Modern technology is amazing and getting more incredible by the day. The web, email, digital photography, streaming video—they're all astonishing examples of the strides we've made in communications technology. I feel fortunate to have been born at a time when television was in its infancy and long-distance phone calls weren't yet possible. Having experienced the immense changes in the short course of my lifetime, I don't take technology for granted. Rather, I'm in awe of it.
When I was young, I used to imagine that the big technological transformation during my life would involve transportation. I felt sure that by the time I was fifty, I'd be able to fly to Europe in a couple of hours, go from Boston to New York on a monorail in a similar amount of time, and drive a car resembling the flying vehicles featured on The Jetsons. Obviously, none of that has occurred. Arguably, train and airplane travel has deteriorated. Instead, the revolution has taken place in cyberspace.
Today, I experienced the way email and related technologies have transformed the world. Not that my day was particularly special. In fact, that's what makes my experience all the more astounding.
This morning, I needed some information from my brother-in-law. It so happens that he recently arrived in Rome. No problem. He has access to email, his regular cell phone works in Italy, and he's even opened a Twitter account so he can update friends and relatives about his trip. I started to write him an email, then realized it might be helpful to see if he'd tweeted recently, so I'd know if anything was new. I responded to his Twitter description of some people he'd met with a tweet of my own, then sent him my email, which concerned hotel reservations for later this spring. Not long after, I received an email reply, complete with all the information I needed about the reservations. This type of communication has become so commonplace it hardly seems worth mentioning. Yes, it is normal, but on another level, it's absolutely breathtaking.
In the course of a couple of hours today, I conversed via email with my brother-in-law in Italy and with various other people in France, Massachusetts, Nevada, New York, Tennessee, Virginia, and Florida. If I'd had to use the phone for all those conversations, no doubt I would have had to leave messages with some people. Then I would be waiting for their return calls. I hate waiting for return calls. I feel I have to have all the necessary information at my fingertips and be ready with all my questions, never knowing when I'll get the call. With email, I can say exactly what I want to say, I can proofread and edit everything I've written, and I can send it out and forget it until I receive an email reply. For me, this is communication heaven.
Don't get me wrong. I love to talk on the phone with friends and family. There's no substitute for actually hearing their voices. But I've always been a reluctant phone talker when it comes to business transactions. Even with friends, I find that email allows me to have an ongoing dialog that's simply not possible on the phone. If I see an article in a newspaper or magazine (the online versions, of course), I can send a link immediately to one or more people. And I can send quick emails with news or information that I'd never bother to phone about, but which keeps me connected to the recipients.
I could go on and on, but I'm sure you get message. If not, let me know, and I'll continue the conversation with you via email.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Boundless Curiosity
Three boys, a beach, and boundless curiosity. I got to savor that joyous combination earlier today when I was out for a walk. There's a small beach on the grounds of my apartment complex. I saw three boys who looked to be about eleven or twelve on the beach with a big plastic container filled with water and bits of sea weed. I asked them whether they'd found anything interesting.
I half-expected a sullen or bored reply, or maybe total disdain for this grownup interrupting their play. Instead, one of the boys, a wiry redhead, enthusiastically answered that, yes, they'd found lots of interesting creatures. He lifted a smaller water-filled plastic container and showed me something that looked like a cross between a prawn and a cockroach. It was brown and had lots of little leg-like appendages. I said it looked kind of like a shrimp. He agreed, but wondered if it might be a sea cockroach. I've lived here for over five years and had never seen anything like it. Pretty impressive.
Not to be outdone, one of the redhead's friends reached into the larger container and pulled out a green wormy-looking thing, about two inches long. "There's another one just like it, only it's pregnant," he announced and began searching through the sloshing water for the other worm. In short order, he brought out the same variety of worm, but this one had a dark patch along one side, under which I could make out what appeared to be two heads, presumably offspring about to be born. Who knows? Certainly not me, but it was great to see these kids speculating with so much excitement.
I was about to resume my walk when the third boy, who had been busy in the water with his net, came leaping exuberantly toward us, shouting "I found a seahorse." Sure enough, there in the palm of his hand was a tiny brown seahorse with a perfect little curved tail. As the boy rushed to deposit the seahorse safely in the large container, I asked him and his two friends what they planned to do with their finds. Their answer—put them all back in the bay. These kids were out to explore the watery world, not conquer it. Their curiosity made my day.
