A Walker in the Suburbs

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?

I’m not sure, but I think I have what it takes to become a birdwatcher. A few years ago I would not have admitted this. But lately I’ve been drawn to birds, and I spent a lot of time watching them last week.

Chincoteague is a birders’ paradise, especially in spring and fall when migrating shore birds and song birds — warblers, vireos and indigo buntings — stop in for a day or two on the way to their final bough or branch.

Last night as I was coming home from work I heard the most beautiful bird song. It was a mockingbird, I think, perched on the upper level of the Metro parking garage, and the little creature was unspooling such a ribbon of song that I thought more commuters would lift their eyes to find the source.

Making it through another day often requires that we keep our heads down, and bird listening (if not watching) is a good antidote to that habit. If I don’t become a bird watcher, at least I will become a bird listener. Guess I already am.

Vacation: A respite, an intermission, a period spend away from home or business, an act of vacating.

We begin today, a crazy rag-tag of a beach trip, with people coming and going, as people are apt to do when they are older and have jobs.

I remain, at heart, an optimist. I pack the Scrabble game, a deck of cards, a big puzzle — and a bag of books.

Because I have little faith in the power of my memory, I often scribble thoughts down on whatever I have on hand. A scrap of paper, a napkin. From a “post” Monday while stopped at a traffic light: “Because so little had happened, so much could.”

Cryptic, to be sure. Profound? Hmmm, maybe not. But it seemed so at the time. Perhaps it was the soundtrack. “Liebesleid” or “Love’s Sorrow” by Fritz Kreisler was on the radio. It’s a schmaltzy, tender piece that reminds me of having tea at the Plaza in the glory days of New York. That and the traffic noise and the sun low in the sky — it could have been any of these things that brought the half-formed thought to mind. It may take some time to figure out what it means — if I ever do.

For years I was ridiculed for my earnest photos. A bird, a cloud, a sunset. It was the dorm room poster. It was Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Remember that 70s classic?

Now aspiration is out of fashion. Instead, there is irony. There is the slender slice, thin to translucence. But sometimes I aim my camera at the sky, and I wait for a bird.

A slow turgid morning. Pink streaks in the sky. I sit on the deck to write, the air clammy, just a hint of coolness.

I look over at the table and remember the fun we had last night at dinner, all the girls here and a boyfriend, too. Laughing, talking all at once. There were grilled kabobs and rice, a simple, tasty meal. The mosquitoes were getting full, too. So we talked about our puny little citronella candles and how we have to find more powerful stuff.

As darkness grew, lightening bugs flashed and I plugged in the little white lights around the pergola. It was too bright. People started swatting at their legs, talking about how they were being eaten alive. It was time to clean up and move on. This morning I look at the table and remember it all.