Over the holiday break, I had a piece published in the New York Times Magazine about my snail obsession and how it helped me adjust to life in Switzerland. You can read it here.
This post is kind of a cousin or sibling to that one. Let me know if you like this kind of writing, or if you’d rather have the typical hand-wringing analysis of minor records or trends or whatever else it is I do here.
For a short period of time in my late 20s, I was, according to a handful of friends, “Louisville famous.” This meant that within the Louisville, Kentucky, Metropolitan Area, people who listened to a lot of public radio or who attended live storytelling events (this is probably a redundant list) knew who I was.
“Famous” is a stretch. Fame for local journalists went to hosts of radio shows, newspaper columnists whose photos ran next to their bylines, and anyone who was on TV. I was less notable than most of my on-air colleagues. Still, I would occasionally be recognized. In a restaurant, someone might say “aren’t you on the radio?” The question left me flattered but made me worry that I was talking too loudly. Once when I was playing tennis in the park, a man stood outside the chain link fence watching me. During a break in play, he said, “You’re Gabe. ” I said yes. “I liked your article about pens,” he said, and walked away. On a Saturday afternoon, a stranger outside a cigar store yelled out “Moth man!” a reference to my co-hosting the live Moth events in the city. The rewards of this fame were having a local food truck name a hamburger after me for a night (it was good) and forming a lasting friendship with the guy who called me Moth man.
Still, even this limited recognition made me nervous. It wasn’t because I might be spotted doing something embarrassing. I didn’t worry about reputational damage. I wasn’t comfortable having a reputation at all.
I’m shy. I liked the anonymity of being on the radio or existing only as a byline in print. Once, the station ran a photo of me to promote the news blog I wrote. I was thrilled when a local lawmaker said “hey who is that in the ad for your blog?” unaware it was a photo taken a year prior.
After Louisville, we moved to Boston, then to D.C. I worked behind-the-scenes in newsrooms, only occasionally writing or putting my voice on-air. I wasn’t a little fish, I was a plankton. Unknown except to those who I wanted to know me (friends, mostly, as well as the staff at the restaurants and coffee shops I frequented).
Now I’m in Switzerland and I think I’m getting a reputation again, but not for work.
Every morning, I jog along a set path, usually at the same time each day. This means I see the same people. The custom here is to greet someone with a Grüezi as you pass, which I do, even when I’m out of breath pushing for a better mile kilometer time. They return the greeting, even if they’re speeding by on a bike or tying up a dog waste bag. With some of these strangers, the greeting has expanded into a miniature conversation in passing. They’ll comment on the weather, maybe, or say something about how I’m still at it. One group of dog walkers who I often pass always throws me for a loop, shouting phrases in German that force me to match my physical exertion with mental. I worry about being rude, so I usually smile, nod, and agree to whatever it is they’ve said with the word for “yes” or “exactly” or “one more day.”
The other day, a guy who lives at the top of our hill was on the sidewalk talking to a man from a tree-cutting service. He said something beyond my comprehension, so I sped up to give myself plausible deniability for a snub. Before I got out of earshot, I heard something I could translate: Er ist jeden Tag hier. “He’s here every day.”
Self-consciousness over my pace and appearance aside, I don’t mind this kind of recognition. It’s neighborly. In Boston and Washington, there were people who lived in our apartment building who didn’t say hello. In Louisville, people were friendly but sometimes the encounters carried some kind of expectation; people asked for my take on a big local news story, for gossip about NPR personalities, or for a recommendation letter for a young relative who was applying for jobs “and would just be thrilled if you could do something.”
I like having the neighbors as part of my day, and I like thinking that I’m part of theirs. If I don’t see someone for a while, I ask myself if they’re on vacation or maybe feeling sick. I hope their dog is still healthy enough for a morning walk. I wonder if they do the same for me. When I’m out of town, do they ask “what happened to that bald guy with the funny accent?”
In a way, I feel less like a person people interact with and more like part of the scenery here—the jogger in the green cap who never goes any faster, never gets any thinner, and appears along the road to Schönenbuch on weekday mornings. Really, I suppose I’ve become part of a routine. Walk the dog, see that guy, go home. I like it. The only expectation is a friendly word or two and the unspoken promise of being back at it tomorrow.