I half-expected a sullen or bored reply, or maybe total disdain for this grownup interrupting their play. Instead, one of the boys, a wiry redhead, enthusiastically answered that, yes, they'd found lots of interesting creatures. He lifted a smaller water-filled plastic container and showed me something that looked like a cross between a prawn and a cockroach. It was brown and had lots of little leg-like appendages. I said it looked kind of like a shrimp. He agreed, but wondered if it might be a sea cockroach. I've lived here for over five years and had never seen anything like it. Pretty impressive.
Not to be outdone, one of the redhead's friends reached into the larger container and pulled out a green wormy-looking thing, about two inches long. "There's another one just like it, only it's pregnant," he announced and began searching through the sloshing water for the other worm. In short order, he brought out the same variety of worm, but this one had a dark patch along one side, under which I could make out what appeared to be two heads, presumably offspring about to be born. Who knows? Certainly not me, but it was great to see these kids speculating with so much excitement.
I was about to resume my walk when the third boy, who had been busy in the water with his net, came leaping exuberantly toward us, shouting "I found a seahorse." Sure enough, there in the palm of his hand was a tiny brown seahorse with a perfect little curved tail. As the boy rushed to deposit the seahorse safely in the large container, I asked him and his two friends what they planned to do with their finds. Their answer—put them all back in the bay. These kids were out to explore the watery world, not conquer it. Their curiosity made my day.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Miami Grey-Out
This was the view from my window this morning—
Normally, I see the bay, buildings, foliage, boats. Today, all was awash in a downpour so intense that the view was completely obliterated. During the five previous winters and springs I've spent in Miami, I've never seen anything like it. Last year, it rained barely half an inch in five months.
This year, nothing has been normal about Florida weather. Like much of the country, conditions have been bizarre. The cold "snap" that began here in early January wound up sticking around until mid-March. Warm tropical air started to seem like a figment of my imagination. I'm not complaining, exactly. Most of the winter felt like fall in New England—crisp, cool, and sunny. But the unusual temperatures have taken a toll on the local flora.
Most of the tropical plants that thrive in South Florida can withstand one or two nights in the thirties, but night after night proved simply too much for many. Palm fronds turned brown, then fell off. Sea grape trees shed their big round leaves. Bougainvillea lost all their riotous color. Hopefully, most of the damaged vegetation has merely suffered stress and will make a comeback. But at the moment, the sad-looking foliage serves as a reminder, if we need one, of the fragility of our environment.
Today's weather wasn't especially cold, just stormy, with a tornado warning thrown in to make things interesting. Not quite what the Florida tourist industry wants you to hear. But as I write this, the sky has cleared and the sun has come out. I think I'll take Cosmo for a walk and soak up a little vitamin D.
Normally, I see the bay, buildings, foliage, boats. Today, all was awash in a downpour so intense that the view was completely obliterated. During the five previous winters and springs I've spent in Miami, I've never seen anything like it. Last year, it rained barely half an inch in five months. This year, nothing has been normal about Florida weather. Like much of the country, conditions have been bizarre. The cold "snap" that began here in early January wound up sticking around until mid-March. Warm tropical air started to seem like a figment of my imagination. I'm not complaining, exactly. Most of the winter felt like fall in New England—crisp, cool, and sunny. But the unusual temperatures have taken a toll on the local flora.
Today's weather wasn't especially cold, just stormy, with a tornado warning thrown in to make things interesting. Not quite what the Florida tourist industry wants you to hear. But as I write this, the sky has cleared and the sun has come out. I think I'll take Cosmo for a walk and soak up a little vitamin D.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
A Calle Ocho Education
On Friday, E. and I decided to check out the Tower Cinema, an arts cinema located in the heart of Little Havana. We'd heard they show good foreign films. This weekend's listings included The North Face, a German movie about a 1936 attempt to scale the north face of the Eiger mountain. We wound up choosing An Education, the 2009 British film starring Carey Mulligan in a performance that earned her a Best Actress Oscar nomination.
The Tower Cinema, one of Miami's oldest cultural landmarks, was built in 1926 on SW 8th Street. During the 1960s, as Cubans fled the Cuban Revolution, they settled in and around SW 8th Street and the thoroughfare became known as Calle Ocho. Soon, the theater began showing American films with Spanish subtitles and also Spanish language films. The City of Miami purchased the Tower Cinema in 1991 and renovated it in 1997. In 2002, the city turned over management and operations to Miami Dade College. An Education was shown with Spanish subtitles, though I noted that The North Face, in German, was screened with English subtitles.
