My brain was shaped during the 1950s and ‘60s. That perspective and those attitudes and ideas have defined my sphere of technologic skills and my outlook on life, although since then I have expanded a bit. I’ve learned to use a computer and a digital camera. I even have an iPhone, although I rarely carry it with me.
What my aging brain cannot do well is keep up with life as it is lived today. Very few things move at a leisurely pace. Nearly everything is hurtling along or flashing, jumping, blasting, erupting. There are layers of noise and movement that blur any underlying sense of order. One reason I love Patagonia is because it is sleepy and slow and pretty quiet (barking dogs take note). Even the Fall Festival is a relaxed, slow moving event. I heard one woman talking on her cell phone exclaiming about the clean air and the mountains and sunshine to someone far away. It is a special place, and it only takes some time away to really appreciate it.
In early October I went away for nine days, two of which I spent in airports. By a stroke of the worst possible luck my early flight from Tucson was an hour late taking off (United Airlines scheduled a plane but no crew), and I missed my connection in Denver, which meant I had to spend seven hours in the Denver airport. I found many places to sit and read and watch the life of an airport. Everyone was either hurrying or waiting, cell phones at the ready. The air was filled with the sound of beeping carts and plane departure announcements.
A cross-section of America that could afford to fly was there, and they were dressed in everything from expensive business suits to raggedy jeans and T-shirts. Two large men with dyed hair appeared to be wearing wrestling outfits. For a while I sat and watched the electric walkway—people rushing toward some undefined departure gate, pulling their world in a suitcase behind them.
When I finally got to my first stop in Philadelphia it was 11:30p.m. A day and a half later I was on a train headed for New York City. Penn Station is another place where you could believe the world has gone off the rails (pun sort of intended). I joined thousands of people in the main concourse who were headed for the street or the deeper departure tunnels—everyone in a hurry, cell phones in hand—a cross-section of America, including the very down-and-out. I walked about 10 blocks through lunch hour pedestrian traffic with my suitcase following behind. I found some lunch and then bravely walked out on Seventh Avenue and hailed a cab. If Tucson is your reference when it comes to city driving, it can’t prepare you for New York, and, although I’ve driven through traffic there before, I still closed my eyes at each lane change.
Respite from the fast pace of life came with a weekend stay in New Hampshire and then two days in Vermont. The New England hardwoods were glorious in their fall colors, and instead of speeding, most people were meandering and stopping to take pictures. Nature has a way of helping us slow down.
And finally, I was in Boston, my home for many years, but since then they have built a 3 1/2 mile tunnel under the city. A friend drove me to the airport from Cambridge in early rush hour traffic. I looked in vain for familiar landmarks and quickly lost my sense of direction. We drove into the big tunnel and then into another tunnel and when we came out, we were headed for the departure gates at Logan Airport, where everyone was pulling a suitcase, moving fast, and checking their phones. I segued into the throngs.
This time there was only a two-hour delay in Denver, and I was home before dark. Two days later the Fall Festival was under way—as busy as this little town ever gets.