I noticed the phenomenon the first time some Ohio family came to Seattle for a visit. "Look!" I said.
Shining a spectacular red, there was Mount Rainier. The mountain remains covered in snow year-round and serves as this city's most prominent and beautiful landmark. I pointed to it from the ferry. "Those are 60 story buildings, 10 miles away, and the mountain's 75 miles away." They yawned. "Just look at how it towers over them," I tried.
"What year is your Jeep?" my sister asked, literally surveying her fingernails. "How much did you pay for it?"
I tried again with the next family member a year later. They were equally appreciative of the grandeur. "Yeah, that's nice. So did you hear Aunt Jane caught diabetes off a toilet seat?"
It's easy enough to attribute this attitude to my family's overall lameness. These are people, after all, who've never dared imagine living anywhere but central Ohio, who consider me weird for wanting a different life. They do not travel. They do not read. Natural beauty is not important to them. They have no dreams or plans; such things are best left to the next generation, so long as they too remain in central Ohio. They are absolutely incurious about the world around them. In the game of life, they are merely running out the clock.
Sure, I could write this incuriosity off as familial lameness, but that would be oversimplifying. Perhaps it's just a function of age, but most people I know seem to be running out the clock, lately. They blithely check off entries on the How Life Goes check list, talk of trips they'll never take, read only what affirms their world view, and have friends who only do likewise. For them, "adventurousness" means a midday trip to Costco, or perhaps ordering movies from Netflix instead of Blockbuster. But not both. That would be overkill.
When I was 15, I came to Washington in order to see gray whales. I was astonished by the beauty of Aberdeen, which is pretty funny to me now, but to a 15 year old kid from Ohio, Aberdeen is Cape Cod. When our commercial whale-watching vessel went to sea, it was pounded by enormous waves. A dozen people huddled in the cabin, depositing their complimentary huevos rancheros in red-striped bags labeled "Popcorn." I was the only person who remained on deck, which in retrospect was pretty dangerous. I bear-hugged a metal pole as waves crashed on the deck and swells towered above the boat. I was frightened. The storm was getting worse. But I had just come 2000 miles to see a whale, and goddammit, I was gonna see me a whale. And I did. Still hugging the pole, I watched with awe as this massive black thing rolled slowly, steadily by, completely unperturbed by the violent waters that were so battering me. For me, it was an immortal moment. For me alone.
It was a metaphor for what all of life would look like to me later. Curious people: taking a bite out of life; often out on deck alone, clinging for dear life; thrilled to have chased and caught wonder. Incurious people: cowering inside together, miserable and self-pitying; missing it all; thrilled that Netflix finally sent them that one Adam Sandler movie where he plays a guy who's kind of dim-witted. He's a kind of wonder!
They can have their popcorn bags. Point me toward the nearest metal pole, please.