The ticket prices were reasonable and I was pleasantly surprised that the modern, spacious theater had stadium-style seating. We settled in to watch the film, which I found thoughtful and absorbing. I enjoyed the nuanced performances—Carey Mulligan as Jenny is wonderful playing an intelligent, romantic schoolgirl. Alfred Molina brings surprising credibility to his role as a proper middle-class British father. Then there was the music—not the chamber orchestra performing Ravel in Jenny's first night out with the older man who ultimately seduces her. No, the salsa music.
The Latin rhythms entered my consciousness by stages. At first, I became aware of background noise during an outdoor scene. I thought it might be intended by the filmmaker. Then, as the noise became more insistent, I assumed it was coming from an adjoining theater, perhaps an accompaniment to those climbers in The North Face making their assault on the Eiger. About halfway through the film, though, I couldn't deny that I was hearing salsa music, probably coming from outside the theater. It seemed to intensify as the film progressed. In some of the poignant later scenes, where silence added meaning, my silence was punctuated by Cuban dance rhythms.
As we excited the theater, we discovered the source—an outdoor performance venue directly next to the theater, with a band playing onstage. We found ourselves in the midst of a festival-like atmosphere, almost a small-scale Mardi Gras. Only later did I learn that we had inadvertently chosen to go to the movies on the evening of Viernes Culturales, an arts and music gathering that takes place the fourth Friday of every month on Calle Ocho. The Tower Cinema is right in the center of the action.
With a salsa band performing at fever pitch, aided by speakers all up and down the street, plus performance artists aplenty, and almost everyone speaking Spanish, I felt I could have been on a street in the real Havana. Certainly, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the London of 1961 depicted in the film I'd just been watching. From now on, I'll plan to catch a movie at the Tower Cinema on any night other than Viernes Culturales. But if I'm in the mood for salsa music and Cuban cigars, I know when and where to go.
For a little taste of Viernes Culturales, check out the YouTube videos below.
The Tower Cinema, one of Miami's oldest cultural landmarks, was built in 1926 on SW 8th Street. During the 1960s, as Cubans fled the Cuban Revolution, they settled in and around SW 8th Street and the thoroughfare became known as Calle Ocho. Soon, the theater began showing American films with Spanish subtitles and also Spanish language films. The City of Miami purchased the Tower Cinema in 1991 and renovated it in 1997. In 2002, the city turned over management and operations to Miami Dade College. An Education was shown with Spanish subtitles, though I noted that The North Face, in German, was screened with English subtitles.
The ticket prices were reasonable and I was pleasantly surprised that the modern, spacious theater had stadium-style seating. We settled in to watch the film, which I found thoughtful and absorbing. I enjoyed the nuanced performances—Carey Mulligan as Jenny is wonderful playing an intelligent, romantic schoolgirl. Alfred Molina brings surprising credibility to his role as a proper middle-class British father. Then there was the music—not the chamber orchestra performing Ravel in Jenny's first night out with the older man who ultimately seduces her. No, the salsa music.
The Latin rhythms entered my consciousness by stages. At first, I became aware of background noise during an outdoor scene. I thought it might be intended by the filmmaker. Then, as the noise became more insistent, I assumed it was coming from an adjoining theater, perhaps an accompaniment to those climbers in The North Face making their assault on the Eiger. About halfway through the film, though, I couldn't deny that I was hearing salsa music, probably coming from outside the theater. It seemed to intensify as the film progressed. In some of the poignant later scenes, where silence added meaning, my silence was punctuated by Cuban dance rhythms.
As we excited the theater, we discovered the source—an outdoor performance venue directly next to the theater, with a band playing onstage. We found ourselves in the midst of a festival-like atmosphere, almost a small-scale Mardi Gras. Only later did I learn that we had inadvertently chosen to go to the movies on the evening of Viernes Culturales, an arts and music gathering that takes place the fourth Friday of every month on Calle Ocho. The Tower Cinema is right in the center of the action.With a salsa band performing at fever pitch, aided by speakers all up and down the street, plus performance artists aplenty, and almost everyone speaking Spanish, I felt I could have been on a street in the real Havana. Certainly, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the London of 1961 depicted in the film I'd just been watching. From now on, I'll plan to catch a movie at the Tower Cinema on any night other than Viernes Culturales. But if I'm in the mood for salsa music and Cuban cigars, I know when and where to go.
