Although I try to embrace my introverted nature as much as possible, there are days when it’s not easy to do. Today was one of those days. Even though I know that I don’t function well in large groups, especially when the dominant language spoken (French) is one that I still struggle with, I develop a type of amnesia and put myself in these situations again and again. Surely, I think to myself, it’s not too much to navigate a room of full of perfectly nice people, who are friendly and kind, and on most days maybe it wouldn’t be a problem. But then there are days when I feel particularly “innie,” when painful social interactions have me questioning my intelligence and sanity, and I return home feeling like I just want to crawl into bed for the rest of the day.

Imagine the scenario: a party, people talking and laughing, and the introvert stands alone among them, stuck in a freeze frame while activity buzzes around her. She looks at those closest to her, how alien they seem, how at ease they are with each other, they appear to know just what to say, how to act. The introvert doesn’t understand. Who are these strange creatures, and how does one make contact with them? Someone makes a joke, and she thinks, yes, now smile, appear to be amused. But it’s no use, they are seeing through her, she’s certain, they know she’s not one of them.

That’s the kind of day it’s been. And in thinking about it, the title of the post just jumped into my head. I knew that I had heard it somewhere, so I googled it and found that’s it the title of a sci-fi novel by Robert A. Heinlein (and also a phrase found in the book of Exodus). I’ve read some Heinlein, but not this particular book, so I was surprised to discover how closely the plot mirrors my feelings about the day’s events.

Heinlein’s protagonist, Valentine Michael Smith, is a human raised on Mars by Martians. The novel chronicles his return to Earth as an adult, and the difficulties he experiences in understanding human concepts that are unknown on Mars. While there is a lot more to the book — including the introduction of the term “grok,*” one of my husband’s favorite geekisms — it’s the idea of trying to understand an alien culture that I find interesting. And the fact that though Smith may not “grok” human culture, the humans he meets likewise aren’t familiar with unique Martian beliefs that may be superior, or as valuable, as human ones.

I will try to remember this when I am again in an uncomfortable social situation. My perspective as an introvert doesn’t make me lesser than, but just different, from those around me. At least I will try to “grok” that message, if I can.

*One of the definitions of “grok” in the OED, is “to understand intuitively or by empathy;” for more info, see this Wikipedia article.

To be fair, the article does include some insightful commentary about the dynamics behind such mass killings, but that insight was undercut by the title given to the piece: “Loners, losers — and killers.” As I wrote a few years ago after the Virginia Tech murders, using the term “loner” as a key descriptor of the perpetrators of such atrocities is unfair to the vast majority of self-proclaimed loners who are not violent. Plus, it makes no distinction between those who choose solitude, and those who “lack emotional support from friends or family,” as the article describes them.

However, I was glad to see that many of the commenters on the article took issue with the use of the word “loner,” and offered their own experiences as well-adjusted and healthy “loners” as a challenge to this type of characterization. It made me hopeful that the message may eventually be heard by the mainstream media and society at large, and that one day the term “loner” will not be carelessly applied, or used to stigmatize a behavior that is second nature to so many.

Summer has always been my least favorite season, so I was delighted to see an article on Salon.com last week with the blunt title Why I hate summer. The author, Rachel Shukert, shares painful memories of childhood summers spent at camp, where she encountered the “tyranny of enforced merrymaking,” and preferred to hide out in the infirmary, where she “…lay on a lumpy cot, reading “Night” by Elie Wiesel.” This made me laugh out loud; I saw myself in her description, and how weird I must have seemed at the time. Of course, at that age the pain was all too real, and the need to escape “enforced merrymaking” was all-consuming.

