Three realities: a personal essay
by Otto Esterle
Three realities, a quantum theorist might say three outcomes, happened at once. It started in the early evening when I got on the Red Line at Muzeum. I’d just gotten out of a teacher training course I was taking as part of my orientation into the Montessori pedagogical system for a job I'd recently begun at a Prague high school. That morning I’d read an article on multiple outcomes—quantum experiments—which basically found that not until an event is observed is its outcome settled. I’d read similar articles before, but they were technical and harder to follow. This article, which a friend had shared on FB was easier to digest.
Just a few years ago quantum theories were only found in scientific journals and left-leaning outlets like the New Yorker or Economist, now they were popping up in the Week and Politico and being pushed through social media. I was considering this on the Metro and some aspect (I can’t trace it back to what in particular) of this thinking triggered something about a paper I’d been working on for another professional development course I was taking on IB pedagogy. Plus, I'm rereading an essay on the culture industry by Adorno and thinking how I can use it in my IB syllabus. I only mention these details to help convey a state of mind, split between modern pedagogy and 20th-century criticism and thinking about quantum possibilities.
I’d had an epiphany during the week concerning my approach to teaching at this point in my life. I don’t know if the notion had ever occurred to me to take my job as a teacher seriously. It’s always been my motto that I would promote fraud and subvert whenever opportunities revealed themselves. It occurred to me, in the middle of two different pedagogical trainings and reading Adorno’s Culture Industry essay that I’ve got a pretty good grasp on the pedagogy and what if I tried to move higher into administration or training.
It’s in this time of reflection and scheming that I swam off the metro at Holesovice and into the intercity and long-distance train section of the station. The timing was perfect; I should have suspected something was amiss. Like the cat in The Matrix, déjà vu. My transfer between the city metro system and the long-distance network normally included delays and loudspeaker announcements, but today the train pulled up just as I stepped onto the platform. I walked through the sliding doors almost without having to break my stride, sat down in the first available seat, and opened my laptop.
On the train from Holesovice, I take the long-distance regional to Kralupy. This train stops in Kralupy, I get off and walk over the tracks (they let pedestrians walk over the tracks here) and catch the one-car diesel to Slany where I live.
I like this train (the one to Kralupy) because it’s the long-distance train and only stops twice before arriving in Kralupy. And then it continues north stopping at all major points until it hits the German border. Then turns around and does it again.
I sit down and start doing my work for the IB online course. Reading really pedagogical windbaggery at its finest. I was taking control of the text in a way that allowed me to recognize its value, and I think forgive the sanctimonious undertones, of the IB philosophy. More than likely it’s me just asking why bother, you can’t fight the onslaught of sanctimonious rhetoric.
I was really wound up in pedagogy and self-reflection.
I looked up from my work and didn’t recognize where we were right away, I turned to the guy next to me, a millennial punk rocker, and I say, “Kralupy? Tady” and he looks at me in shock. I said again, “Kralupy,” and he says with his shoulders and facial expressions yes. So I have a slight panic attack as I really have no idea how much time I’d been sitting on the train, I was engrossed. So when the kid says yes, I quickly stow my stuff and hop up and head to the door to wait. Nobody was waiting at the door yet, so I knew I must have gotten up way too soon. I checked Google Maps but found the little blue location indicator was slipping around the screen unable to situate my position on the map. It would be impossible to trust the GPS while on the train. I had gotten up too early, but to go back into the cabin after making a big ol’ fuck-of-an-exit-scene, was not an option, so I waited and stared at the receding tracks as they peeled away from under my feet through the end-car window.
As I’m standing there this gypsy comes and stands at the door waiting. Gypsies are always first at the door.
Another aspect—it was getting dark. I’m usually on the 4:24 Holesovice-Slany train, but today’s Montessori training had me getting a later train. I wasn’t 100% sure if Kralupy was the next stop, or I’d missed it. The punk rocker’s mimed assurances that Kralupy was coming up had me questioning myself and which stop we were approaching, so after a few minutes, I caught eyes with the gypsy girl and said, “Kralupy? Ano?” and she says, “Yes, the next stop.”
