the corner office

This happened last year, but it was a memorable experience (let's hope I'm not falling foul of any statute of limitations), and is something of a set-up post. And if you're offended by me referring to an "old lady", read on.

When travelling anywhere by train, (and on airplanes), the unwritten rule relating to people sitting next to you seems to be that beyond a perfunctory greeting, and frequently not even that, you both spend the rest of your journey assiduously pretending that the other person doesn't exist. This rule has been followed by almost everyone I've ever sat next to, and it suits me fine. I say almost everyone, because this blog post is about a journey where that didn't happen.

I was catching a train to Devon. I was already in my seat, when a woman took her seat next to me. Grey-white hair and elderly-looking. I asked her if she wouldn't mind me grabbing something out of my bag in the overhead compartment before she sat down. "Those look good," she said as she saw a bag of sweets squeezed into the top of my backpack. "I think my son will agree with you," I said. Unless I get to them first, I thought, but decided not to say out loud.

Soon the boarding mayhem was over, and we were on our way. There had been some interaction, not least because a poor German lass seated near us had learned the hard way that most seats are reserved, and the lady sitting next to me had sympathised with her about how busy the trains are (with me looking on), and explained to her where she was likely to find a free seat.

Soon thereafter, the lady: "can I ask a personal question?"

"Um, sure," I replied.

"How old is your son?"

I answered, and I'm not sure what she said, but there was enough of an exchange for me to feel emboldened enough to comment on the book she had in front of her.

"I see you're reading Herman Hesse," I said. (I think it was Magister Ludi).

"Yes, have you read it?"

"About 25 years ago, yes, but I must admit I don't remember much of it."

"I read his books 35 years ago at university," she said. "I'm going through all the books on my bookshelf, and I'm re-reading Hesse's books at the moment."

"That's cool," I replied, "I've been meaning to do the same thing with my old books, and Herman Hesse is pretty high on the list".

This prompted a discussion about Hesse's books, and us looking at the list of his novels on the front page of her book, me picking out the ones I'd read, she the ones she'd read.

We'd both read Steppenwolf.

"Oh, what a wonderful book," she said, "but only if you're in a positive frame of mind. God, I couldn't imagine what it would do to you if were depressed."

Hrm, I thought to myself. I'm not sure I'd have described my frame of mind as positive when I read it, but I seem to remember finding it to be quite uplifting. Again, decided best not to say out loud.

Soon, another "personal" question: "where are you headed to?" I explained that I was going to Dartmoor to join my family on holiday. My mother in law was with us, and the car was full with luggage and whatnot, so I'd valiantly offered to catch the train. "Aaah," she laughed knowingly. "Some 'me time'. Say no more. Well, I'll leave you to keep reading, I can talk the hind legs off a donkey."

I soon started reading, trying to eat my Sainsburys sandwich and packet of crisps as politely as possible. She read too, but eventually we got to chatting again, talking about all sorts of things - our families and home-schooling and autism and disabilities, travel, our careers.

Over the course of the conversation, we'd somehow established a decade-apart correspondence. I'd read Herman Hesse's novels 25 years ago, she'd read them 35 years ago. Her youngest daugher was 10 years older than my youngest son, her eldest was 10 years older than my eldest. And throughout the conversation, she'd said things like "back in my day," or "of course I'm much older than you." But then, at some point, she mentioned that she was 57. 57! Jeez lady, we're just over 5 years apart, and your day is pretty much my day, too, I thought. It was another thing I ended up not saying aloud, not because I thought better of it, but because she'd said it in passing and the conversation moved on and I never got the chance to bring it up again.

I was quite intrigued though. I'd thought she was much older than me - did she just look old for her age, or am I just lousy at judging how old people are? But conversely, she'd thought that I was younger - do I look young for my age? Surely not. Or had the decade-apart correspondence in everything just primed us both into thinking our ages were further apart?

The train eventually rolled into Exeter station, and we exchanged pleasantries and goodbyes and well-wishes for respective families, and I got off the train. We hadn't even introduced ourselves, and if I passed her in the street I doubt I'd recognise her again. It was an unexpected, and in a way, slightly profound experience. Apart from the age thing, it got me to thinking about human interaction, and how we connect with other people, and how a couple of hours on a train journey can be an entirely different experience, just because someone was outgoing enough to ask a "personal question".

And thinking about it afterwards, I realised it was the sort of thing my late mother would have done. She was notorious for speaking to and extracting life stories from everyone she met, from cleaning staff to celebrities at a hotel buffet, but it was a trait I never inherited.

Knowing myself, I've no intention of striking up conversations with strangers on the train in future, but I'm glad that there are occasionally friendly and talkative people out there who do.