For a little taste of Viernes Culturales, check out the YouTube videos below.
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Dinner Hour
Miami is a night-life city. It also has a huge Latin influence. The two converge to make late-night dining the norm. For me, this has been a plus. I can almost always get a last-minute reservation for 7:00 p.m. at popular restaurants. Most don't even begin to fill up until 7:30. Boston diners, while sophisticated about food, tend to eat somewhat earlier. In Boston, a 6:00 p.m. reservation would be regarded as early, but by 7:00 good restaurants are usually in full swing.
The other night, E. and I decided to try Wish, a South Beach eatery known for its excellent food, lovely outdoor dining area, and martinis with colored ice cubes. On Open Table, there were no reservations available for 6:00 or 6:30. Wow, I thought, this place must really be hot to fill up so early. I felt pleased to find 7:00 p.m. still available and booked it. That's normally when I like to eat at home, so it's usually when I feel hungry and ready for a meal. It's also just late enough so E. and I can generally avoid the rush hour traffic.
On the evening of our reservation, we made excellent time across the MacArthur Causeway and arrived at Wish at exactly 7:00 p.m. As the smiling hostess led us to our table, I realized that we were the first people to arrive. Far from being fully booked at 6:00 and 6:30, it turned out the restaurant hadn't even opened until a moment before we walked in. That's why Open Table had listed the earlier times as unavailable. Our early arrival did have some advantages, though—we were seated at the primo outdoor spot, right next to the fountain; and the service couldn't have been more attentive. After all, the wait staff had no one but us to look after.
As I ordered a Mojitini, a kind of frozen mojito served in a martini glass with a glowing green LED ice cube, I wondered whether any other diners would appear. At around 7:15, another couple showed up. By then, E. and I were engrossed in our amuse bouche, a delightfully light cream of artichoke soup. After another while, I noticed several more people being seated. I glanced at my watch—just 7:30. Suddenly, a flood of people flowed into the dining area. As couples and foursomes were seated all around us, I realized that 7:30 is the Miami witching hour, the time at which it becomes socially correct to start dinner. By the time we left, after a delicious meal, the place was literally hopping, without a single empty table.
I like to make dinner reservations anywhere from 7:00 p.m. until 8:30 p.m. Any later and I have to eat a mini-meal during the afternoon. I also find 6:30 acceptable if I'm able to linger over a drink, so I don't really have to begin eating until at least 7:00. Some of our friends, though, prefer to dine earlier. They tend to be early-morning types, whom I admire but have never been able to emulate. They like to be home and in bed before the Miami crowds even get going. Friendship trumps our disparate body clocks, so I'm willing to be flexible. And at least if we go out to eat with friends, we're never the only twosome in a restaurant—instead, we've got our own private dinner party.
The other night, E. and I decided to try Wish, a South Beach eatery known for its excellent food, lovely outdoor dining area, and martinis with colored ice cubes. On Open Table, there were no reservations available for 6:00 or 6:30. Wow, I thought, this place must really be hot to fill up so early. I felt pleased to find 7:00 p.m. still available and booked it. That's normally when I like to eat at home, so it's usually when I feel hungry and ready for a meal. It's also just late enough so E. and I can generally avoid the rush hour traffic.
On the evening of our reservation, we made excellent time across the MacArthur Causeway and arrived at Wish at exactly 7:00 p.m. As the smiling hostess led us to our table, I realized that we were the first people to arrive. Far from being fully booked at 6:00 and 6:30, it turned out the restaurant hadn't even opened until a moment before we walked in. That's why Open Table had listed the earlier times as unavailable. Our early arrival did have some advantages, though—we were seated at the primo outdoor spot, right next to the fountain; and the service couldn't have been more attentive. After all, the wait staff had no one but us to look after.
As I ordered a Mojitini, a kind of frozen mojito served in a martini glass with a glowing green LED ice cube, I wondered whether any other diners would appear. At around 7:15, another couple showed up. By then, E. and I were engrossed in our amuse bouche, a delightfully light cream of artichoke soup. After another while, I noticed several more people being seated. I glanced at my watch—just 7:30. Suddenly, a flood of people flowed into the dining area. As couples and foursomes were seated all around us, I realized that 7:30 is the Miami witching hour, the time at which it becomes socially correct to start dinner. By the time we left, after a delicious meal, the place was literally hopping, without a single empty table.
