A Walker in the Suburbs

It’s the first day of September. I had almost forgotten that until I was boarding my second Metro of the morning and something in the set of the shoulders of a departing rider, or some linked thought that came to land on the shoulders of the departing rider, reminded me it’s a new month.

And then again, walking the short blocks here, office windows glinting with reflected light, I caught a whiff of what surely is an autumnal smell. Not the acrid aroma of crushed leaves, but the slightly nauseating odor of tomato sauce wafting from a restaurant on the corner.

It reminded me of heading back to school, of a cafeteria lunch already simmering as we filed through the doors, stowed our jackets and sat down at our desks. It is the smell of early anxiety, of lunch boxes and chalk dust and book covers made of brown grocery bags. It is the smell of wondering who you will sit with at lunch.

For a moment I was little again, and scared. Then I walked a block east and the smell was gone. But the slight churn in the stomach, that was still there.

Walking home from Metro last night, the air temperature so perfect it felt like there wasn’t any air there at all. I tried to pass through each stage of the walk as fully conscious as I could be: the trees that lace over the path before the tunnel; the joyful racket of cicadas; the houses busy with after-dinner errands, one man pulling out of a garage, another idling in one.

I crossed the street quickly. Other folks were taking the night air, too, a family of five, two young sons (twins?) and an even smaller girl in a bright pink dress. The mother stops to help the youngest tie her shoe. The father turns to see what’s keeping them. Meanwhile, the boys make it to the next corner. Wait, their parents say. Stop there.

And there are others out for the evening air, joggers and dog walkers. Everyone strides quickly; it is easy to do this evening. There is neither warmth nor humidity to stop you.

And so I make my way to the car. I know I’ve missed dinner, and it’s too early for bed. I’m glad to be moving through space, toward home.

A nod to the “Writer’s Almanac,” which informed me that today is the anniversary of Walden‘s publication. When it was published on August 9, 1854, Thoreau wrote in his journal: “To Boston. Walden published. Elder-berries. Waxwork yellowing.” After the book sold out its initial 2,000 print run in 1859, it went out of print (encouraging news for us mid-list authors).

Here are the lines that caught my attention this morning when I heard them on the radio: “There were times when I could not afford to sacrifice the bloom of the present moment to any work, whether of the head or hands. I love a broad margin to my life.”

I have felt that way often this summer — that it is enough simply to be. To walk or run, to swim or bicycle. To stand still and listen to a mockingbird.

Yesterday we went to Arlington Cemetery, arguably the hottest place on the eastern seaboard. We crunched across the grass, skirting gravestones, asking directions, finding what we thought was the quickest way to President Kennedy’s grave site but learning that we had taken the long road.

Once we found the site, I found my eyes darting away from the eternal flame; surely it was redundant on a day with a heat index of 100. The warmth was everywhere, shimmering off the pavement, slipping a veil between us and the landscape. A guard stopped people from bringing snacks up to the site. The guard had several bottles of ice water in a cooler bag and she chewed on ice in between barking orders to the crowd. We asked her directions, we shared her pain, we told her to stay cool.

But no one stayed cool yesterday, at least no one outside. The fitful showers that showed up about 4 only served to re-humidify the atmosphere so that by the time we got home the windows were fogged and the air conditioner chugging. We were walking, but walking slow. Walking hot.

Quick on the heels of my New York trip comes a visit from my dear friend Kay and her son, Emile. Kay lives in Paris so visits from her are rare and treasured. We have been chatting about one thing or the other almost nonstop since she arrived Thursday.

Instead of walking, then, I’ve been talking. And the talking has sparked ideas and freedoms that have been buried lately. Nothing liberates the soul like a good conversation. Afterward one feels supple and limber — ready to take on the world. Conversation is a bridge to a better place.

I am searching for a wireless network in the suburbs. I wind up at Starbucks. It’s tough not to compare this one with the one I just frequented in Manhattan. This one is cool and calm and you can hear the music.

The one on 7th Avenue was loud and crazy and hopelessly behind. Lines formed at all times of the day. There were no seats. Outside, human beings of every size and description formed an endless parade on the thoroughfare.

I live in the suburbs now. I write about the suburbs. I wouldn’t want to live in a small apartment in a huge city anymore.

But I notice the differences, and I miss the place. And most of all, I miss the person I am when I’m there.

I forgot the cardinal rule of walking in Manhattan — always wear tennis shoes, no matter how dorky you look. But I was lured by the heat and by my comfortable sandals to think I could walk 10 miles in them. And I couldn’t. Now I am a limper in the suburbs. Wounded but unbowed.

A 12-hour day leaves my right (mouse) hand tingly and numb. This has happened before and usually goes away. I vow to change positions more during long writing sessions. I also decide to go swimming last night.

There were still plenty of kids in the pool at 8:15, and the one courteous Japanese man I’ve met in the lap lane before, who bows his head and stays to the right. A funny lifeguard yells animal names at little divers as they spring off the board. “Tiger!” “Cow!” “Snake!” In the split second between the command and the water they are supposed to pounce, graze and slither.

I watch them, treading water as close to the deep end as I can, side-stroking carefully to keep my hair dry. Their giggles make me smile. As I trail my hands slowly through the water, I feel the long day slipping away.

Some Harry Potter fans I know were chatting the other day. “Yeah, she’d get a letter,” they said of one member of our family. “No, he wouldn’t,” they said of another.

They were talking about letters of admission to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The occasion: the release of the final Hogwarts film.

This got me thinking about whimsy, one of the requirements for admission to Hogwarts, according to my sources.

When I was walking the shore in Chincoteague last week I spied a few highly whimsical pieces of beach art that made me smile. Whimsy. Got to keep it alive.

Repaving time in Folkstone: Large trucks fill our quiet streets. The old surface is scraped off, ground down. Our road is corrugated and bumpy, uneven and unsettling. It is 95 degrees but feels 10 degrees hotter in the paving zone.

On evening walks I see the big machines hushed to stillness, parked at corners, hunks of metal, nothing else. I keep to the crushed gravel path. I don’t yet trust the smooth surface that covers only half the road. Is it too new to walk on? Does it need seasoning? And more importantly: Does it give us a fresh start?