11. Allegorically Speaking
From the vault to the cave.
The Quiet Car
In the summer of 2013, we moved to Chicago. Technically we lived in Berwyn, a Western suburb. This is relevant because we both worked in Chicago (the West Loop) and used the Metra train to commute. One afternoon we rewarded ourselves by taking the train into the city and doing touristy things. We made our way back to Union Station and got into the car that looked the emptiest.
We were chatting about our day on the ride home. After a few minutes, a woman sitting in our car came over to us and smiled as she gently “Shushed” us while pointing at the sign designating that we were in the quiet car. If you’re unfamiliar, the concept is precisely what it sounds like - for those seeking quiet on the train ride home, there are designated cars where talking and other noises are actively discouraged.1
We sat for the rest of the ride like chided teenagers, embarrassed yet trying to act like we didn’t care. Once we got off the train, we talked about the woman now known to us for all of time as The Shusher.
So we were talking in a car where we were supposed to be quiet? We didn’t know about quiet cars, we just moved here. How were we supposed to know? So what if there were abundant signs telling us to please be quiet? So what if it seemed weird that literally no one else in our train car was talking and everyone seemed to be glaring at us?
As I started commuting, I often sought out the quiet car. As you may recall, I have a fondness for quiet spaces. I also have a fondness for spaces where the collective can rely on self-governance. If you got in the quiet car, it was implied that you also selected that specific car for the quiet. You were amongst commuters who had at least two things in common with you - they commuted by train and they sought sanctuary in the quiet.
It was a bonus quiet car commute when I was in The Shusher’s car because it meant that our car would stay quiet. The Shusher would ask anyone breaking the rules to please obey the rules, so I never felt pressured to step up. It was an extra special bonus - although incredibly rare - quiet car commute when a conductor would walk through the car and inform people talking that they were in a quiet car thus breaking our social contract. The conductor asking people to be quiet also pulled more weight because they were in one of the utmost positions of authority on our commute.
Sometimes I wasn’t in The Shusher’s car, which meant I would have to endure people talking in the quiet car while silently wishing they would just obey the rules and giving dirty looks. Or I could quietly make my way as someone did to me once and politely explain the rules to them. I came home enough nights complaining about someone talking in the quiet car and how NO ONE would say anything even though we all wanted the same thing, my husband asked why I kept choosing to sit there if I was so frustrated by the experience.
One night, I had had a particularly bad day at work and was looking forward to my quiet respite on the way home. As the train left the station, a couple made their way into my quiet car, sat down, and continued their conversation. All I wanted was a quiet space and here were these rubes having a conversation in the quiet car like they weren’t on a quiet car. Heart beating because even extremely mild confrontation is enough to make my blood pump, I made my way over to them, smiled politely, and said “Shhh, it’s a quiet car. Thanks!” They waved sorry and I went back to my seat, feeling very proud of myself for stepping up and defending the social contract.
But asking them to please obey the rules meant that I spent the rest of the trip on high alert. If someone - anyone - else talked in that quiet car, was it now my job to ask them to please be quiet? Because if I didn’t, then we had one group that had been told to please be quiet so now wasn’t I going to ask EVERYONE to obey the same rules? Even if we all agreed that we wanted the car silent and we were all irritated, wondering why the other ones didn’t say something but not irritated enough to say anything. I suddenly resented saying anything at all. This high-stress job I had burdened myself with made my ride significantly less enjoyable.
After that day, I didn’t ride in the quiet car anymore. I decided it was easier to be the quiet person in the loud car. I could accept the loudness because I found myself realizing it was easier for me to give up my comfort when I knew it would be loud anyway than expecting it to be quiet and it being loud, despite everyone around ostensibly wanting the same quiet I did.
I couldn’t count on the conductor to authoritatively tell people to be quiet or move cars because that rarely happened. I couldn’t count on The Shusher to always be in my car to ask people to be quiet and that wasn’t really a fair expectation anyway, was it? If I just left the quiet car, I wouldn’t be potentially saddled with having to enforce the rules of the social contract that I thought all of us would enforce when we chose to sit in the quiet car.