It didn’t matter where I spent the summer as a kid, at the lake, in the country, or simply at home, my nose was pretty much always in a book, and when forced outside, I preferred solitary pursuits (walking, swimming) to hanging out with cousins or siblings (although I loved them dearly). That made me a bit of an outsider, but it was the only way I could cope with all the activity going on around me. Plus, I just loved to read. For me, the best part of summer was the license I felt to devour as many books (or comics) as I wanted, sometimes encouraged by library summer reading programs. Forget tag or frisbee; my competitive spirit was best kindled by the challenge of reading as many books as I could during those eight precious weeks of freedom.

Now that I’m an adult, and have more control over my circumstances, I think I’m starting to make peace with summer. I still feel the pressure of “enforced merrymaking” that accompanies the warmer weather, but there are worse things in the world than spending long summer evenings sitting on a café terrace in Paris. Plus, I can now give myself permission to spend the entire day inside, beautiful weather or no, enjoying the comforts of a good book.

My first experience with public laundromats occurred in my early twenties, when I first moved to San Francisco. I had a strangely romantic idea about them at the time, that there was something grittily poetic about airing one’s dirty laundry in the company of strangers. It didn’t take long before I grew tired of the routine: dragging my unmentionables down the block, then sitting vigil over this precious cargo while fending off boredom. I could never bring myself to do the load-and-leave, never trusted that my thrift-store wardrobe was safe from potential thieves looking for the perfect vintage t-shirt (hopelessly faded) or ratty pair of jeans. And so I subjected myself to one of my least favorite activities in the world: waiting around in public alone.

As an introvert, such occasions fill me with dread, as I feel vulnerable to any stranger’s approach, whether friendly or not. Without the buffer of a companion, it is much more likely that someone will try to engage me in conversation, even if I keep my nose firmly planted in a book. And during times of purposeful waiting, when it’s not easy to just get up and go, I feel like a captive audience for whoever wants to demand my attention. I realize that this may sound terribly anti-social, but in my defense, there are times when I am happy to engage in pleasantries with random strangers (granted, these are somewhat rare occurrences). It’s just that there are other times when I would rather have a root canal than a forced conversation.

It’s true that I could make this preference known in a variety of ways, could “tell off” the person trying to chat with me, but such an extreme reaction is not appropriate in most situations. I realized this again recently, when for various reasons I found it necessary to spend time in a laundromat, after avoiding them successfully for many years. As I waited for my clothes to dry, a bewildered-looking elderly woman approached me and began asking me a series of questions in rapid-fire French (which I find hard to parse at the best of times), only a few of which I knew the answer to. I tried to help her as best as I could, stumbling over my verbs and pronouns, but she seemed irked when I couldn’t give her all the info she needed (can you put bleach in this washing machine? I have no idea).

There came a point when she gave up on me–after I failed to understand why she needed me to dial a certain number on her cell phone–and she left me in peace. It was obvious to me that I couldn’t have just “told her off” or ignored her, because, a) she was a nice old lady in need of help, b) she was extremely persistent, and c) I don’t know how to say “I’m sorry but I’d rather just sit here trying to be invisible and not involve myself in your affairs” in French. And also, d) because such annoying/amusing cultural exchanges make for good stories when trying to write blog posts…

But overall, I wish there were some way to signal one’s unwillingness to interact on a given day (a certain piece of headwear, or perhaps a paper bag over one’s face), and an accompanying societal blessing for such a preference. I guess I could always stay at home on those days, and not care that my clothes remain unwashed; no one would have to suffer their filth but me.

A few weeks ago, I read an article in the International Herald Tribune that struck fear into my heart. No, it wasn’t about the economy (well, not directly) or the latest health study crisis, but a more trivial subject that nonetheless makes me shudder to think of it. The headline of the article says it all: EU moves toward allowing in-flight cellphone calls. At first I hoped it was a late April Fool’s Day joke, but no such luck.

