It's amazing, like the first time I ate a salad made with lettuce grown in my own garden. It began out of necessity. My husband needed to have his car serviced and since he works in another city, he needed my car. I usually hitch a ride with a colleague in these situations, but I wanted to see if I could get to work on my own. My office at the Times is just a little over 2 miles away from my home in Historic Old Northeast. I figured if I couldn't walk that distance and make it in on time, something was wrong with me.
After that first day I was sold. Using your own personal locomotion to get from point A to point B is incredibly liberating. No traffic. No stress. No vying for the best parking spot. I'm not polluting the environment or putting wear and tear on my car. I get to see the subtle, little changes occurring in the neighborhood from day to day. I get to observe my little piece of the world in a whole new, much more personal way.
For instance, there are two very large dogs that bark at me almost every morning, their massive heads poking out over a fence. They set off every other dog on the street, and I can still hear the cacophony eight blocks away. I never noticed the dogs before. They scare the bejeebers out of me, but now they're woven into the fabric of my life.
I create stories about the things I observe. A resident in one of the large, old Mediterranean-style apartment buildings listens to jazz in the morning. I imagine it's an elderly gentleman, having his morning cup of tea (Earl Grey) and marmalade on toast.
Two blocks south is a charming bungalow that has recently been put up for sale. I saw an attractive woman coming out early one morning wheeling a suitcase behind her. She was dressed professionally, talking on a cell phone and trying to wrestle the suitcase into the trunk. I decide she is a high-level executive and has been transferred to another city, and has to leave right away.
At the corner of 11th Avenue NE is a small, nearly bare tree. A perfectly made bird's nest sits on the lower branches, but I see no sign of a family in residence. I tell myself to check the tree regularly. If the nest should fall out, I want to rescue it and take it home.
On my left I'm approaching the "fairy" house. I call it that because the entire front yard is like a piece of mixed-media artwork created with fairy dust. I see an ancient, rusted sewing machine sitting on a barrel. There's a weathered old school desk nestled among the plants. In one birdbath sits a bowling ball with a snake slithering out of its finger holes. There is garden furniture made of wood, metal and plastic. There are wind chimes and birdhouses, plant stands and headboards, suitcases, a daybed and several mismatched garden umbrellas. There are twinkling lights strung inside the screened porch. The residence of a downtown businesswoman, it is whimsical and joyful. I look forward to passing it every day and I always see something new.
As I cross Fifth Avenue and approach downtown, I am no longer the lone walker. There is a woman wearing headphones and carrying a tote bag. She ambles along and I pass her easily. I see a matched pair of beagles getting their morning walk. Sometimes they bay at me, but usually they just say a doggy good morning as I move along.
Crossing the street I take a shortcut through a silent BayWalk. I check out the window display at Being and exchange good-mornings with delivery people bringing in goods for restocking. No cars delay my progress through the crosswalk and I'm quickly past the parking garage and on my way to get coffee.
Customers sit at the tables outside Atlanta Bread Company and Starbucks. They are business people in suits, college students in sweat pants and sneakers, manicured ladies sharing gossip over a fat-free mocha latte. Several singles read newspapers or work from laptops. I stop in for a grande House Blend and I'm back out on the street in no time.
I cut through the Bank of America building and run into Hector. Hector is not his real name, but it's the name I've given him in my head. He is a groundskeeper of sorts. I see him every morning with a leaf blower clearing debris from the sidewalk. He always pauses to let me pass dirt-free and we exchange smiles and a greeting. He goes back to blowing.
I can see the Times building now and I fish around in my backpack for my security badge while trying not to spill my steaming coffee. I never make the light at Fourth Street and First Avenue S. While I wait for my turn to cross I notice the man in the wheelchair. I haven't given him an imaginary name. He sits in the bus shelter outside the visitor parking lot. He's there nearly every morning and if I'm early, I see him sleeping, rolled in a tangle of blankets on the ground. I thank God for my blessings and ask him to watch over the homeless man.
Through security, up the stairs and all the way to the back of the newsroom, I reach my office. Thirty minutes door to door. It's only seven minutes when I drive and I don't raise a sweat. But this way, I don't have to depend on a pile of metal and rubber to get where I'm going. I've exercised, gotten fresh air, reduced the ozone layer and interacted with the world around me.
I realize that not everyone can walk to work, but if it's in your realm of possibilities, take the plunge. You might be surprised at just how easy it can be to leave the car at home.
