I've been e-free for two weeks: no cell phone, no e-mail, no Twitting or Tumbling, very little television, and zero consulting of the Google. I carried an actual paper notebook, a smoothly-writing pen, and my camera.
It was only strange for the first two days.
I could just as easily blame the strangeness on travel as much as having all that freed-up time and no pings of contact from the wider world. Even though I won the economy-class lottery jackpot (a solo seat in the AB aisle meant that I was able to sleep flat, curled up tight as a bean on the flight from Philly to Roma), the change of location and time is still a shock to the system. Not brag-complaining.
It took a few days for my handwriting to regain some of its bygone neatness –– much typing in the past few months. Time stretched: without an online Scrabble game or random link to visit, it was just me and my paper, and my eyes looking around.
It was only strange for the first two days.
I could just as easily blame the strangeness on travel as much as having all that freed-up time and no pings of contact from the wider world. Even though I won the economy-class lottery jackpot (a solo seat in the AB aisle meant that I was able to sleep flat, curled up tight as a bean on the flight from Philly to Roma), the change of location and time is still a shock to the system. Not brag-complaining.
It took a few days for my handwriting to regain some of its bygone neatness –– much typing in the past few months. Time stretched: without an online Scrabble game or random link to visit, it was just me and my paper, and my eyes looking around.
I gobble up books while traveling. Self-control for any bookworm requires an attempt to regulate the hours spent with a nose in a book. Trying to keep a lid on it, I permit reading on the treadmill, for an hour before sleep or at noontime, and, of course, any time on a plane or a train or when someone else is driving. Not having an e-reader, I prepared for this trip as usual: my carry-on bag is well stocked. I fear running out of words before running out of time.
On the connection into Philly, I gulped down Gail Caldwell’s memoir Let’s Take the Long Way Home. It starts, heartbreakingly, with, “It’s an old, old story: I had a friend and we shared everything, and then she died, so we shared that, too. “ I bawled my eyes out.
On the connection into Philly, I gulped down Gail Caldwell’s memoir Let’s Take the Long Way Home. It starts, heartbreakingly, with, “It’s an old, old story: I had a friend and we shared everything, and then she died, so we shared that, too. “ I bawled my eyes out.
As for the rest of the airplane time there and back again, it went in a series of swoops and flights: Kristin Cashore's Bitterblue and Vanesssa Diffenbaugh's The Language of Flowers, and my favorite of the trip, Eleanor Brown's The Weird Sisters. I've got a lot to say about that -- whole pages in my travel journal -- but it will wait for another day.
Here in the real world, back on my own side of the big pond, my e-connections are buzzing and glowing. 283 e-mails. 14 voice messages. 22 Facebook notifications, 134 e-mails on the other address, and 12 voice messages on the other phone. Winnowed down: four good e-mails, six valuable phone messages, and a lot of gossip on Facebook.
How many minutes would it have been for me to check these things during these e-free days?
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