When I moved from New York City to rural northern Arizona, I faced two obstacles: my vocabulary and my manners. Spicy language and brusqueness were normal in the East Village, where I was unlikely to see many faces again. But they were impediments in a sparsely settled place where you run into the same people day after day. Life in a relatively rural area encourages nicer manners, so I learned to rein myself in.
The lesson doesn't come easily for everybody. "Could you do me a favor?" a Flagstaff bartender once asked me. "Could you go talk to that tourist for me? He's from New York, like you, and I just…can't. The beers are on me if you deal with him." I spoke to the guy, who resembled an exaggerated version of myself from a few years earlier. He wasn't deliberately rude, but he was in-your-face and sharp-tongued, reflecting manners shaped by faceless crowds.
