A journalist with bells on
The other day as I was enjoying the delightful Fall weather we’ve been having as of late, I decided to take my work outdoors. For a writer, this is easy to do. I found a nice bench a little off the beaten path so that I could have relative quiet and peace while calling a source for an article I’m writing.
I dial, and as soon as the phone starts ringing church bells start playing loudly. I look at my watch, thinking, it’s not even on the hour? And then realize in slight horror that this is a church bells concert of sorts and a whole entire song was playing. The call goes to voice mail and as the message goes on (and on) I hope to all that is good that the church bells will conclude before I start my message…
Nope, they are still playing. “Hi,” I say tentatively. “This is Stephanie returning your…” I go on hastily trying to speak over the bells and remember everything I wanted to say. I hang up, furious. My source is going to think I’m a journalist who comes with bells playing in the background? (As I reflect on this now, I think that would actually be quite cool and create a whole new meaning for being there with bells on).
The song is still playing mind you, and I as huffed and puffed about the situation, I finally allowed myself to calm down. And listen. And it was a beautiful song.
It reminded me of something I wrote a couple of years ago that I want to share here:
Missing out on Metro music
And I feel guilt and shame every time I walk past a somewhat decent musician in a metro station—expecting Gene Weingarten to jump out from behind the fare card machines crying, “you uncultured dupes!”
But my train home only runs every 75 minutes.
I appreciate culture. I don’t appreciate the fact that I have no spare time during my commute.
I sure hope I’m not ever rushing past something profound.
If so, it’s MARC‘s fault I don’t smell the roses. Case closed.