She says something else, I have no idea what because I was so shocked she spoke near-perfect English. Then I found out she’s from Mexico. I almost hugged her. I was so happy to talk with her. She’s been here for three years with her husband and kids. The relationship between the US and Mexico is historically charged and I wanted to know her take on living in the Czech Republic. I had many things I wanted to talk to her about but the train would be coming into Kralupy soon and I started talking more intently, almost like I was interviewing her.
So like I said before, when you transfer to the Slany train in Kralupy, you have many options for getting to the other platforms for transferring: underground, over the tracks, or down to the end of the platform and across a small walking bridge. Usually, when I’m making this transfer, it’s during peak commuter hours and people will swim along whatever pedestrian-enraged stream catches them, and I usually go down to the small walking bridge, it gives me a chance to have a smoke.
It’s in this direction we both go when we get off. I began, “So what’s your name?” which comes out awkwardly and she kind of looks at me funny. I can see she’s nervous, maybe she doesn’t want to be caught alone with me walking down the platform away from population and safety, so I say, “Oh, don’t worry, lots of people go this way to transfer to the trains on that platform,” pointing to the bank of trains waiting on a far-off platform. As I’m saying this I gesture behind us, as if to say, see? but no one is coming in our direction. Her eyes by this time are wide and darting back and forth.
I try to right the ship and say, “Hey, I’m Otto, and I hope we can see each other again…” (and then I realized that might have sounded too forward [I’m 50, she’s like 26], and then I say), “you know, on the train…I mean if it works out like that...OK.”
She says her name, but I don’t catch it, “What? Oh, Libu?”
“Yes,” she smiled to confirm as much and she said something like, “Well, you never know,” the kind of thing you say when you have no intention of ever following up on it.
We said our goodbyes on the last platform, and she continued on her way to whatever Kralupy neighborhood her home was in, and I turned to walk toward the trains. Usually, there are three trains on this platform: two, one-wagon, diesels, and one, two-car electric. The Slany train is always (in my experience) the first one-car train, parked in front of the Velvary train (also a one-car). Velvary is in the same direction as Slany, but switches and takes a more northerly route, I’ve never taken the Velvary train. As I walked toward the trains I smoked a fast cigarette and hopped onto the first train without thinking and immediately began to work. I was also replaying the whole conversation with Libu and wondered if I’d ever see her again.
In the one-cars you have a row of three seats facing each other on one side of an aisle, and on the other are two seats facing each other. Each set of bench seats has a small table, not big enough for a laptop, and a small trash bin, both attached to the wall underneath the window. The train was packed. I decided to sit in the small compartment reserved for strollers and bikes because nobody was there and I could spread out. In this small compartment, every passenger passes through on their way into the seating section. People walk on, stop in the small compartment to stamp their tickets, and then go through an access door that separates the compartment from the seating. In the small compartment area, the diesel fumes can be nauseating, which is why, unless you have a stroller or bike, no one ever sits in there. I was immediately immersed in my work and without recognizing it the train started on its way.
After an indeterminate amount of time, the train stops and there’s a few minutes delay. I looked around, the train was still full. It’s not uncommon for these little one-wagoners to stop at a station for a few extra minutes to align with the schedule or let another train pass on the tracks. I figured it was something like this, but the train didn’t go, and after glancing into the seating section, noticed a few of the passengers looking around and wondering what was going on too.
About this time, the driver comes out of his cockpit. He looks determined and on a mission. He opens the door and purposefully strides through the two rows of seats. He’s nearly accosted by angry old Czech babickas and men with tall cans of cheap beer. He says something to assuage their concerns and then disappears into the cockpit on the other end of the car.
As the driver’d left the door open, I leaned over and asked a kid sitting just inside the door what was up. He shrugged confused. To my uncultured eye, there is an obvious issue with the train. But judging from this kid’s response, I am some form of fuck-wad alien and he hasn’t within himself any ability to acknowledge, non-verbally or otherwise, any corroborating expression to his having a shared experience. To him, I am approaching this quandary inappropriately and not at all the way a Czech would. I fucked him off with my expression and resumed my work.
