The Cracks in Consistency

We are inconsistent, all of us, a little: we know it, and if—after acknowledging it—we do little, it’s because (cacophonously and clumsily) we are, indeed, inconsistent. Consistency, etymologically, means “being attached,” to adhere fully to what we proclaim; unfortunately, we’ve become digital souls, prone to copy-and-paste and delete-and-trash, often more in search of likes than of a deep, coherent self.

In May 2025, I was invited to a conference with grandiose titles and stern content. The perfect occasion, top authorities in the front row: the regional president arrives one minute before it starts, gifts us his time, and delivers two banal cross-stitched platitudes. He sits next to me, nods, and—quite incoherently—expects my compliments. In that formal setting, I don’t offer them. I go on stage and speak: the president, mesmerized by his phone, vanishes after two minutes. A sublime paradox: I already know what I’m saying; what I could learn is lost among the notifications that drain our attention, intelligence, and care.

A few days later, Zelensky speaks in Parliament: Tusk and von der Leyen are statues of focused listening; our sister-president, friend and colleague of the American presidentissimo, is glued to her smartphone—perhaps saving the planet through emojis or memes. Institutional manners have evaporated like food in a 5G microwave.

And so I find myself mulling over a rosary of things I don’t understand: I count the beads of this very profane Hail Mary. Why, in public spaces, are restrooms evenly split—two stalls on the right, two on the left—when our biological clocks are not? If women need more time, why the same number of toilets? Why, in highway rest stops, do paper and plastic fall into the same black hole beneath giant green-leaf posters? Why do hotels say, “Hang your towel, save the planet,” and then change it anyway—maybe to avoid making us feel poor?

Even at home we seek coherence and act incoherently. We have many mea culpa to recite at the end of this rosary. Why do waiters around the world avoid eye contact instead of reading our signals? Why are hotel TVs designed by a crossword-puzzle enthusiast—three useless remotes? Perhaps to discourage use and replace the old enemy TV with more modern forms of brain fog.

What a sadness, opening the minibar in a beautiful hotel room. If we seek beauty, why find a peach iced tea—bland, dull, and sloppy (the three gravest “bl”s in Italian)—instead of a teapot and Darjeeling tea leaves? Maybe you decide to order it, and you get a berry-flavored tea instead. And what stories we might tell if, in the evening, along with that Darjeeling, came an invitation to watch The Darjeeling Limited by Wes Anderson? That would be a guest experience aligned with the stories we tell in our newsletters. Then I wake from these dreams and find a Sencha request answered with an iced tea tasting of sugar and chemicals, not ethics or Asia. Incoherence in a bag, not a leaf.

Other—less joyful—mysteries of my profane rosary: why do chefs prefer special effects over a decent tomato? Why, during our at-home veg-days, if a guest asks for ham, are we ready to offer it? Sure, we can’t impose, but surely we can explain why there’s no ham on Friday’s buffet. Maybe they’ll eat it anyway, inconsistently—but we, consistently, will have tried to educate.

In the end, wouldn’t it be more consistent to avoid inconsistency altogether? And why are the two hours of daily silence I had envisioned for our four homes ignored like unread terms of service? Is consistency just too much work?

I’ll stop here—grumbling without proposing is a national pastime. So I’ll try to be coherent and share coherence: I’ll turn off my phone when someone speaks; I’ll recycle properly, not just for show; I’ll order the right tea and explain to the barista how good loose-leaf tea can be; I’ll truly safeguard the silence we claim to value. Inconsistency will not be a crack, but an invitation to improve—together.

Being consistent doesn’t mean being dogmatic at all costs: it means aligning words and actions with firm honesty about our own missteps. Cracks let in a little light; it’s up to us whether to plaster them with slogans or cultivate a sprout of awareness. Fewer notifications, more eyes and ears on the people near us; fewer proclamations, less meat; fewer peach iced teas, more real tea. And if all this sounds caustic, I remind you: for sweetness to work, it needs a hint of acidity—from good lemons.

 .m