In the abstract I can understand why this might be a good idea; if cell phones don’t pose a threat to the functioning of planes (as seems to be the case), then having a means of communication to let family or friends know about delays or other serious issues seems reasonable. The rational part of my brain can accept this idea, but the raging introvert part of me that believes that if any cell phone use is allowed, someone (or more likely, many) will abuse the privilege. I already tend to get grumpy and panicky in-flight when I feel someone is intruding on my personal space, and the thought of someone not only monopolizing the armrest and the overhead bin, but the whole noise level around me, is truly anxiety-provoking.

Maybe I should petition the airlines to create a new category of passenger preferences — not vegetarian or kosher, but “does not fly well with others.” The flight attendants could only communicate with me via hand signals, any passenger who dramatically reclines her seat into my lap without warning will automatically be moved to another part of the plane, and it goes without saying (of course!) that cell phone use would be strictly forbidden within an eight seat radius. Well, a girl can dream. In the absence of these demands being met, I might settle for Joe’s suggestion that inflight callers be confined to a special sound-proof booth in the back of the plane, leaving only loud snorers and upset children to disturb the silence up front.

But that seems unlikely, given how airlines are trying to cram in as many Economy seats as possible (which doesn’t do much for my personal space issue) because of the economic crunch they are facing. In his recent “Ask the Pilot” column on Salon.com, Patrick Smith bemoans this development, but argues that better design could solve both the airlines’ need for more seats, and the passenger’s need for a private, comfortable space. As an example of this, he mentions a new project that Delta will be inaugurating in 2010. The airline is planning to retrofit some of its fleet with something called the Cozy Suite, a type of seat with a built-in wraparound wall that separates it from the seat beside it, in addition to providing other elements that contribute to passenger comfort (footrest, lumbar cushion, more legroom). You can see photos of the Cozy Suite on the Thompson Solutions Web site.

I agree with Smith that this could be a significant improvement to the inflight experience, and it might even balance out my potential future annoyance with obnoxious cellphone users. Well, on second thought, maybe not. I think I should start looking for someone to build me my own personal (portable) Cone of Silence.

As a poet and sometime melancholic, I found a lot to appreciate in this article, most likely because I have often had the kinds of aesthetic epiphanies that may come from contemplating the world in a melancholic light. I can’t do justice to the article here, but I would definitely recommend it to anyone who wants to challenge their thinking about the value of sadness to a fully-lived life. However, the more I thought about this article, the more I realized that a piece of the puzzle was missing; the pre-condition for my own bouts of insight into the deeper meaning of things was not sadness but the very act of reflection. I think that sadness may cause more introspection, as we look for an answer, or the silver lining, to whatever is troubling us, but I find it hard to put human suffering and pain up on such a pedestal, as something to be relished almost (of course, I’m overstating here). As I came to believe many years ago after reading theologian Dorothee Soelle’s book Suffering, it is immoral to impose the idea that suffering has to have an inherent meaning, because that expectation can lead to justifications for horrible acts of brutality. In the most extreme example, how could anyone expect a survivor of the Holocaust to agree that the experience was beneficial to them in any way?

I think part of the problem is the definition of terms. I have always thought of melancholy as a voluntary state, not something imposed by external events. The quintessential melancholic experience for me is to go for a solitary walk in a lonely park, on a cloudy or rainy day, and to revel in the thoughts that spring from that environment. Real sadness, the kind that knocks you down and makes it difficult to think straight, is not something I can easily wish on someone. I make this distinction because I think melancholy, or the ability to contemplate the world at a remove from its surface appearances, is something that comes more naturally to introverts, and it’s a quality I highly value. Sadness on the other hand, or even depression, afflicts everyone equally, and is not conducive to creativity in the same way.

This leads me to the second article I mentioned earlier, a review of a book called Shyness: How Normal Behaviour Became a Sickness by Christopher Lane. As the title might suggest, the premise of the book is that while shyness was formerly socially acceptable (a claim I might take issue with), it is more and more being treated as a mental health issue that requires medication. This is an interesting argument, but my sympathy for it is tempered by my disappointment in the author’s seeming lack of awareness about the difference between shyness and introversion. In the material quoted from his book, he conflates the two, weakening his assertion that changes to the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) have resulted in:

…the introverted individual [being] morphed into the mildly psychotic person whose symptoms included being aloof, being dull, and simply “being alone”… Apparently, social phobia—shyness— …has become a pandemic.

