My mum used to despair of me.
Not because I was naughty. At least, not always. But because I had questions about everything.
“Mum, what is that?”
Not five steps later:
“And what about that?”
She explained it. Patiently. Usually. Until the next question.
“But how does it work?”
By then I was already touching it.
“Arie… look with your eyes.”
That was easier said than done. To me, feeling was part of looking. If something had a button, I wanted to know what happened when you pressed it. If it moved, I wanted to know why. If it had been made, I wanted to know how.
To my mum, a shop was a place to buy groceries.
To me, it was a museum where you could ask about everything and touch nothing.
I tended to forget that last part.
Years passed. The toy shop gave way to cameras, computers, cars, logistics and everything people invent to make the world a little smarter.
But that one question remained.
How?
How does a ship carry one hundred and twenty-five inland-vessel hulls?
How does a hearing aid work?
How can an Excel file become smarter?
How do you build a drone?
How does a photographer put the image in his head onto paper?
Some people mainly want to know what something is.
I usually want to know how.
I thought about that recently. I was on a ship during an outing with a local business association. In Rotterdam, an enormous transport ship passed us. Not a container ship, but a ship filled with inland-vessel hulls. Five high. Five wide. Five long.
One hundred and twenty-five steel hulls.
Everyone watched.
My first thought was not: that is enormous.
My first thought was:
“How?”
Perhaps that has never changed.
These days, I no longer touch everything. I finally learned not to.
Well… usually.
But the curiosity remained.
And honestly, I hope it always will.
Because as long as you can still ask how something works, the world is far from finished.