Head on a swivel

When my sons go out into the world, I tell them to keep their head on a swivel. Be careful is a feeling, and it fades the moment they are out the door. Head on a swivel is something a person can do, look up, notice who is around you, read the room before you settle into it. Be careful asks you to worry. Head on a swivel asks you to see, and attention is what keeps you safe.

For a long time I did not live by it. One morning changed that.

In March of 2004, ten bombs tore through the commuter trains of Madrid during the morning rush. Nearly two hundred people were killed.¹ The images were still everywhere six days later when I boarded a train from Florence to Rome.

I was in a block of four seats, two pairs facing each other. The three people sharing them did the everyday things that travellers do. One slept. One read. One watched the hills slide past, and I could not do the same. My head was on a swivel whether I wanted it to be or not, and it kept returning to three other passengers a little way down the car.

Something about them would not let me look away. They were agitated in a way that did not fit the stillness of the morning. They kept glancing back over their shoulders. They huddled close and spoke low, then broke apart, then drifted together again. They rose and sat and rose again, separately, at odd intervals. One of them began to cry. I could not have told you what was wrong. I only knew that everything in front of me pointed one way, and the feeling would not fade.

For a long while I stayed in my seat, because doing something felt absurd. I told myself I was overreacting, that it was probably nothing. Who stops a train over a feeling? What would I even say? I ran the calculation we all run, the certain embarrassment of being wrong set against another Madrid, and then I got up.

I found a security officer and told him what I had seen, and how little I was sure of. A few minutes later the train slowed and stopped. Officers came through, spoke with the three men, and took them off, with their bags. The whole affair cost the rest of us about fifteen minutes. The men did not come back to their seats.

I have thought about that morning many times since. I do not know what I saw, and I never will. Perhaps there was nothing in it, three anxious travellers in a frightening week. Perhaps it was something. I have made my peace with not knowing; you have to act before you can know. I acted because the cost of being wrong was small, fifteen minutes and a little pride, while the cost of being right and staying silent was one I could not live with.

The monetary system is changing. The signal is loud for anyone looking for it and silent for anyone who is not, or who does not yet see what it means.

Acting before you can be sure

This is part of the work I do now, in that same space between the feeling and the proof, helping people act on a warning they cannot confirm before a clock they cannot stop. The monetary system is changing. The signal is loud for anyone looking for it and silent for anyone who is not, or who does not yet see what it means. What no one can tell you is whether the new powers will be turned against you, any more than I could be sure about the three men on that train. What you get is a choice, and the time to make it before the moment passes. The time to secure part of your wealth is before the danger is obvious. In the moment itself it is already too late. It feels as though it should take enormous time and effort, and it does not; the steps cost far less than you would expect. What little it asks of you comes only beforehand, while the train still rolls, when getting up still feels slightly absurd. By the time you are certain, the train has already stopped, and the doors are closed.

So I will tell you what I tell my sons. Head on a swivel. When the signal comes and it will not let up, assess the risks and make a decision.

You may already sense that too much of what you own sits in one country, one currency, one system. It is worth acting on. Let us connect before you are certain, while acting feels early.

Footnotes

1. The Madrid commuter-train bombings of 11 March 2004 killed 191 people and injured roughly 1,800; ten bombs detonated on four trains during the morning rush. Sources: Encyclopaedia Britannica, https://www.britannica.com/event/Madrid-train-bombings-of-2004 ; CNN, https://www.cnn.com/2013/11/04/world/europe/spain-train-bombings-fast-facts/index.html ↩