Fast Track to Nowhere
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published Saturday July 13, 2013

Train travel is the ultimate vehicle for people-watching. It’s the perfect antidote to the four-walled claustrophobia of housewifery. I like to feel part of the throng to-ing and fro-ing, strangers heading briefly in the same direction.

On my way to the station, I cast my eye over the dozen commuters up ahead on the platform. Everyone does their waiting in their own way. No-one looks agitated or out of breath, so I conclude we haven’t just missed the train.

My three-year-old daughter scrambles out of her stroller to empty her ten cent coin collection into the ticket machine. A dishevelled young bloke with wild hair and no shoes shuffles past us. He settles himself down in a patch of sunlight strobed by the wooden bench and closes his eyes. For a moment, my toddler stops feeding the machine while she studies his face.

“Hit the jackpot yet?” An elderly gent in a tweed jacket has strolled up behind us. As the last of the ten cent pieces clunk down the slot, small daughter fishes for the ticket as it drops into the tray. “I winned!” she yells, waving her prize in the air.

We crane our necks to see who’ll be first to spot our train snaking round the bend. We hear the hiss of metal brakes and soon after four carriages rumble into the station.

I always turn left once inside the doors, just to imagine the thrill of first class travel. Three-year-old, kneeling on her seat, presses her face against the window. I settle in for the ride to town, trying to guess where my travelling companions are going and why.

Next to me is a nerdy-looking bloke wearing Woody Allen glasses. He holds his smartphone in his lap and texts: “Be there soon, darling” I feel guilty reading over his shoulder, but I can’t help myself. I wonder if he’s texting a lover, a girlfriend or his wife. I settle on ‘girlfriend’ and picture her as Annie Hall in wide-legged woollen pants and fedora hat.

Opposite us are two middle-aged women talking in sign language. I am mesmerised. In between bouts of furious hand movements they throw back their heads and laugh raucously. Their merriment is the only human sound in our carriage.

Everyone else has their head bowed, fixated by the gadgets in their laps. There’s not a book or newspaper in sight. No-one is talking, or taking in the view. There is only quiet concentration as thumbs sweep over keypads. Technology is hard at work here.  

I’m struck by the notion of eye contact, and what has happened to it. There’s certainly none in this carriage. Even the three teenagers huddled by the door are isolates bent over their devices. They are strangely expressionless, oblivious to their surroundings. A businessman standing near them stumbles and grabs for the handhold as the train brakes start to grip – but not one of the teenagers look up. Twice he has to say “excuse me” before they begrudgingly move aside to let him off. 

Perhaps the virtual world makes reality dull by comparison.  But I remember the bus ride home from high school as the highlight of my school days. The novelty of having boys on board sent our girly chatter into hyper-drive. One sly smile from a cute boy would provide endless entertainment. We would duck behind our seats giggling, then dissect his body language so intently we thought we could read his mind before he even spoke it. (“Can you reach the bell for me?” became as exciting as a first kiss.)

Yesterday, at my favourite corner cafe, I was puzzled by two young women having coffee at a nearby table. They looked to me like old pals, but for several minutes, they sat in silence, absentmindedly punching their thoughts into their phones. Perhaps connecting on Facebook is more fun than connecting across the table, I thought. But it was an odd sight. What’s driving this obsession? Fear of missing out? On what? The rapid-fire rush of social networking.

At dinner I tell my eldest son about my train ride. I recount for him what it was like before smartphones and iPods. How I would catch buses and trains and have no choice but to kill time watching the passing parade of commuters or the slideshow of suburbs flitting by. I tell him I quite enjoyed the downtime after the frenetic pace of the newsroom. 

I wonder out loud whether we’re all the more productive for having the internet as our constant and available companion. Whether this ever-present connectedness is making us super- efficient. And are we happier for it? My son pipes up: “Maybe those people on the train were just plain bored, Mum.”

That got me thinking. Dead time is now considered a waste of time. Portable technology fills the quiet gaps in living and keeps us permanently switched on and plugged in. Perhaps that’s why I love forgoing the car for the train: someone else to do the driving. Twenty minutes of mental holiday. That’s what I crave.