It was then a small little thought crept in. I didn’t recognize anyone on the train. We’d been stopped longer than on any Kralupy-Slany train I’d ever been. Was it possible I got on the wrong train in Kralupy. I hadn’t actually looked at the sign on the front of the train, I just took for granted the first train was the Slany train and got on and started working. Then the train jerked into motion and I figured my fears were for naught, then it moved a few meters forward, then back, then it started up. I couldn’t remember what direction the train was going as the time had passed and I was engrossed in my work, but I could have sworn we were now going in the opposite direction than we were prior to stopping.
I looked around and no one on the train seemed to notice so I thought well, this must be part of the route and since the Kralupy-Slany route I take never stops and reverses course, it confirmed in my mind that I was on the Velvary train. I got up and looked around trying to figure out where we were. In these old one-cars, it’s impossible to figure out where you are. There is only analogue information posted and it’s all in Czech and even the maps are so convoluted and tiny that they’re rendered useless to anyone other than Czechs. There are no electronic, up-to-the-minute marquees posting the next stop or final destination, and no voice comes over a speaker to announce anything.
In my mind I’d settled on the notion that this route, being late on a Friday, was some special route that because of a particular stop along the line, had to do this little course-reversal maneuver, and this was the key indicator I was on the Velvary train. The same kid I tried to ask what was up, came out into the small compartment area where I was turning all of this over and packing up my stuff. I asked him “Slany?”
He stared at me like a fuck-tard. I said, “Velvary?” He was thoroughly confused.
You can tell when people ride a train or bus regularly. They get up before the stop, they put their coats on or off based on whether or not there is time, they have transit cards, not tickets, and they look as if it’s all a huge routine. This kid was obviously a commuter on this route. If I take a route every day, I know the stops. If someone says to me, “Podlesin?” I would say, even if not in Czech, “yes” or nod my head up and down to say, yes, “Podlesin is coming up.” So whether this was the Slany train or some other stop beyond Slany, me saying “Slany” to this kid should have registered an affirming yes or a negative no. But, whether I said “Velvary” or “Slany” he had the same reaction. I was confounded by his reaction. I decided the best course of action was to see if I couldn’t tell what stop we were approaching, if I could, and it was one I didn’t recognize, I’d get off and figure out my next move then. I couldn’t discern any of the landscape clues and it seemed like we’d been traveling a disproportionately long time and I began wondering if this train was ever going to make another stop.
I called my friend who lives in a nearby village to see if he could pick me up and give me a ride home from Velvary, which is where I suspected I’d be offboarding, and when it seemed likely he could, my anxiety lessened. I called my wife and she immediately suspected me for being drunk and no matter my explanations she just kept saying stuff like, “I’ve known you for five years, this is what you do.” It was a bit sad as I wasn’t drunk, but even more so, that based on our five-year relationship she just assumed I was, based on my behavior over those five years. The sad part isn’t that she just assumed I was drunk, I occasionally like to get drunk, it’s that she’d attributed all my previously bumbled maneuvers as an effect of my drinking, when in fact, most of my bumbling is a result of me simply being confused.
I got off the phone with my wife and the train still hadn’t arrived at the next stop on the line and I was staring out the window trying to find something I recognized.
Finally, the train began slowing, I scanned as far ahead of us as I could, searching for familiarity, but even when it stopped at the station, I couldn’t make out the station’s name because its sign was in disrepair and half the letters missing. When the train does stop at these little stations, it’s only for a second and then it resumes course, so by the time I hopped off and was able to recognize the station, I couldn’t hop back on even if I wanted to. Just as I stepped off, I realized that the train was going back to Kralupy, and that the little back-and-forth maneuver the driver pulled had been to return to our original starting point. For what reasons, I had no idea.
I could now see the station’s name and recognized it as one that fell along the Kralupy-Slany line (confirmation) and I knew it was about halfway between the two towns. The problem being, I didn’t know which direction Slany was. The light in the small little station was on so I knocked tentatively and opened it to find an angry little blond Czech woman in her forties. I said something like “Smer Slany?” direction Slany? And she shook her head angrily and I repeated myself and she finally relented and pointed in a definitive direction. I didn’t understand her hostility and laughed as I silently closed the door. Just then a train coming from Kralupy pulled up and the angry woman came out to conduct her duties. I went to get on the train and she started shouting at me angrily. “Velvary! Velvary!” and I understood that this was not my train.
