I hate being late. I hate when people are late. I find it a profound form of disrespect.
I get really annoyed when I’m standing at the doorstep, ready to leave, and my wife, for whatever reason, delays our departure. Or when we’re given a specific meeting time and discover that the person we’re waiting for—even just for a cocktail and dinner—is half an hour late and only bothers to let us know a few minutes before the agreed time.
This past weekend, both things happened. We were the last to arrive at a birthday party on Saturday, and yesterday some friends of ours were 30 minutes late.
I wondered where all this irritation came from, especially since, on both occasions, no one seemed to pay much attention to us or make a big deal out of it.
The best answer I came up with is that it’s naturally a cultural thing. Milan and its working life are chaotic, fast-paced, always with every second accounted for. Los Angeles, if anything, is the complete opposite. Although the two cities share traffic, life here is much more relaxed—it’s almost normal to have some accumulated delay in appointments or social gatherings.
Now that I think about it, every time we’ve gone out—unless it was for a show where we had to be there at a specific time—we’ve always been the first to arrive with friends and acquaintances, and more often than not, they’ve been the ones running late.
I probably need to work on myself a bit more and stop getting annoyed about this, since it doesn’t seem like such a big deal to others.