I am sympathetic to the author up to this last sentence; if being introverted is equated with being mentally ill, then I will take issue as well. But, if you believe, as I do, that introversion does not equal shyness, then the logic of his argument unravels. I can also agree that just because someone is shy doesn’t mean that those aspects of their behaviour should be overstated either. But I see introversion and shyness as being two completely different sets of characteristics. I have known very extroverted people who nonetheless could be considered to have mild social phobia, and I have known introverts who are exceedingly comfortable with being around others (although they usually prefer solitude).

While this might seem like a semantic quarrel, I think the broader implications of it are important. People who are truly suffering anxiety and who are not able to interact with others should not have their concerns diminished. Conversely, assumptions should not be made about a person’s mental well-being simply because of their external behaviour. As I mentioned in an earlier post, there is a big gap between preferring solitude and feeling unable to overcome it, and that difference is often known only to the individual experiencing it.

While these two articles address different topics, they both come to a similar conclusion: that we shouldn’t try to eradicate normal emotions like sadness and shyness in the name of mental health. While I admire the sentiment behind this idea, and agree with it to a certain extent, neither author is able to make a solid case for it because of what I see as the inconsistencies in their arguments: sadness is not the same thing as melancholy, and shyness is not the same thing as introversion. People who are suffering from depression or severe social anxiety do not need to hear that it is really our society that is to blame, that their problems, quite likely biochemical in nature, are all in their heads. Of course it is possible to go too far, and to try to medicate away any kind of discomfort, but I would argue that the benefits of our current knowledge of psychopharmaceuticals outweigh the potential for their abuse.

What makes these comment sections so insidious is that they seem to draw mostly those on polar opposites of a certain question; the vitriol and intentional misunderstanding on both sides often makes me cringe. Alas, this is also what makes them fun to read! But after taking in so many comments by wannabe advice-givers, I have to stop and remind myself that no one making these comments has the full story. They are only guessing, based on the letter writer’s account, which may be further edited by the columnist, at where the real problem lies. For that reason, I’ve stopped reading these comments as attempts at helping or admonishing the letter writer, but more as an indication of the state of that particular person’s soul. What are they reading into the story based on their own experiences that makes them so passionate about this topic?

All this was going through my head as I re-read a column written by Cary Tennis, the advice columnist on Salon.com. I had saved the link to this column, which originally ran last March, because it seemed pertinent to introvert-related discussions. The basic story is that a woman was incensed because her best friend’s husband, whom she has known for forty years, recently made some comments to her that she found highly insulting (you can read more of the details in the column). The letter writer summed up his comments as follows:

He told me that he was having a difficult time being in my company. I said that after all these years you are telling me this? After that he continued: I make noises and cackle, I laugh too loud, I’m offensive, I’m too boisterous, and maybe I should walk around with a microphone to hear myself. And to add more insult, as if this were not enough, he noted that friends of theirs also have difficulty in my company.

All in all, written from her perspective, these comments seem very hurtful and not very constructive. However, going with my theory that the reader isn’t getting the full story, I wonder how the situation felt to the man who made the comments. I have to say, being an introvert, and having known many people who seem to suck the air out of a room without realizing the effect they are having on other people (only a small subset of extroverts by the way), my sympathies naturally lie with the best friend’s husband. And as to her question about why it’s taken him so long to express his discomfort, I can easily understand why he might have been hesitant to mention anything to her. As most introverts know, it just isn’t done. You don’t get to call someone on their “boisterous” behavior, no matter its effect on you, because you might hurt that person’s feelings when they are only “expressing their personality.” If you do, you risk having your own preferences questioned and belittled, as many of the comments on this column went on to illustrate.

