While storing away my luggage on the train, I noticed a tall man in his seat, holding a plastic doll. For a second, I was confused. I didn’t see a child nearby. Eventually, his daughter showed up.
“Hmm, why would you bring a four-year-old to the quiet section on the train?” I thought. The family later moved to a four-seater with a table right in front of me, and my judgy-ness persisted for a while. The kid wasn’t even particularly loud. She didn’t run up and down the hallway. She just sat with her parents, talked, and got excited from time to time. “Can I get one too?!” Slightly elevated volume, that’s all, really.
Still, I kept going down the snobby route: “If I had a child, I’d never book seats in the quiet section.” But right with that thought, it hit me: “You have no idea why they’re here—but there’s usually a reason, and, most of the time, it’s a good one, too.” Perhaps they didn’t realize what seats they were booking when they booked them. Maybe all other cars were full. Maybe they didn’t have seat reservations at all. They simply boarded a train and sat down where they found space.
I could imagine reasons for their reasons, too. Running for the train last-minute because a loved one didn’t want to say goodbye. Receiving false information from a train company official. Or it might have been a last-minute trip to check on a family member’s health.
Trains are a great place to practice patience and empathy. Crowds of humans perched together in small spaces, and everyone is merely trying to go somewhere else. Perhaps one day, I’ll show up on your train. Kid in tow, smack dab in the quiet section. If I do, please forgive me. I’ll have to take my chances that, like me, you’ll remember: There’s usually a reason—and I hope mine will be a good one.