I called my friend to tell him he didn’t need to pick me up and that I’d catch the next train to Slany. As I was talking I checked my train app and could see the next train going to Slany was in 15 minutes so I walked up and down the platform talking with my friend and smoking a cigarette. I had to pay mind to my minutes because I had a paying by-the-minute arrangement on my phone so after my smoke I hung up, at which point a straggler had wandered onto the platform and started saying drunken shit to me in Czech. I spoke to him in English as if he could understand.
He was saying angry shit to me too and I was beginning to question reality. In fact, it seemed my reality was bifurcating into some quantum experiment where several outcomes were happening at once and because I wasn’t there to measure them (witness them) they all fell at one time upon my head. Like someone had slipped up. Parts were out of alignment. It’s not the parts’ faults, they only do what they do, it’s the guards slipping. The parts are there, regardless, we just can’t see what they’re up to, until we do and then blink the parts into existence. It seemed like every blink was like the shutter opening and closing, thus shifting my reality because the moment I stepped off the train at this small station, even before my foot hit the platform, I realized I was on the right train all along. It wasn’t until I tried various ways of confirming my theory I was met by stranger and stranger realities.
For example. The letters on the station sign being worn away and illegible in the night through the train windows and it wasn’t until the train departed that I knew where I was. Then the crazy train lady confounded me with her hostility directed at me for asking a seemingly circumstantially-appropriate question, and now this kid swearing at me. I wasn’t sure of anything and on my app, which I pointed out to the kid and that shut him up, said the Slany train was now over five minutes late, which isn’t good because I’ve had it happen that a line is so late they just wait until the next one comes, usually another thirty minutes, and if it’s late at night you never know if you’re missing the last train for the night. My anxiety and confidence were at odds.
Despite this, I peeked into the little train station once more, apologized and asked if she knew about the Slany train. She was furious now. I just laughed out loud and closed the door as her gesticulating arms and fists silhouetted the door frame before it shut.
At this point, from the direction opposite I was expecting my train to be coming, a train pulled up. It was a one-wagon diesel, but instead of a sign on the window of the train, as per usual, there was a replacement, hand-written sign that just said Slany/Kralupy, with no definitive way of knowing which direction it was going based on the hand-written sign. Usually, the sign in place has the origin destination in the top left corner, and the final destination in the bottom right corner, but this hand-written sign just had them side by side. In order to push the plot along I got on the train. I looked out the window for a sign of the train lady, but she didn’t come out. I expected her to be running beside the train shouting and flailing her fists.
I recognized immediately the train was going back to Kralupy. I just sat down and got my laptop out to do some work. I couldn’t work, I kept a watch for further signs of reality showing itself. This quantum slip-up was either a breakdown, a bifurcation because I was nearing the end and being prepared for something beyond, or someone had dropped the ball. The nearing the end part evoked a kind of sublime acceptance and I thought of my sons. It recalled a moment from earlier in the week, when standing on the platform at Holesovice and the light from the clouds made the sky sparkle and all the clouds had silver outlines, a slice of sunlight speared the pavement between two shadows cast by the overhanging eaves that protected waiting passengers standing on the platform from the elements. I had a strange sensation standing there. I thought of my sons then too. I wondered if it was connected. Was it bifurcation or a slip-up?
I resolved to keep a vigilant watch for signs. I wondered if my shift in my approach to my career was part of it. I wondered if I was dying. I tried to trace the evening's events and already they'd started to fade and converge: the system trying to restore order. I'd seen it though, as revealing as opening the hood of a car or removing the panel of a fuse box.
After going over the train schedule on my app and reviewing the different routes I'd been on, I found that the Holesovice-Kralupy train was the express and the reason I was disoriente because the time between the first stop and the Kralupy stop was longer on the late train. My usual route had two stops. Then I found that the Kralupy-Slany line I'd originally boarded was the right train all along and I concluded that because of the confusion on the first leg, the Mexican woman I met, and the work I was engrossed in affected my sense of time and space. I still can't account for the long delay and the sensation that the little one-car did a course-reversal in the middle of its route. Not to mention the hostility every citizen seemed to have toward me.
By the time I got home it was 9:30. I'd gotten on the metro at 5:30. That little commute normally takes me an hour and ten minutes.
My wife still thinks I was drunk.