Not knowing either of the people involved, the majority of the commenters (apart from a few brave souls who expressed sympathy for the possibly introverted man) felt free to make harsh judgments about this woman’s “tormentor,” insinuating that he is insensitive, has a problem with women, is anti-social, leads a pitiful little life, even going so far as to imply that his mental faculties are eroding as he gets older. Even Cary Tennis, the columnist, gets in on the act of bashing this man for his behavior. Maybe he knows something we don’t, but based on what was available, I don’t think all this vociferousness was justified. I don’t agree with the manner in which this man made his comments, but I can identify with the level of frustration he may have been feeling. As one of the more thoughtful commenters noted, if it was insensitive for him to bring up his grievances after all these years, she was equally insensitive in not realizing the effect her behavior had on him for the same number of years.

As I said earlier, I believe that we bring to these modern fables our own experiences which color our reactions. I will admit up front that I am usually more sympathetic to the introvert in these types of situations (within limits of course). But I don’t yet know how to answer the bigger question this raises: how do we as introverts make space for ourselves without lashing out in frustration (as this man seemed to do)? Is there a constructive way to tell someone they’re bothering you?

Specifically, we both were in the mood for an ice-cold martini, not just for its calming properties, but also for nostalgia’s sake. The martini, much like Irish coffee, is a quintessential San Franciscan quaff that we had come to love while living in the city. We knew what we wanted, but as we walked around looking for a spot to consume such a beverage, we grew doubtful about whether or not we could find a suitable place.

The problem was that we are not “bar” people. I don’t mean that we have an objection to bars, just that we are usually so put off by the normal atmosphere of bars, we very rarely darken their thresholds. There are a few main sore spots for us, namely: noise, smoke (although it’s rarely an issue in California), crowds, and televised sporting events. We’re not big fans of any of the above. So as we passed potential places, we took note of whether or not there was a huge crowd spilling out into the street, and also whether the noise level was deafening or just slightly painful.

After we had checked out all the bars in our immediate area, none of which met our criteria, we were ready to give up when we came back across one we had dismissed earlier. As we looked at it more closely, we realized that all the noisy, boisterous people were actually sitting in an enclosed area adjacent to the bar; it also happened to be the smoking section. Encouraged, we stepped inside to see that it was much calmer in the main part of the bar, and there were even some cozy looking tables available near the front.

As we sipped our gin martinis (his with an especially fragrant twist, mine with olives), we felt ourselves grow more relaxed and happy by the minute. Apart from one or two loud people, the crowd was pretty mellow, which suited us just fine. We felt comfortable enough to order a second drink, this time an Irish coffee, and to settle in for a while. We were a little put off by the fact that our seats faced a television screen broadcasting that night’s Giants game, the dreaded televised sporting event, but surprisingly, we began to get into the spirit of the game, calling balls and strikes as we saw them. And as we watched Barry Bonds hit his 749th career home run, it didn’t feel annoying or uncomfortable, but just like another quintessential San Francisco experience to savor for nostalgia’s sake.

Later, as we walked home, Joe turned to me and said somewhat incredulously, “That was actually fun.” It made me happy to think that there may be other introvert-friendly night spots waiting to be discovered, and more chances to have a relaxing night out on the town. Of course, now we have an entirely new city to navigate and explore, with its own limitations (primarily the smokiness of most public places) and opportunities (absinthe is legal in France). But now we’ll be looking for the best place to have a pastis as we create new Parisian memories.

Luckily I was blessed with parents who are introverts themselves, so I didn’t experience much parental pressure to behave in an extroverted way. However, I can remember extroverted teachers and professors who did not understand what I was going through, and who tried to make me fit into a mold that felt extremely uncomfortable. The sad part is that I think they really did believe they were doing me a service by trying to draw me out of my “abnormal” inwardness. They felt I needed to behave differently in order to be successful in the external world, when what I cared about most was the inner world of my feelings and impressions.

