Whenever my husband and I make weeknight plans in the city, we navigate the dicey waters of optimal travel decisions. The usual choice is for him to drive in early before traffic snarls. Later, I take my turn on the rails.
With the introduction of the Quiet Cars, I had been optimistic that much of the unpleasantness of crowding cheek by jowl with a group of strangers might be eliminated. No more card shuffling and explosive laughter in a confined space; the end of being subjected to one-sided cell phone conversations, conducted at ever-increasing decibels. Perhaps the serenity would deter folks from pulling out their nail clippers, or cranking their music to a level sure to deafen them in the coming years, and irritate the rest of us in the meantime. It’s a promising idea, those Quiet Cars, but there seem to be several kinks.
My husband has reported a litany of infractions since the Cars’ inception, and in most cases, wary observers squelch desires to speak up. One time, a commuter of questionable equanimity marched into the Quiet Car and delivered an alarming speech about a sensitive political issue. No one budged, perhaps fearing words were not his most lethal weapon. He moved on to the next car when his filibuster was through. Another time, a weary traveler requested that a woman’s phone call be taken to another car. In response, he was aggressively rebuked with the assertion that she had paid her fare and she could do what she wanted.
Posted signs state that the Quiet Cars operate during rush hour, but neglect to define what constitutes quiet and when rush hour occurs. In New York, commuters in search of safety seek out the car where the conductor rides, but Quiet Car enforcement seem left to commuters on the BNSF.
I have cautiously risen to that challenge, uncomfortable though intervening can be. An hour of relative peace is the counterbalancing reward. (c)
