Walk This Way
The world changes when I walk. Time slows as the time it takes to reach my destination grows. The noise in my head quiets as the ambient volume increases. I develop nearly superheroic perception as the pace forces me - or affords me - the luxury of focusing intently. Scents and odors both waft into my nasal passages with wanton abandon, coming and going willy-nilly, never requesting permission to enter. The elements, especially in England where I walk most, are mercurial. They now caress or warm me; now pelt or chill me at their whim. Ambling stimulates every sense intimately and connects me on an elemental level with my own body and with the ground.
The front patio at Scholars Court (formerly a primary school) is worn with the footsteps of generations of enthusiastic and reluctant students alike. It’s trod more slowly and cautiously by the geriatric residents who live there now. Moss grows persistently in the cracks between the resilient albeit faded bricks no matter how often the gardener (who tends to the potted flower riot that occurs during the warmer months) evicts it. The spiked wrought iron fence surrounding the building stands sentry, protecting us from the exhaust-spewing cars queued on Grove Road, and the stream of rollie-bag wielding tourists swimming down Alcester Road on their way from the train station to town like spawning salmon.
I am Lewis and Clark, exploring terrain on foot that shows itself new to me every day despite my illusion of familiarity with it. I look left and then right and then left again, as they might for threats, because no matter how much time I’ve spent in the land of those who drive on the left side of the road, muscle memory makes crossing the street potentially life-threatening. Closer to the centre, the town council has graciously painted “LOOK LEFT” and “LOOK RIGHT” onto the asphalt to save tourists like me from meeting motorists who adamantly ignore pedestrian rights.
Shoes cannot prevent my feet feeling the vagaries of the sidewalk on my practiced route around town: cracked concrete invites careless amblers to misstep and trip. Quaint, uneven cobblestones yield to more modern patterned bricks which yield to slabs of smooth slate hinting at those who pre-trod me here by centuries.
The ridiculous and the sublime peacefully coexist: Two young women lounge, languid, awaiting their turn on the Glow tanning beds, their lips straining to contain the filler injections. Intentionally-too-short tanks fail to cover their torsos; fake lashes extend far enough that they fan each other with each blink. They both sport dark ponytails pulled so taut that it gives me a headache. They vape out smoke that smells of Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers.
That scent competes for my nasal attention with the aroma of chicken and onions sizzling at the Star Grill, and the damp odor of lint and detergent emanating from The Laundry Quarter. These shops flank Glow like bearskin-capped King’s Guards. All this amid the physical and spiritual home of the greatest writer in the English language, whose ubiquitous image greets me in sublime and ridiculous guises all around town.
I hear a collage of snippets of conversations in an array of accents: mothers admonish children in a Northern lilt, mates chide each other in Cockney tones, visitors bring voices from beyond the Channel as they discuss which site they’ll first visit in these West Midlands hinterlands.
Baby, I Can Drive My Car
The world changes when I drive in the US of A. No longer Lewis or Clark, I morph into Warren G: I regulate. My white car, Bianca, coddles me. A ton and a half of steel, four shock absorbers, and cushioned leather seats keep me from suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous road conditions. She controls the interior temperature for me - oh that I could only do that outside - not only with a gentle breeze if the external temperature is too high, or a warm caress if it’s too low, but by warming my derriere to a Goldilocks-approved just right toastiness or sending jets of chilled air through an army of tiny perforations in the headrest to evaporate any pearls of heat-induced sweat that might have dared accumulated on my neck’s nape. And this is without me even asking her to do so.
The uprolled windows buffer me from the outside world’s cacophony. I choose what to listen to and what to hear. Perhaps John Mulaney will make me laugh on Netflix Is A Joke Radio, or maybe the doctors at NYU Langone Medical Center will regale me with the intricacies of aortic dissections, or maybe the Fine Young Cannibals will sing my ex-husband’s theme song, She Drives Me Crazy.
Even at low suburban Connecticut street-legal speeds, the world goes by quickly. The imperative of focusing on the road minimizes the ability to observe all but the most fleeting and macro views of what I pass. I might register the serpentine queue for the Post Road Starbucks, but not any of the individuals waiting to be caffeinated. I am so inured to the local landscape that I’d likely not notice the new Tacombi Taco Bar that opened in my absence until someone mentioned it to me.
Driving allows for a level of anonymity and bravado (remember the 3,000 pounds of metal I commandeer) that one simply cannot assume on foot. The vehicle in front of me who fails to accelerate at light speed is “An out-of-state BMW (two strikes),” not the person driving it. I make assumptions, grip the steering wheel within an inch of its life, and consider beeping. I do, after all, need to get to Trader Joe’s to get my tub of European-Style Fat Free Yogurt.
On foot, I might notice that the woman in front of me crossing over to the flower-clad American Clock steps off the British curb slowly because she’s older and less steady than I. Or perhaps she, younger, is deftly juggling a toddler holding one hand while she steers a pram with the other. In the States, the car’s insulation encourages apathy and impatience that I don’t like in myself.
The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly
There’s an upside to every downside. Since I have no car in Stratford Upon Avon, I have no choice. The health app on my iPhone lights up like a happy pinball machine with each step I take. According to a recent article I read, I far exceed the threshold to start adding years to my life every day. My well-developed leg muscles will add life to my years and weight-bearing-generated osteoblasts will add strength to my bones. However, the neuroma on the bottom of my left foot does not share in the joy of sauntering. It’s swollen and angry, as is the corresponding hip which I’ve no doubt stressed in an attempt to quell the footbed.
I can only get so far on foot. If I must go further afield than the Maybird Shopping Centre I find myself at the mercy of the oft-on-strike trains and the kindness of non-strangers with cars.
I cover more ground more quickly in Bianca. I adore efficiency and treasure independence. She gives me both. When the atmosphere rages with extreme precipitation or temperatures, I appreciate the shelter to and from my grocery quest, and do not miss the necessity of uniforming up to go to Tesco: hunter green wellies, tablecloth-patterned mack, and an old-lady shopping trolley to cart the haul back to my flat. Sometimes I’m happy to walk by the locks on the canal and watch the longboat travelers negotiate them; sometimes I’d rather smell the mint I’ve strewn around my car to prevent mice from making it their winter home to the stale urine scent that mixes with that of old frying oil outside of McDonald’s.
Balance, as with anything, would be best. I’d love to be able to spontaneously drive out to the nearby Cotswolds villages, but it’s impractical for me to own a car in the UK and I’m afraid I’d wrap a car around a tree while trying to wrap my head around driving on the wrong side of the road. I’d love to be able to access more on foot in Westport, but I can neither change the geography nor the impracticalities of walking further more often.