A Walker in the Suburbs

On the High Line in Manhattan, I’m thinking of space. How this space was created literally out of thin air — well, that, and an old trunk line and the prodigious dreams of its founders. And how because of this space, a ribbon of elevated parkland in a city desperately in need of a air and greenery, so many other spaces have been created. Chic buildings in what used to be a western wasteland. A skate park at the northern terminus. Viewpoints and wading walks and art installations, soon a gallery at the southern end.

And it’s all built around walking. Moving through space. Creating, with our movement, a space both public and private.

This morning I write from my office, overlooking the alley I described yesterday. My desk is positioned so that I look out not only into the alley but into the street beyond. On this cold day walkers scurry in and out of my line of sight. A man with a hand truck crosses the street, a bike messenger zooms along with the traffic, pilgrims shuffle to Starbucks. Everyone is hooded, gloved and booted. There is little color in this world; it is monochrome this morning. But it is moving. A world of swirling shapes in gray and black.

I’ve always liked alleys. It may simply be a continuation of my love for narrow streets. Or it may be because alleys are alternative universes, passages that take you behind the scenes. The front of a house or store is what the owners would like you to see; the alley provides another glimpse — the dirty laundry (sometimes literally). In an alley you see the garbage cans, the old car, the rusty rake or shovel (or, in the case of the photo above, a window on moving day).

Unlike wide thoroughfares, alleys are cozy for the walker. You feel nicely held in by them. They are comforting. Unless they are dangerous, which of course they sometimes are.

My office window faces an alley. It’s a broad, well-lit alley, as alleys go, a working passage with a small loading dock. When my office suddenly goes dark I know it’s either because the sun has gone behind a cloud or the UPS truck is making a delivery. My alley isn’t dangerous, but questionable characters have been known to wander there and do things they wouldn’t do out in the open.

In other words, alleys are never dull.

My sister, Ellen, was the pioneer. She moved to New York City first. I was next. Then my brother Phillip. Within two years, three of the four kids in my family were living in the Big Apple. Now none of us do.

But we haven’t gotten it out of our systems (does anyone ever?), so today Ellen and I take our daughters to the big city to celebrate their birthdays. We’ll walk through Times Square, the Village, Chinatown. We’ll shop, snap photos and take in a show. We will have more money in our pockets than we did in the old days. (That isn’t hard to do.) And we won’t walk as fast. But we will be more or less the same. And that’s something to celebrate.

“We’re just homeless people, trying to keep ourselves together,” said the woman as I passed her this morning. “One of these days we’re gonna live in a house again, just like you.” I often see homeless people on my way to Georgetown Law, but this woman and the two others walking with her were sane, dressed for work, in a hurry. Just like me.

When I walk in the suburbs, I write about trees and flowers and reflections in the rain. When I walk in the city, I write about people, the down and out as well as the up and coming. Walk in the city for long and it will break your heart.