I like to make dinner reservations anywhere from 7:00 p.m. until 8:30 p.m. Any later and I have to eat a mini-meal during the afternoon. I also find 6:30 acceptable if I'm able to linger over a drink, so I don't really have to begin eating until at least 7:00. Some of our friends, though, prefer to dine earlier. They tend to be early-morning types, whom I admire but have never been able to emulate. They like to be home and in bed before the Miami crowds even get going. Friendship trumps our disparate body clocks, so I'm willing to be flexible. And at least if we go out to eat with friends, we're never the only twosome in a restaurant—instead, we've got our own private dinner party.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Gwong Dong Waa
Today, I started Cantonese lessons. I'd like to learn how to carry on a simple conversation with my future daughter-in-law's Chinese parents. But, after Lesson 1 of my Pimsleur Language Program, I've modified my goals—I'll be happy if I can manage a phrase or two.
I've always thought of myself as good with languages. I learned Spanish in secondary school and also took a year of French, then studied Portuguese in college. I had one great early advantage in learning Spanish. At the age of fourteen, I spent a month in El Salvador, living with a Salvadoran family my father knew through his work in the coffee business. Although most of the family members spoke English, the opportunity to hear Spanish spoken day in and day out had a dramatic effect on me. By the time I returned to school in the fall, I possessed a feel for the language that I'd lacked before.
When I was sixteen, I went to Mexico with the Experiment in International Living. My group traveled to Morelia, Michoacan, where I lived with a Mexican family. No one in my family spoke a word of English, so I was forced to use Spanish at all times. After a week of intense headaches, I began to feel comfortable conversing. By the time I returned home, I was almost fluent in the language.
Because Spanish is a romance language, it was easy to tackle other romance languages, like French, Portuguese, and Italian. A few years ago, before a trip to the Amalfi Coast, I worked my way through Pimsleur's Italian tapes and managed to speak serviceable Italian during my trip. Though Cantonese has no relation whatsoever to romance languages, when I decided to give it a try, I confidently anticipated I would learn quickly. However, I hadn't counted on the little matter of tone.
In Cantonese, aside from learning pronunciation and meaning, a student must master tone. Improper intonation can result in giving a completely different meaning to a word. Mistakes caused by incorrect tone can be innocuous, embarrassing, or capable of precipitating an international incident.
Very quickly, I noticed that the proper tones didn't come easily to me. I could usually hear the speaker's voice rising or falling, but when I repeated the word, my tone often came out wrong. Equally frustrating, the same words sounded tonally different to me when pronounced by one or the other of the two different speakers featured during the lesson. I've heard the phrase tone deaf. Could that be my problem?
I've only completed one lesson out of 30. Perhaps I'll get in the groove. Probably, though, only a long stay in China would help me climb the impossibly steep learning curve required to master Cantonese.
Note: Gwong Dong Waa is the phonetic spelling of the Cantonese words for "Cantonese."
I've always thought of myself as good with languages. I learned Spanish in secondary school and also took a year of French, then studied Portuguese in college. I had one great early advantage in learning Spanish. At the age of fourteen, I spent a month in El Salvador, living with a Salvadoran family my father knew through his work in the coffee business. Although most of the family members spoke English, the opportunity to hear Spanish spoken day in and day out had a dramatic effect on me. By the time I returned to school in the fall, I possessed a feel for the language that I'd lacked before.
When I was sixteen, I went to Mexico with the Experiment in International Living. My group traveled to Morelia, Michoacan, where I lived with a Mexican family. No one in my family spoke a word of English, so I was forced to use Spanish at all times. After a week of intense headaches, I began to feel comfortable conversing. By the time I returned home, I was almost fluent in the language.
Because Spanish is a romance language, it was easy to tackle other romance languages, like French, Portuguese, and Italian. A few years ago, before a trip to the Amalfi Coast, I worked my way through Pimsleur's Italian tapes and managed to speak serviceable Italian during my trip. Though Cantonese has no relation whatsoever to romance languages, when I decided to give it a try, I confidently anticipated I would learn quickly. However, I hadn't counted on the little matter of tone.
