I’m on a train. I know you’re surprised.
I’m headed to Wiesbaden from Paris, from one home to another, on a Deutsche Bahn train overflowingly packed with tourists. The poor American man across the aisle figured out just a few minutes before we arrived in Saarbrücken that someone had stolen his wallet from out of his pocket at Gare de l’Est. He can’t even figure out when or how it happened. I keep hearing him exclaim under his breath to his wife, speaking almost respectfully, “That guy was REALLY GOOD!”
It’s July in Europe.
Behind me is a lovely young German mother with her son. I’m no good at guessing ages, but I’m going to give it the good old college try and say that this kid is four. He’s little and stocky, but interacts with the world with confidence--and speaks German very fluently. I know this because he hasn’t stopped talking since we left Paris.
He is giving his mother a very thorough (and nuanced!) running commentary. On a packed train like this one, there are plenty of happenings about which to have an opinion. He’s making up little songs (with melodies overwhelmingly dependent upon the minor 3rd) that he sings quietly to himself and his mother, tapping occasionally on the back of his seat to provide percussion. He is perfectly charming, and it is clear that he is both a smart little boy and greatly loved. It is a heartwarming scene to overhear.
At least, that’s my take.
The man on the other side of them does not share my opinion. About the same time the pick-pocketed American across the aisle was patting his own behind fervently, hoping upon hope for a lump of leather SOMEWHERE, this other, younger man two rows away turned around and said in accented English to the German mother (in a voice a little louder than absolutely necessary), “Can you keep your child quiet? It’s very difficult to rest with him talking all the time.” The woman responded very politely in English, “This is a public place and you cannot expect perfect quiet. If you would prefer not to hear my son, you are very free to change your seat.”
And that was the end of that.
A few minutes later, I looked back at the serenity-seeking twenty-something: he was watching a movie on his laptop, earbuds in place. Necessity is the mother of invention.
I realize that perhaps this man had a right to quiet. But this mother and her son also had a right to converse with each other. Basic human rights sometimes do not coexist with complete agreement. Sometimes we have to compromise.
I’m sorry that German mother wasn’t there to coach me two weeks ago, when I was confronted about my mid-afternoon practicing. I was in my new ground-floor studio apartment in Paris, on a weekday afternoon, right around 2pm. I could tell from the absence of scooters out front that my building was empty. I had closed all the windows and was warming up a little before heading out to meet a pianist at the Bastille for a coaching. I had been singing for no more than 10 minutes. I was mid-9-tone-scale when I saw a small woman come from down the street (as opposed to coming from the door to my building) to stand at my window. In retrospect, I would compare her overall bearing to that of a bulldog, but perhaps I’m being slightly unfair. At any rate, she was frowning and shaking her finger at me. She was talking to me, but I couldn’t understand her because her voice was muffled--a fact I mimed through the closed window as I fumbled to open it. A few seconds later, when I got the window unlocked, I was greeted with a flood of loud, fast French.
“NO. No, NO! This simply CANNOT go on. It’s just too much! I’m having to leave my house because I simply cannot stand it anymore. I understand that this is your profession, probably, but it’s annoying. You CANNOT continue to sing like this here!”
Etcetera, etcetera. She went on and on. Her face was crimson with anger. I apologized. She yelled some more. I apologized again. She was blue at this point. I promised never to sing there again. She threatened to call the police. I began to speak at one point, when she had paused in her rant (presumably to breathe). I wanted to explain that I had chosen this time specifically because I knew my immediate neighbors were not at home. As it was the middle of the day during the work-week, I had hoped it would be the least possible annoyance to sing a little during that time. I wanted to say to her that I was sorry that I had upset her despite my best efforts to avoid bothering people.
That’s what I wanted to say, but I never got past, “It was not at all my intention...” When I began talking, she turned on her heel and walked away. It was as if I no longer existed now that she had vented her fury upon me. I called after her, my French grammar getting worse with each flustered phrase. The only acknowledgment that she could hear me at all was the sight of the back of her head, shaking back and forth NO!--just like a dog might shake a bird upon capturing it in its jaws.
Yes, the image of the bulldog is quite accurate.
If I had only just a little smidgen of that German mother’s sense of entitlement and poise. If I had stood up for myself a little, maybe my neighbor would have invested in a nice pair of earplugs and I’d still be practicing in my apartment!