Mild Danger
Footnote-reading enthusiasts of this newsletter may recall recently that I identified an individual attribute training opportunity between carbonation and bitterness. Carbonation specifically and nocioception generally have been high on my list to learn more about. Nocioception is our nervous system’s way of processing noxious stimuli and is found throughout our bodies, including our skin, intestines, nasal passages, and mouth. On our palates, pain is carried by our trigeminal pathway to our brain via mechanical and thermal nociceptors. The trigeminal nerve in our mouths and noses is what alerts us to noxious stimuli, such as capsaicin heat, menthol coolness, carbonation fizz, tannic astringency, and mustard and horseradish pungency, as well as temperature. These are sensations separate from our sense of taste, which is communicated via taste buds. Similar to our sense of taste but unlike our sense of smell, nocioception is still possible when we are stuffed up from a cold or holding our noses to block volatiles.
I know this for a fact because one day I wondered what would happen when I plugged my nose and tried some Da Bomb hot sauce. I knew I wouldn’t be able to perceive the aromatics because my nose would be plugged. But capsaicin heat wasn’t detected by my taster receptors, so what would happen? Obviously, you know what happened, which is that I learned the difference between my taste receptors and my trigeminal nerve in the dumbest way possible.
Out of all the things our trigeminal nerve can sense to alert us to danger, the one talked about and researched the most is capsaicin. In the late 20th century (1997, haha), a pharmacologist discovered that capsaicin heat activates a receptor known as TRPV1 (pronounced “trip-vee-one”). TRPV1 is also activated by dangerously hot temperatures. So when we say that a chili is “hot,” we’re not being hyperbolic - our nociceptors are telling our brains that our mouths are being burned.
I live in a hot sauce and mustard household, so I am not unfamiliar with high-Scoville chilies and hot sauces. I’m not a massive fan of hot-for-the-sake-of-hot, but I can usually win the hot sauce-tasting dares or at least go toe-to-toe with the best of them. However, I’m not going to eat a steaming hot baked potato straight out of the oven even though it will activate the same receptors.
The difference between the two is that the steaming hot baked potato with a dangerously hot temperature has the potential to cause permanent damage to my mouth whereas a spoonful of Da Bomb or a dash of ghost pepper salt is only going to cause temporary discomfort.
You likely know someone in your life who thinks black pepper is too spicy (the active ingredient in black peppercorns is piperine, which also activates TRPV1). You may also know someone who dreams of being interviewed on Hot Ones for no other reason than that they don’t find the sauces used on the show to be “that hot.”
Why are we like this? Heat-seeking chili lovers will sometimes point to capsaicin as “waking up” their palates to other flavors, while heat-avoiding chili dislikers will point to capsaicin as making them not taste their food as well. Capsaicin has a minimal effect on blocking other flavors, if at all. The case may also be that the people who find the mild danger of capsaicin too overwhelming are focusing too much attention on their temporary discomfort such that they’re not paying attention to the underlying flavors.
Enjoying capsaicin heat from chilies is unique to humans - birds also eat chilis, but they lack receptors for capsaicin. Throughout the course of human history, some spices may have been added for their preservative effect. As time went on, we subconsciously learned to love spices that kept our food safe.
Some of us can tolerate the mild danger of making ourselves temporarily uncomfortable because we’ve learned the discomfort will not last. We can tolerate the signs of danger that others find so intimidating because we know the danger is false and the payoff is usually worth the mild danger of ingesting chilies.
And finally…
This newsletter is not about the rules of the quiet car or the mild danger of nocioception. But you already knew that.2
Just ask this gentleman who sits on the board of trade.
I actually wrote this newsletter in my hotel room in Nashville in the middle of the night during CBC-induced insomnia. I am consumed with studying atm so I’m thankful that I’ve got some content in the vault.