A window-swapping web site took the Internet by storm this month. You click a button and you’re transported to a view recorded by someone somewhere else on the planet. After having spent a not inconsiderable amount of my workday recently surfing strangers’ windows, I can confirm the following:

• Everybody else’s window views are better than mine.
• There’s nothing better than watching a cat watch birds.
• If given a choice between looking at mountains, motorbikes, or beaches out my window, I’d choose motorbikes every time.

I had a stunning office window view in my first job after college, in Boston. It was on the eighth floor of an ancient Beacon Hill brownstone, right across from the gold-domed State House. There I’d sit all day, proofreading at a printer’s shop—though I think I spent most days daydreaming out that window or catching up on my New Yorkers.

For the next several jobs, I had no window at all. This was before cell phones and before weather apps. To get a sense of the day, I’d have to push up from my desk, exit my cubicle and walk to a lackluster hallway window. Most days, my social anxiety persuaded me to stay put once I safely arrived at my cube in the morning. No point in risking an encounter with someone who might want to say hi out there in the hall. No view was worth that, so most days I looked out zero windows.

Today I'm safe from unexpected social encounters at work, because like so many people, I work from home. I started this homebound life last year, before the pandemic overtook us. In March, when Susan began working from home and moved into our shared office upstairs, I decided it was finally time to move into my own space, into Tommy’s room.

I’d had my eye on this upstairs bedroom since we bought this house 20 years ago. Back then, when we toured the house with our realtor, the street-facing double-wide windows captivated me. The house is on a hill, and from this room, you can see everything going on outside. What a perfect spot for spying on the neighbors!

We bought the house. We moved in and decided this would be Tommy’s bedroom. I spent a few nights painting the walls baby blue. This is where I read to Tommy before bed, where he taught himself to play guitar, and where he spent endless hours sitting exactly where I am, staring at his computer just like I am now.

The room is finally mine, though the walls are still baby blue, and we still call it Tommy’s room. This is where I spend roughly 10 hours a day, between working and practicing. My desk faces the windows, and a bit of my attention is devoted to scanning the action outside. The county installed sidewalks in front of our house last summer, and my neighbors have taken to them, especially during these corona days. There goes the young couple holding hands and sharing an umbrella in the sun. And the mother and her towering teenage son. And here come the pastor and his entire family, out for their daily walk. And the unfriendly couple and their two unfriendly dogs. (I tried to say hello to them in 2002 and I’ve never forgiven them for ignoring me.) Yes, the lady with the awesome hair and colorful wardrobe is headed this way.

In the late afternoon when it’s time to practice, if the weather is cool enough, I get out my sax, open these windows and reverse the flow. Now, instead of consuming the sights and sounds of what the windows bring me, it’s time to pour my music out to the world beyond. I like to think of it as giving back, though I can’t be sure if my neighbors appreciate the gift. As I play, I imagine the retired guy down the street calling to his wife, “Goddammit, Lorraine, he’s at it again! Will you shut the goddam window?!”