Talking the talk...

I like Americans for lots of reasons. They smile a lot, are generally always upbeat, and don't seem to live to put you down, are three of the things that come to my mind right now. But one of the main things I like about these people is that they love to talk. And in case you hadn't figured it out, so do I.

Interestingly, as a genuine Dutch-American, I immediately feel a need to modify that statement. So, for all Dutch people out there: yes, I like to talk. If you're from the North of the country: A lot.
For all Americans out there: Actually, that's not true. I talk about as much as you do, possibly even less, and nowhere near as much as the old ladies you see down at the quilt store, which I'm sure the statement "I like to talk" made you think of.

Glad we got that out of the way.
Anyway, as indicated by that little digression, Dutch people don't like it when people talk a bunch. It doesn't matter if you're a stranger or a best friend, talking a lot is somehow seen a sign that you must think you have noteworthy things to say, and unfortunately, in the Netherlands thinking that you are somehow noteworthy or worthwhile is still a questionable activity.

So as a child, I was told over and over and over again that I talked far too much. I talked to people I didn't know well, I talked to grown ups, I was kind to strangers, in short, I did all those things American parents generally encourage in their children, and Dutch adults abhor. You can imagine my relief when we moved abroad, and suddenly I was surrounded by people who talked as much, if not more, as I did. Suddenly, I no longer stood out, and no one was telling me to pipe down, be quiet, or just plain shut up.

Southerners are, if possible, even more eloquent than other Americans. They love to find out everything about you, and share their entire life story on your first meeting. Subsequently, my talkative rating has dropped precipitously. Nonetheless, I still feel very comfortable surrounded by people who don't care when you want to share something.

Except this morning. This morning I went to the gym, as is tradition on Friday mornings, to swim before I go to work. Although I've written about the interesting disparity in opinions on appropriate dress in the gym, I don't think I've ever mentioned how loud the ladies' locker room gets. You see, the same women work out there every day, at the same time. And so they've become friends, and they like to talk. That's great. I applaud social interaction as much as the next person. But these women are done with their work outs at around the time I walk in, which is about 6am. Now although I'm a morning person if you ever saw one, 6 am is on the early side for me. And yet I dare anyone to walk into that locker room and stay chipper. Because not only are these women chatting up a storm, they are doing so across the entire locker room, i.e., at the top of their lungs.

It's like walking into a chicken coop. There will be one lady applying her make up by the mirrors, carrying on a loud conversation about her husband's back surgery with a woman three locker rows down, while two women in the shower are carrying on a conversation loud enough for the women in the adjacent locker row to join in. And I'm not even talking about the loud laughter and giggles coming from the, judging by its echoes, cavernous steam room. Call me grumpy, but I can't handle that at six in the morning.

So usually I smile, nod, pull my bathing suit on in record time, beat a retreat, and brace myself for a repeat of the coop by the time I'm done swimming, as most of these women take about 45 minutes to get ready. But this morning was different.

I think the women felt bad for me. They've seen me come to the gym every Friday for months now. I'm by myself, I don't talk to anyone, and I think they wanted to include me. A very sweet thought. Really. But I can't tell you how taken aback I was when after my swim, while I was changing into my running gear, two of the women struck up a conversation with me about swimming. They were on either side of my locker, so I couldn't escape, and they were asking one question after another. I tried to be nice. I think I was nice. I know I smiled and answered their questions, but I couldn't wait to get out in to the quiet gym.

I'm not grumpy. I'm not. But I fear that I may need to change my swimming time if I want some peace and quiet next week...