As I snaked my way through the sloping streets of Chinatown this morning, skirting along shaded alleyways and sliding down sun-licked sidewalks, I let momentum tug at my weight, carrying me downhill, thighs remaining liquid, and used my eyes as breaks.
Gravity pulled me along as gravity has a tendency to do, and every time I met someone’s eyes or saw something that struck me, I would allow it to anchor my momentum, push back a bit, and slow me.
It became an interesting exercise in speed and connection: the more connections I made to people or things that were visually arresting, the slower I would go. Conversely, the less I saw that resonated with me, the faster I began to move. And, of course, the faster I went the harder it was to see any one thing.
Nearing the belly of Washington Street’s slope, I locked eyes with a little boy in the arms of his mother. She was just embarking upon the hill on the opposite side of the street, and he faced her back.
I passed the mother. When I glanced back over my shoulder, I caught the boy’s gaze and let it stop me like a kick-stand. His eyes lit up and his fists went into the air and he squeezed them open and shut like traffic signals. I couldn’t help but mimic the salute with blinking hands of my own.
Directly in front of the boy, and within my line of vision, an old caramel-brown Honda was parked, and inside that taffy-colored car sat a man mid-breakfast-bite looking out his window.
When he saw me giving this two-fisted wave, it jolted him. With mouth full and hands occupied he looked around trying to figure out a way to wave back.
He quickly released one hand from under the paperbag he was holding, the same color as his skin, and lifted one finger in acknowledgment, a small bit of food trailing from the corner of his mouth. He looked very confused.
A woman walking to my right paused a moment, and in my periphery I could sense her processing the index-finger hello from the man in the bister vehicle eating a steaming bun from a paperbag and what this all could possibly mean. She seemed to quickly decide that the salutation was not for her and continued on.
When I looked back across the street the mother had walked farther uphill, and the child had diverted his eyes elsewhere, my windshield-wiper hands no longer captivating his attention.
All this took place in about 7 seconds.
Isn’t that just the way it is, I thought, a slew of missed and mistaken connections strung together like pearls. Between Timing and Attention, I wondered how any two people ever connect.
* * *
When I got into work I plunked down in front of my computer. Lo and behold, I had an email from one Adrian Tan — the conductor of the Vietnamese National Symphony Orchestra.
Tan, it seems, discovered and read my “review” of a symphony performance with Tang Yun, a prodigy violinist, under Tan’s direction. He wrote to thank me for my rather “fascinating” review and for “writing what I felt.”
Adrian Tan: the pleasure was all mine.
I have to admit, I was a smidgen embarrassed that Tan read the review, it being more of an emotive creative-piece than an out-and-out music review (aside from the fact that I mentioned in the review that I “wanted to make love to the conductor.”)
But overpowering the embarrassment was excitement at the enabled connection made through space and time thanks to this funny little thing we call the World Wide Web.
I mean, I’m a young cosmopolitan professional; I’m well versed in modern technology. But this internet thing is pretty darn amazing. Here I was, sitting in San Francisco, California and someone I saw on stage weeks ago — but never met — in Hanoi, Vietnam is able to contact me.
The “ever increasing pace” of life and technology is often touted as the inhibiting factor to genuine connection– the more plugged in to technology we become the more disconnected from the present, nature, or other people we are, it is argued.
But as things move “faster and faster,” the potential for connection becomes more pervasive, and I’m caught between thinking that human connectivity is impeded by technology and thinking it’s made more ubiquitous.
How many pairs of eyes did I miss this morning as I picked up speed? And, more importantly, would I have still caught the eyes of that little boy at the base of the Washington hill if I had kept a more moderate clip? The timing would have different; I might have been looking elsewhere.
I typed up my response to Adrian Tan, thanking him for his email. And as I hit the Send button, I wondered how anything in this world is ever not connected.