In Cantonese, aside from learning pronunciation and meaning, a student must master tone. Improper intonation can result in giving a completely different meaning to a word. Mistakes caused by incorrect tone can be innocuous, embarrassing, or capable of precipitating an international incident.
Very quickly, I noticed that the proper tones didn't come easily to me. I could usually hear the speaker's voice rising or falling, but when I repeated the word, my tone often came out wrong. Equally frustrating, the same words sounded tonally different to me when pronounced by one or the other of the two different speakers featured during the lesson. I've heard the phrase tone deaf. Could that be my problem?
I've only completed one lesson out of 30. Perhaps I'll get in the groove. Probably, though, only a long stay in China would help me climb the impossibly steep learning curve required to master Cantonese.
Note: Gwong Dong Waa is the phonetic spelling of the Cantonese words for "Cantonese."
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The Sound of Silence
I whiled away a couple of agreeable hours this afternoon in the company of friends. We talked about many things, from the weather in North Carolina to the numerous uses for a three-car garage. During the entire time, we spent not a moment in silence.
I wasn't the only talkative one in the group, so I didn't feel unduly responsible for keeping the conversation lively. But if I'd been with a quieter crowd, I would have made sure to fill every pause with a comment or question, or even mindless chatter, if it came to that. It's quite a burden, keeping a room from falling silent. But I shoulder it gladly. Anything to avoid the sound of silence.
I don't know how to be any other way. From an early age, I felt it was my job to fill up silences. When my father took me somewhere in the car, he often didn't speak as he drove. I agonized about what I should say, imagining that he wanted me to regale him with stories, gossip, or jokes. I realize now that he was probably quite content to have me by his side and didn't expect me to entertain him at all. What I regarded as painful silence may for him have been an opportunity to think about a problem at work or to rehash the previous night's baseball game in his mind.
Later, in college, I used to drive from my home on Long Island to Massachusetts with my boyfriend, Peter. Like my dad, Peter was often silent as we drove along. As with my dad, I struggled to think of things to talk about. After many such trips, Peter told a friend that he loved the way he could be with me without either of us saying a word. Little did he know the torments I suffered during those silences he apparently treasured.
I do sometimes enjoy quietude—I spend hours at my computer in silence; I find the quiet contemplation of nature very rewarding; and I rarely feel the urge to talk back to whatever novel I may be reading. But when I'm in the company of other people, my mind flits energetically about, hoping to alight upon on a subject of interest, so I can keep the conversation going.
When I'm with people I like, conversation usually flows effortlessly. In fact, I tend to gravitate toward people with whom talking is a pleasure, not a strain. That's the way it felt today, as if there wasn't time enough to cover all the subjects we wanted to discuss. Today, there was no silence, only the sound of laughter and good conversation.
I wasn't the only talkative one in the group, so I didn't feel unduly responsible for keeping the conversation lively. But if I'd been with a quieter crowd, I would have made sure to fill every pause with a comment or question, or even mindless chatter, if it came to that. It's quite a burden, keeping a room from falling silent. But I shoulder it gladly. Anything to avoid the sound of silence.
I don't know how to be any other way. From an early age, I felt it was my job to fill up silences. When my father took me somewhere in the car, he often didn't speak as he drove. I agonized about what I should say, imagining that he wanted me to regale him with stories, gossip, or jokes. I realize now that he was probably quite content to have me by his side and didn't expect me to entertain him at all. What I regarded as painful silence may for him have been an opportunity to think about a problem at work or to rehash the previous night's baseball game in his mind.
Later, in college, I used to drive from my home on Long Island to Massachusetts with my boyfriend, Peter. Like my dad, Peter was often silent as we drove along. As with my dad, I struggled to think of things to talk about. After many such trips, Peter told a friend that he loved the way he could be with me without either of us saying a word. Little did he know the torments I suffered during those silences he apparently treasured.
I do sometimes enjoy quietude—I spend hours at my computer in silence; I find the quiet contemplation of nature very rewarding; and I rarely feel the urge to talk back to whatever novel I may be reading. But when I'm in the company of other people, my mind flits energetically about, hoping to alight upon on a subject of interest, so I can keep the conversation going.
When I'm with people I like, conversation usually flows effortlessly. In fact, I tend to gravitate toward people with whom talking is a pleasure, not a strain. That's the way it felt today, as if there wasn't time enough to cover all the subjects we wanted to discuss. Today, there was no silence, only the sound of laughter and good conversation.
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