Dear Louis,
A little message. I'm in transit. a long ass train from Vienna to Berlin. Even though right now it's more an ass train than a long train.
I'm doing very good baseline. Amazing weekend with my brother and the family. really made the most of it. Unfortunately my sleep suffered a bit so I'm not exactly in the highest of joys right now.
This train is a strange place. I've fled my seat because in the seating next to us, a cliché east German asi family (asi = asozial) could be observed passing on their generational trauma to their poor little child.
It's a terrible sight, really. while the kid was asleep everything seemed fine even though the bad stuff could be anticipated. when the kid woke from its cute slumber (woe her spirit, returning to the physical world), and as her parents continued drinking their third beer, all interactions between the three were getting progressively worse.
Their suffering went straight to my heart. it became unbearable very fast. Every cry of the child, every short hand communication between the parents, every wriggle and every noise of something falling over, evoked the nearing of an explosive armageddon. All interactions promised descent for a long time to come.
I wonder about the child. Her name is Theresa. Who is she going to be? I could hear her crying for simple love, while her parents reacted with frantic actions to every cry, pushing and grating against the softest thing imaginable. Will she know love by being pushed in front of a phone-TV? Will she soothe herself with hard hits of sugar? Will she fall in love with a drunk, for the smell is familiar and at least the course of a weeknight becomes predictable?
For a while life gets brighter. Iva from Slovakia joins my brother and I in our seats, and we have a fun chat. That's the good thing about being on a long ass train. Meeting strangers. And the bad thing, I suppose.
"I wonder what's up with her... Maybe it's the stress?" said mom when she changed Theresa's diapers and didn't seem to like what she saw.
Poor mom, I wonder what she saw. I wonder what she sees. Does she know, deep down, that things are not going well?
That makes me wonder what I see, especially what I don't see. What if they undertook this journey to see someone who will make their life better? What if they are already doing way way better than their parents treated them?
A single point of observation does not offer up a trajectory. That's why I must reserve my judgment, after all
What I can tell you for sure, is that I can't deal with what I saw, especially not on a low energy level. I hate a quarrel, I despise jibes and teases thay clearly cover up and point to a much deeper conversation that needs to be had. All these little sounds in an interaction that isn't going well, one which harbors dangerous depths, grate at me and I want to scream at them, don't you hear yourself? Drop everything else you're doing and get your shit in order.
But of course I couldn't and shouldn't and don't want to, really.
And the air conditioning is getting kind of cold on my birkenstocky feet it's time to get up and flee. Is there a better place for me to be on this train? Other carriages seem quieter. Some seats might be free. I can breathe again. I know, these days, that I don't have to expose myself to this energy if I don't want to. I don't have to smell these people's dirty laundry. I may just go elsewhere, where people have mastered the art of when and where to air their laundry. I like when people know how to do that, and it's a reminder why we do that.
On my journey through the train I find the café. I'm thinking about getting a beer for my brother and I. Instead I just stand around and enjoy the scenery. A man and a young woman in love, making out in front of an old couple who are leaning as far away from each other as possible, while sipping their coffees. People reading and chattering. The Czech waitress, placing plates of mediocre looking food down in front of people without a second glance or any gentleness. She's pissed. The other one as well.
A seat frees up, I'm attempting to sit down. Sorry, I already decided to sit there. You'll have to wait. A Russian sounding woman who I spoke to earlier when she asked if she could sit with us. She couldn't and so I'm happy she has a cafe table lined up. I gladly halt my efforts of sitting down.
Instead I sit in the hallway, to escape all the conflict and be by myself. I find a spot right next to the cafe. Not two minutes later, service woman #2, one of the pissed ones, knocks down the bathroom door right behind me. A scraggly and dirty looking man comes out. Tickets please! The jig is up and the request is a command.
Time to move again. The next carriage has heard the commotion and all eyes are open and fixated on the conflict. As I step through between the seats to find my next quiet spot, I feel their eyes on me as well. It feels like a red carpet of guilt — the kind of guilt like when you see a police car and you're wondering what you did wrong recently.
Why do we turn our heads to a poor stow away bum and pierce him with a gaze of certainty that he did something wrong?
Why do I avert my head in shame and try to focus on my own business, when two alcoholic parents treat their child so poorly so obviously?
This train is a strange place.
I've found my quiet spot, but now that I'm done with my letter to you, it's time to continue with the regular business. Time to find a sunnier spot for the next 6 hours.
Thank you for sharing your time with me and my story. See you soon.
Love
Simon