Walking home

It is curious to me that as I've gotten older, people have become more and more concerned with how much I walk and when and more and more apt to offer me rides, even when I can see no reason for it.

As a child, I walked home from school almost every day. I know: uphill both ways in snow with no shoes and 100 pounds of books. While there was a slight rise leaving the school, I fully admit that it was downhill the whole way, I mostly forgot my books and my parents were very vigilant about my footwear. Although I was not always good about wearing long pants or tights. It was about a mile and a half, and since I walked at the pace of a stoned snail stuck in molasses, it took about an hour every day.

And No One Protested. No One. No one said "Call me when you get there." No one gave me that raised eyebrow look of despair at my act of self-transportation. No One.

When I was 17 and lived in Great Barrington and worked at the pizza joint, I walked about 3/4 of a mile to and from work. Going to work was nice, coming home was terrifying. There were no street lights, the road was almost always completely deserted and there was a cemetery that I had to pass. Also, it was winter in the Berkshires, I was miserable and cold and jumpy for the entire 7 months I lived there. It was so dark. I had never known that kind of dark in a residential area in my life. Ever. I learned a lot about being aware of my surroundings there. How to judge the distance from one house to another; how to know where my feet would fall on sidewalk or street no matter how much snow, things that I'd never processed before, but had known from experience.

In Wichita in my early 20's, I walked. And again, while occasionally friends would loan me their cars, parking was a pain in the ass and I was terrible about filling the gas tank. I preferred to walk. Everywhere. And No One required me to justify it. Or make the I got home safely call. I never got the half-eyebrow.

I write a lot about walking. It is my rhythm, it is how I see the world, it is my preferred method of transportation. I dream of walking tours and vacations that are pilgrimages and Hadrian's Wall and boots and light packs and no cameras and notebooks, because that's how I love the world the best. On the ground. Between my feet and their motion, in the sounds of the street level debris and the relative non-existence of passers-by.

So, I am here now, closer to 40 than my folks want to admit. In this very small town. I got a part-time job. I walk to it. It's about 8 blocks. Not 8 Chicago blocks, mind, these are short. And EveryOne is Concerned. Ev-e-Ry-One. All Of Them. Even the People Who Raised Me.

The walk is nice and sort of surreal. I cross the town square, go to the other side of town, if you will. There are street lights every four feet and wide sidewalks with easy to see cracks and gullys for safer navigation. I can stare in the empty storefronts and add something a little bit odd, a little bit not quite right to this deeply sensible little village. The stoplights tell me when to go and when to not go. I ignore them.

It is not over-confidence, it is simply that I will not have my life circumscribed based on someone else's ideas of propriety and routine. Safety is a thing that gets in my way more than it allows me live freely. High heels do not exist in my wardrobe. I know how to carry my keys for maximum blood-letting and also, I talk to myself at moments, just to maintain distance between me and, oh, everyone else.

Being a pedestrian is no longer about just getting somewhere unnoticed. I am aware of everything that goes on around me, from insects to pennies on the ground to just how many things besides driving the person at the green light is doing. I see the town, the city, the trees, the view.

I get home safely.