Turn down the volume, New York!

As a journalist, I’ve learnt to guard against stereotyping. So on arrival in New York (my first time there) I had not given a thought to the loud, brash New Yorker of legend. I wasn’t expecting to encounter clones of Eddie Murphy, Sylvester Stallone or Jerry Seinfield. Yet, they were all there, en masse. New York is full of …well…New Yorkers. And boy, are they loud?

Loudly spoken New Yorkers

On our first night in New York, we were content to leave the ‘city that never sleeps’ to its own devices and to climb under the covers for an early night. We didn’t expect to be disturbed. Wrong.

New York Voices

Around midnight, we were woken by a voice. There was no one there. Was it the radio? The television? No. It was coming from the next room.

Believing the walls to be unusually thin we sat patiently while the voice gave a critique of Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler. Not finished, itthen went on to explain the parallels between West Side Story and Romeo and Juliet – hardly drawing a breath. The monologue was punctuated by a second person’s intermittent “uh-huh”. The oration was long, the breath control and voice projection awesome. And the voice was thorough. Not a stone was left unturned. Luckily, it was not in possession of any insights on other Broadway shows – at least none that were shared that night. Uh-huh.

The theatre critic had a voice that could penetrate twenty metres of wet cement…

But the walls were not thin. The theatre critic had a voice that could penetrate twenty metres of wet cement and it wasn’t a unique skill in New York. What’s more, they don’t have dialogues. You know, conversations – where speakers take turns. It’s most noticeable when they are on the phone (and they’re always on the phone). There are just no gaps.

Taxi drivers are serial offenders. I’d often make the mistake of thinking the driver was talking to me and attempt an answer. My joining in never bothered them. They just kept talking on that phone as if I wasn’t there. And I thought only my children had that talent.

Walking along Broadway in the Financial District we were privy to a mobile phone conversation that went on for more than ten blocks. The speaker was loud. And was he indiscreet? HELL, YEAH. If only I knew the identity of the listener (I knew most everything else) blackmail would be almost obligatory. (But only if one has criminal tendencies – and everyone knows writers don’t have those.)

Can you hear me?

Yet, not for a minute am I suggesting New Yorkers are impolite – insensitive to those around them, yes. Impolite, no. In fact most service providers had obviously been schooled in polite key phrases and told to use them often. ‘You’re welcome,’ was the polite retort to everything that was said, be it the appropriate response or no.

Inappropriate responses are known as non-sequiturs. They’re my husband’s preferred mode of communication. In his case he is listening but is as deaf as a post. Not something to which he’ll freely admit. To cover up his deafness, he guesses. He answers what he expects a person to say.

‘Which stop are you getting off at?’

‘No.’

Inappropriate responses are known as non-sequiturs. They’re my husband’s preferred mode of communication.

What’s worse, since being in New York getting him to admit he’s hearing deficient is impossible. He’s heard every word that has been uttered while in New York – even through walls, hasn’t he?

Interestingly, people speaking at high decibels did carry some rewards – in restaurants, for instance. While Hubby and myself quickly gave up on our own mealtime conversations (competition being too fierce), eavesdropping became mandatory and a bit of an art. If you chose your dining neighbours wisely there was all sorts of interesting stuff you could pick up. One man was planning to move to Korea to take up a teaching post. He got the job during a ‘speed interview’. Akin to speed dating, he had gone to a jobs fair where one moved from employer to employer and had five minutes to convince the interviewer to hire you. Imagine that.

Conversely, you could be unlucky and just be privy to a mealtime of whining about the “FREAKIN’ ECONOMY.” Should I have interjected with a question over American culpability, do you think?

Stereotypical(?)

All of the New Yorkers we encountered were real people, not stereotypes. Nevertheless they were eerily familiar. I think that in our endeavours to be politically correct sometimes we fail to understand that stereotypes are formed from particular and prevalent types. To ignore this is as misleading as to imagine that every one of a type will conform to a standard.