Last night, I rode in a back seat through the Midtown Tunnel, down Second Avenue, west on 19th and over to Eighth Avenue. Every time I come to Manhattan, I am struck by its personality. Boston, for all its history, does not speak to me the way New York does.
This morning, I listened to an interview between Terry Gross and Paul Simon. She asked him about his song, “The Sounds of Silence”:
The other day, I said to Diane, “There’s an epidemic of slow drivers.” Every time I drive somewhere, I inevitably end up behind someone driving at least ten miles-an-hour less than I believe we should be going. In my more frustrated states, I shake my head and lift my hands in helpless gestures, hoping that the drivers look in their rearview mirrors and recognize just how much they are inconveniencing me. In my more philosophical states, I think—it’s good for me to slow down. And so I back off and see what I see out the windows.
And today, forced to drive slow, I thought about pace—how that driver ahead of me has some pace that works for him. And simply, his pace is not mine. That got me thinking about pace in general and how one person’s seldom matches another’s.