Observing Communications
A Journalist’s Diary
Observation writing is my favorite practice exercise. It trains my focus, stimulates my imagination, and helps me relax in less-than-relaxing situations.
While the last set of observations taught me about fading out distractions, today’s lines are about communication in public spaces, be it visible or invisible communication, subtle and discreet or prominent, and formal or informal exchanges.
Human beings are constantly communicating with each other. Sometimes it’s a joy to soak all that up, sometimes not so much. But the details of communications are always fascinating (and worth studying).
The train is quiet for a change. It’s not empty. A large swoosh of passengers entered two stops into the journey, just in time for the conductor’s sweep through this section of the train.
A blind woman is among the last to make it on board. She parks herself right next to me, much closer than I’m comfortable with, without leaving me an escape (other than moving off to another part of the train, which would have been rude, I think).
The close-by conductor makes me anticipate a situation interesting enough to stick with.
She carries a black backpack decorated with an “earthy” design. The upper parts of the bag show green leaves in various shades. The lower parts are kept in brown tones, reminding me of the soil.
She wears light yellow glasses, light blue jeans, and a bright blue puffer jacket.
Her cane is made of birch wood, at least the handle is. Everything below seems to be black plastic.
She wears two earrings and keeps her dark-blond hair at a medium length.
The conductor approaches and interrupts my focus. When his inspection of my ticket ends, I bury myself in my notebook again.
But something is wrong. I continue to feel the conductor’s stare. Unsure what to do, I return a questioning look.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally asks, “You belong together?” while pointing to the blind lady.
“No,” I said while shaking my head, and his attention moved to the woman standing next to me.
“Tickets, please,” he began his standard greeting but stopped when he realized the woman was blind.
“I can show you my ticket,” she offered in her relaxed and soft voice while fumbling for her phone, “just a second.”
“That’s all right, you’re all set,” the conductor replies with a smile that looks like he is trying to hide his embarrassment. He moves on to the next passenger before the exchange can continue.
The voices are foreign. I can’t place them except for the rare German interjections.
“Directly Wednesday,” shouts the voice belonging to the woman I briefly noticed when I walked to my seat. A string of words I couldn’t replicate was packaged between the two words I could understand.
The woman sits two rows behind me on the other side of the aisle. She’s by herself, speaking to someone on the phone.
But the second voice still echoes through the quiet cabin as if the person it belongs to is present.
Even five minutes of almost uninterrupted talk time haven’t given me enough clues to determine what language I was subjected to.
My first thought was Italian.
But the more I hear, the less convinced I am. It’s not rhythmic, elegant, and smooth enough for Italian.
Maybe it could be something South-East European?
The quick visual glance I caught from the woman when I boarded the train didn’t help, either.
But then, I was more focused on squeezing past the cart she had parked in the center of the aisle.
Her counterpart sounded harsh — courtesy of the phone’s speakers blasting her vocals across the ether at maximum volume.
The conversation was rapid. No breaks. It sounded agitated, but that could also be part of the language’s charm, whatever language it may be.
As the conversation stops, new passengers enter and take over the room.
Those new voices are more muffled. I can’t place their places of origin, either. And before the newcomers can seat themselves, the voice of rapid harshness returns.
It is a little quieter this time, but only a notch. The ride is so quiet that the conversation echoes across the whole section of the train. Only distant murmurs waver through the air, more like comforting background noise than anything in danger of overpowering the phone conversation.
But there’s potential on board.
On the other side of the aisle, still accompanied by the drowning of the foreign voice, a woman in an elegant off-white coat gets up to exit the train at the station we are approaching. She throws the loud woman an annoyed look as she proceeds to the exit, her phone firmly in hand.
As the train’s journey commences again, the entertainer seems to have left. Distant voices of various origins fill the void immediately. They are male and female, in German and other languages, and carry through an overall calm carriage that slowly proceeds on its eastward journey.
On a different day and a different train, I noticed a form of communication that couldn’t have been more contrasting.
It’s difficult to pin the man’s age. He’s maybe in his early 50s.
His hair is short and hidden under a baseball cap — black with two white Adidas logos on the front and back.
He sports a full beard that extends into a long “pipe” hanging from his chin. The “pipe” is held in shape by five white hairbands.
He leans against the cushions that hug the cabin’s wall in the stroller and bicycle segment. His pine-green sweatshirt sports white and darker green prints that I can’t read.
He looks around a lot, which reveals a slight graying of his beard on the cheeks. It also reveals that he isn’t alone.
A large dog pops up out of nowhere. The man pads him on the side while the dog stares out the window. The animal is calm and quiet but still pants, mouth open, tongue sticking out.
As big as the dog is, as peaceful are his eyes and his demeanor. He’s calm, cozy, and steady in a quiet, laid-back train, enjoying the non-verbal communication with his two-legged companion.
That’s all the writing for this week. I’m working on story updates, Ghana news, and new photography for the next three weeks. I will also include new reading recommendations on Ukraine and stories of hope.
