Without a Cell Phone: A Country

Girl in the Big City

By Michelle Kennedy

I recently had the chance to visit Seattle, Wash. I was very excited because I had not only never been to Seattle, but I had never seen the Pacific Ocean. The opportunity for me to travel is very rare and I usually jump at whatever chances I get.

My husband, who has been to Seattle, regaled me with tales of the wonderful city. He told me I’d never want to come back and wouldn’t be surprised if I tried to get us to move there. This excited me, I must admit. A city so wonderful I would never want to come home—what could it hold for me? As a teenager, going to Chelsea High School, I couldn’t wait for the day when I would get out of my little town and experience the "real world." Some of that old anticipation washed over me.

I passed over the Rockies and I got butterflies in my stomach. These were the real Rockies. And then came Mt. St. Helen’s and Mt. Rainier—two imposing, snow-covered volcanoes (the first I had ever seen) that seemed to rival our airplane for height. The Green Mountains of Vermont paled in comparison.

After a full day of being escorted around town, I realized I hadn’t had much of a chance to really see this city that everyone raved about. So I started to walk. And as I was walking, I started to notice something. I automatically walked faster. Just being in the city seemed to encourage me to pick up my usually leisurely walking pace.

And so I sat on a bench and watched. It was mesmerizing. It had been some time since I had been in a large city (Barre notwithstanding), and I was fascinated.

These people moved fast! And all of them had cell phones attached to their ears. So they were walking fast and talking at the same time. Hundreds of people, up and down the sidewalk, ignoring everything in their wake and talking. Always talking. Now, people who know me will laugh at my amazement because I am known to have a problem shutting up, but I never felt so quiet as I did just then.

In fact, the people who invited me to Seattle were perplexed when I told them I didn’t have a cell phone. No cell phone? How do you live? They asked. Well, I talk on the phone at home. I tried to explain to them that I wasn’t Amish—I just happened to live in a place where cell phones don’t work.

What do you mean they don’t work? How do you live? They asked again. This is the same response I get when I try and explain to people that I don’t have high-speed Internet access or cable TV.

At first, I felt a little out of place that I didn’t have these accoutrements of the now-normal American life. But as I watched these people running about or driving very fast only to slam on the brakes at the next stoplight a block down the road, I realized that I was proud of my non-technological status (I’ve always liked to be different). It also caused me to slow down my pace when I stood up and continued my walk. When I slowed down, I noticed things.

Like the sun setting over the ocean. I always knew that there were some places in the world where the sun set over the ocean, but I had never seen it. And so I quietly stood at the harbor and watched this magnificent sight.

I talked with a homeless woman about the hordes of people rushing about. She doesn’t rush about anymore, she said. She watches the tourists struggle with their heavy bags loaded down with over-priced smoked salmon and laughs to herself.

"But I do own a cell phone," she said. It made sense to me that she would.

I had my own shopping bag full of "Seattle" t-shirts for the kids and so we laughed about that too. She asked me where I was from. I told her and she said that she always wanted to visit Vermont. She heard that the leaves are very pretty. They are, I said. They definitely are.

I bought the woman some dinner and then said goodbye. I tried to pick up my pace again so that I could make the "walk" sign and get back to my hotel. Finally back in my room, I savored the quiet. My eyes felt like they had been spinning.

It was foggy when I left Seattle and so I didn’t see much on the way home, but I didn’t need to. I knew what was down there and it wasn’t for me.

"How was Seattle," my kids asked when I got home.

"A little loud," I replied.