I walk through my neighborhood every day at lunch now. Thank you, pandemic. For years I resisted the convenience of a quick 1.44-mile circuit around my streets, because I don’t like small talk, and I imagined each and every one of my neighbors perched on their front porch, ready to pounce as I walked by. But then came the everyone-in-my-family-is-working-and-talking-at-home-now coronavirus, and I was like, I gotta get outta this house.
It’s been almost nine months now of this daily habit, and I’ve practically worn a rut in the sidewalk. I like to take the same exact route, clockwise, every time. I tell myself I follow these rigid parameters so that I can quantify my walking data more easily with my Apple Watch, but really, I don’t like change. I prefer my Wick Lane hill in a certain direction, and my Keats Terrace hill in the opposite direction. I want to turn right, right, right, right, left, right, right, right, right, in that order, with no variations, till kingdom come.
It turns out no one in my neighborhood wants to talk to me. What a relief! I stroll past each house with my AirPods in, grooving along to KEXP, only occasionally feeling compelled to wave or nod at a fellow stroller. Hardly anybody is out at this time of day. It must be the heat. Hallelujah. I could have been doing this for years!
Lately I’ve been training myself to look for new details as I walk, as a sort of mental workout to accompany the physical one. Has that black cat always been crouching in that upper window? Why does it always smell like burgers at the gray house? The orange persimmons are exploding in the corner of that yard this week. Look at that white sunburst design in the plumber’s garage door. Was that always there?
One day last month, I noticed that every mailbox post on one street had a penny placed carefully on its back crossbar. (This was after the cicada emergence, when every mailbox post—and tree, and sidewalk—was covered in the critters.) What’s up with that? Is there a secret society on Grande Vista that communicates in pennies? Are they hobo markings? I resisted the urge to pick up each penny as I passed, restrained by imagining a very upset five-year-old named Kevin discovering that his pennies were all gone. I still see the pennies every day, but now I’ve forced myself to ignore them. You’re welcome, Kevin.
