Given all the buzz about globalization and connectedness, it's surprising how long it still takes to get to North America from Europe. Sure, we can connect instantly with any part of the world on a wireless hand-held device, but to fly from Frankfurt to Toronto you still have to sit through three films you've already seen and not one, but two, meal services.
I was remarking on this phenomenon the other day to my steward, who was plonking down the second of the offerings (battered zucchini at 3 a.m., anyone?), complete with utensils designed to be useless on my unfolded lap tray. He was not amused.
"Well I haven't sat down the entire flight," he snapped. "You might be bored, but I haven't stopped for a minute, even to get a glass of water."
Now this silenced me. Not because I was chastened, but because I couldn't imagine why he thought I should spend my flight worrying about the well-being of the people whose job, I should hasten to add, is to ensure the comfort and safety of the passengers aboard their aircraft, and to bear the probably less than satisfactory conditions of their employment with some semblance of grace.
Moreover, why should I be made to care about his problems? I don't think he would be particularly interested if I started in on a rant about how my right hand hurts because I don't know how to type properly, or how my editors can be difficult (note to eds: just joking). But then, the sharing of too much information -- particularly on the part of those whose role it is to make others comfortable -- has become commonplace.
Think about it. You settle in to enjoy the treat of a facial, only to have your aesthetician update you on her insomnia. Your taxi driver spends the ride griping about his immigration issues. Your back and neck are so tight you book an hour-long massage, and spend the entire time listening to your massage therapist complain about her headaches. It seems the service industry has developed a whole new sideline: Those who work in it have become whine connoisseurs.
Restaurant workers are the worst. "Ow" a ponytailed, mini-skirted hostess screamed one afternoon as she grabbed a stack of menus and led us to our table. Seeing our shocked faces, she went on to explain, in grave tones, "You know, I had this really bad hangnail, and so last night, I cut that nail really short, and I guess maybe I went too short, because now, every single time I touch anything, it really hurts" Never mind how gross it was to hear about her fingernail just as we were about to eat, why on Earth did she think we should care?
The topper was a barista at a small café where I was interviewing a woman in her fabulous 50s about her beauty care regime for a women's magazine. She had just been telling me about how she relies on regular facials to avoid the knife when he interrupted our conversation.
"Do you think maybe I should try getting a facial?" he asked. "You know, I've been working, like, 14-hour days six days a week for months, and I think it's really starting to show on my skin." With this, he stuck his face in between us for closer evaluation.
What happened to the rule that when people ask how you are, politeness demands a vague, maybe even inaccurate, response like "just fine"? Sorry, but one of the pillars of civilization is the understanding that nobody else is particularly interested -- not only in how you really are, but most definitely not in the status of your hangnails or the size of your pores.
I personally lay the blame for this confusion of public manners and the corresponding rise of whine culture on the blog phenomenon. Without the insistent narcissism of everybody's petty gripes floating about in cyberspace, would everyone feel so entitled to share? In my view, blogging's bad air has trampled that essential trust of civil interaction -- not to dump on others with our own trash -- and turned us all into whine experts, including me, of course, with this column.
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