I was reminded of these painful memories when I read a post on the June Harbor Web site. The author begins by lamenting the treatment of female introverts by society (another topic on which I have strong feelings to be discussed at a later date), and continues on to voice an insight I felt to be very poignant:

Being an introvert does not make me unhappy. What makes me unhappy is the number of extroverts who insist that I am not happy as an introvert, and that I need to “get out” and party, etc., in order to qualify as a satisfied individual.

I think this is spot on, because others’ misunderstanding of our deepest nature can truly make us miserable at times. And adding to that, it can be very difficult for introverts to explain themselves to people who have never learned the “vocabulary” of introversion; the concepts just don’t make sense. As an example of this, further on in the post the author links to an article, Introversion: The Often Forgotten Factor Impacting the Gifted, that aims to inform educators and parents about the particular needs of gifted introverted children (again another interesting topic to follow up on at a later point). While I think the article is a good attempt at raising awareness, I disagree with the overall approach to the subject matter.

While I don’t mean to be dismissive, the two authors themselves state that they are, respectively, an extrovert and a “coping introvert.” This identification seems to set the tone for the article. I was especially struck by the statement that introversion is “…similar to perfectionism in that a little is beneficial and too much is harmful.” Huh? To me perfectionism is a bad habit that causes problems for those suffering from it; I don’t feel that way about introversion at all. It’s not something I can turn on and off and experience in degrees; in other words, it’s not simply a behavior, it has to do with one’s whole orientation to the world. To be fair, the authors do make a lot of good points about how to create more comfortable home and school environments for introverted children (which I applaud). However, overall the article seems to imply that introverts are fragile beings who must be protected from extroverted society, instead of advocating for fair treatment of both introverts and extroverts as equals.

I think this is what rankles the most when people try to convert the introverted; the unspoken bias that introverts need to be “fixed,” that they are somehow fundamentally flawed and need to be saved from themselves in order to succeed in life. I don’t buy into that belief system—I’ve got my own religion and it doesn’t involve repenting of any introvert sins.

One effect of this phenomenon is the large amount of attention restaurant reviews get in local newspapers, especially in the San Francisco Chronicle. Every year, the Chronicle staff picks what it considers to be the Top 100 restaurants in the Bay Area, an effort spearheaded by critic and executive food and wine editor Michael Bauer. While I’ve been lucky enough to have visited some of the places that consistently make the list, there are always others I’m eager to try. But after reading a recent post on Bauer’s blog, Between Meals, I’m not so sure I’m missing anything.

In his post, titled Restaurants pump up the volume, Bauer discusses the growing trend of excessive noise at restaurants. He chalks it up to changes in architectural and interior design that incorporate “high ceilings, [and] hard surfaces,” and also to some diners’ preferences for a lively atmosphere. He also notes that since different people have different reactions to noise, for the past ten years the Chronicle has included a noise rating in their restaurant reviews. This system, which ranges from one bell (“pleasantly quiet” at under 65 decibels) to a bomb (“too noisy for normal conversation” at 80 decibels and above), is meant to help diners decide where to go for that special meal.

The problem is that—as Bauer himself points out—a huge percentage of well-reviewed restaurants fall at the noisier end of the spectrum. In fact, out of the Top 100 restaurants chosen by the Chronicle, 43 score a four bells rating (“can only talk in raised voices”) or above! Bauer also acknowledges that he doesn’t factor in this noisiness when determining how many stars to give a certain restaurant, whether when considering its food (understandable) or its ambience (not so understandable). Nothing about a restaurant’s ambiance affects me more than the sound level; it’s very hard for me to concentrate in loud environments, and it’s almost impossible for me to enjoy anything in that state.

