A Walker in the Suburbs

As my thesis year approaches, I find myself thinking about sense of place, my thesis topic. It’s an interest in place that inspired this blog and continues to generate material — not only from walking through the suburbs but from reflecting on them, too.

The last two weeks we’ve been hosting a visitor from Paris, someone used to walking in a city, running errands on foot, relying chiefly on public transportation. He enjoys the green abundance of our corner of the world and appreciates our space, but he misses the walkability to which he’s accustomed.

In another, similar, vein, I recently lunched with a young acquaintance who decided to stay put in a condo rather than buy a house because she loves living in a walkable community. She would rather have less space and more mobility. My oldest daughter and her family have made a similar decision.

I see in this the small but important vanguard of a movement to value more than just space: to appreciate density and walkability — and be willing to sacrifice for them, too.

The day before Earth Day 2026, I wandered along Reston trails, no particular destination in mind. I turned left where I usually turn right and right where I usually turned left.

A chilly morning had blossomed into a spectacular spring afternoon. Recent rain filled the creeks, sent water tumbling over rocks, gurgling and singing. I stopped at a bridge and took in the scene, inhaled deeply. I have my problems with the suburbs, but I could have landed in worse.

How prescient are these paths and the woods that surround them, how lucky we are to have them, portals to the sublime.

So on this day devoted to nature and preserving the bounty of the planet, I salute my place, my tiny dot in the universe. May it thrive for many millennia.

When it rained in Bruce Springsteen’s hometown of Freehold, New Jersey, the place smelled of coffee grounds from the Nescafe factory. In his memoir Born to Run, Springsteen says that he didn’t enjoy the taste of coffee but he did like the smell.

“It’s comforting,” he wrote. “It unites the town in a common sensory experience.” To Springsteen the smell of coffee meant that there was “a place here—you can hear it, smell it—where people make lives, suffer pain, enjoy small pleasures…”

In Lexington, Kentucky, it was the scent of burnt peanuts wafting from the Jiff factory or the tang of drying tobacco leaves from the auction houses on Angliana Avenue.

I never smoked but I loved that autumn bouquet. And now, if I happen to catch a whiff of tobacco, it takes me back to the land of my youth, when the local television news would carry the fast-paced patois of tobacco auctioneers and downtown Lexington smelled like a cigar bar.

Burley tobacco was a livelihood, an industry, and later a pariah and an embarrassment. But for me, it was always the aroma of home.

(Circa 1930s tobacco warehouse photo courtesy Lafayette Studios, Lexington, via the Explore UK photo archives.)

Yes, I’m continuing to walk slowly, but that’s not why I’m meandering. I’m meandering because I’ve just received the inaugural copy of Meander Magazine, which includes a reprint of a book review I wrote last year.

These days, my essays and reviews appear mostly in online publications because there aren’t many hard-copy magazines being printed. It’s exciting to witness one take shape and land in my mailbox with a satisfying thunk.

Although the dearth of hard-copy publications is good for reducing clutter, I do miss holding a hefty magazine, turning the pages, seeing what delights each new page holds.

Meander’s cover impressed me with its headline, too. “Returning to Place: Embracing reconnection and belonging” — which is what I try to do with my walking and writing. Meander and I are on the same page, you might say. I wish it all the best!