus for every writer’s imagination. I’ll share a few more observations and what they taught me about interpersonal communications later in the week.