To be fair, it’s the nature of popular restaurants to be crowded (and therefore somewhat noisy), but what bothers me is that some people see this as a positive thing. Chaos and hubbub are taken to mean that a place is really buzzing and trendy, and there is no reason not to add one’s own spirited conversation to the mix. Obviously, I feel differently. As I mentioned in an earlier post I think people should be responsible for how their second-hand noise affects other people, and telling those who prefer quiet to go somewhere else is unfair. Of course, dining at an expensive restaurant is a privilege, and not a right, but if these restaurants serve particularly excellent food, as the rave reviews would attest, quieter diners should have just as much access to it as those who are more boisterous.

I don’t absolve proprietors of their part in the problem either; many things can be done to tone down the noise level that aren’t always done. However, I think the greater issue is the growing noisiness of society in general; how we are more and more enveloped by noise when in the public space (at least in my urban experience). From excessively loud cell phone conversations to blaring music to nonstop traffic sounds, it’s no wonder many people now insulate themselves through the constant use of music players such as iPods. However, I don’t necessarily see this as a positive trend; it seems to reinforce the illusion that we can create our own bubble, and can ignore those around us. This is just the other side of the coin; those who are excessively loud seem to feel they are in a bubble as well.

Another article from the San Francisco Chronicle last week points this out beautifully. In it, columnist C.W. Nevius responds to the recent decision by the Federal Communications Commission to continue its ban on cell phone use on airplanes. Making a point about how annoying it is to be subject to another’s cell phone whims, Nevius tells the story of a man who was forced to listen in on a loud phone conversation taking place a few steps away from him in a coffee shop. After the two men made eye contact, the caller approached the first man and stated: “I’m engaging in a private conversation here. Could you move down a couple of tables so you aren’t listening in?” For all my aversion to noise, that kind of comment really makes me want to scream.

I always know trouble is on its way when the first question out of a server’s mouth is “So, where you folks from?” Since I know I cannot just shrug and stare down at the table, having tried that before with somewhat hostile results, I meekly bleat out the answer, feeling put out before I’ve even tasted the food. I take solace in the fact that this person probably doesn’t realize how discomfiting this is to an introvert; answering personal questions put forward by a stranger, from the innocuous (“hot enough for you?”) to the deeply private (“what color underwear are you wearing?”), is a keen sort of torture for most. More to the point, small talk is not the reason I have entered this dining establishment. My number one reason for doing so, strangely enough, is to procure food to eat, followed closely by the need to sit quietly and carry on a whispered conversation with my dinner mate.

At such times, I think longingly of the meals I’ve eaten in France, a country that generally understands the need for discretion in these circumstances. With certain waiters, a nod can speak volumes, and a wordless understanding of their guests’ every need is a skill they’ve perfected. These dear folks are content to simply present the options, answer questions and take your order, and then largely disappear for the rest of the meal, excepting when the food arrives, and the moments when he or she unobtrusively brushes baguette crumbs from the tabletop to make room for the crème brülée.

As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, this happens to be a pet peeve of mine, although in some moods I am able to ignore the intrusion of noise and stay focused on what I’m watching. This wasn’t one of those nights. What made it more disturbing for me is that I knew how much I had paid to be there, and how much all those around me had similarly forked over for their tickets. Ultimately, because I wanted to relax and enjoy the show, I tried to see the situation from the other side. Maybe, I thought, some people can’t get full enjoyment out of something unless they can talk about it while it’s happening. Maybe, but unfortunately this behavior comes into direct conflict with what I need in order to enjoy a show: namely dead silence.

Later on, as I reflected on this conundrum, I realized that I feel the same way about intrusive noise as I do about second-hand smoke: that people are free to do what they want as long as they don’t interfere with the happiness or health of others. Just as patrons in a smoky bar cannot escape second-hand smoke, so second-hand noise is unavoidable for those who prefer quiet when watching a performance. Of course noise is rarely such a health hazard, although it has been known to raise its sufferers’ blood pressure to dangerous levels, and to unsettle their usual tranquil state of mind.