One Wet Walk

By Sue Chehrenegar
Houston, TX

During my first year after college, a year that I spent working as a Research Technician in Houston, TX, I walked to work every day. I walked to work because I was living in a dorm on the campus of the Houston Medical Center, and I worked at a lab on the fringes of that same Center.

Because there was so much construction taking place at the Medical Center, I frequently had to walk around a muddy section of the sidewalk. Normally though I encountered few problems, and most of my walks gave me nothing significant to complain about. However, one morning I had a very wet walk.

Houston has a lot of rain, and on that particular morning I needed to walk with my umbrella open. I had elected to take a path down one of the main sidewalks, with many cars passing in the street. All at once one of those cars passed through a deep puddle, and water flew into the air. This happened just as that same car was passing the very spot where I was walking.

I ended up drenced. The water had flown in under the umbrella and had hit me from head to foot. I decided to return to my dorm room and take a hot shower before donning dryer clothes. Eventually I was ready to try again walking to work. But before I did that I wanted to get the answer to a question that I had.

A few days earlier I had gotten a letter from my grandmother. In that letter she had implied that my father planned to be visiting Houston. My mother had not mentioned anything, so I had deducted that my grandmother had let slip a small secret. I had not planned to tell my parents that I had learned about the "surprise" trip. After that drenching, however, I wanted some assurance that my suspicions were correct.

So before I started off on another walk to work I called my mother. I was overjoyed to learn that my father would indeed be visiting me in the near future. After he arrived, having caught a taxi from the airport, we walked together over much of the Medicial Center. We even walked over to the Astrodome, where we watched an indoor track meet.

An Unexpected Walk to Work: Transit Strike

By Anonymous
New York, NY

Day 1: Tuesday, Dec. 20, 2005
I feel an overwhelming need to share. I walked to work today. 18 blocks straight up Park. I abandoned my usual 3.5 inch heels for something more practical. Tomorrow I'll wear a scarf as well. The mood was surprisingly festive. The usual subway traffic was above ground today and people were walking and talking on their cell phones. Co-workers met up unexpectedly on their respective walks to work and seemed happy to run into each other. I feel the union leaders failed the transit workers. From time to time on TV, it seems that the union leaders appear to have a very different agenda from the union workers. The leaders want to fight The Fight. I imagine the union workers are afraid of the personal fines they're subject to for striking (which undoubtedly will be automatically deducted bit by bit from their paychecks, along with their union dues, once they go back to work) and they want to have a job - especially during the holidays. Ahhh, NY. I should have taken this week off.

Day 2: Wednesday, Dec. 21, 2005
If yesterday's walk was "festive," then today's walk was a decidedly a march to work. Maybe it's because today I wore my sneakers. If the strike is still on tomorrow (which it looks like it will be), I may pick up a coffee from the corner store for the march. Might as well make the most of it. It should be fine as long as I'm able to coordinate drinking while weaving through the crowd. I'm definitely seeing and hearing different things now that my commute has been forced above ground. Lots of helicopters flying around. Presumably filled with people monitoring the traffic situation a la distance. I also saw a crying girl coming out of a building. I don't think it had anything to do with the strike. People are starting to grumble though - saying that they're just going to stay home tomorrow if the strike is still in effect. Some places are closed. I tried to go to my noodle shop yesterday for lunch and no one was there. I hope this ends soon, but it feels like it won't.

Day 3: Thursday, Dec. 22, 2005
I didn't have time pick up a coffee for my walk to work this morning as I had planned yesterday. It's Day 3 of the strike. The walk has now officially become routine. After only 3 days? Well, it's not only a walk to work, but a walk back home as well. No motorized transport at all for me. Yep, since the strike I'm going cold turkey. An urban Laura Ingalls where transportation is concerned. I miss my subway. I hear the union leaders and the MTA are in meetings today. The strike has been going since Tuesday and today is the first day they're meeting? The older I get the more I realize "adults" have no idea what they're doing.

My Chucho and I

By J. Eva Zeppa
Toronto, Canada

I awoke at dawn. It was that period of my life where my waking thoughts were inevitably subdued glory and/or cosmic appreciation. I smiled before I even opened my eyes. Yet another beautiful day in San Marcos la Laguna, the Guatemalan village I lived in, a tiny mixed up place of Mayan traditionalists and new-age ex-pats, nestled along the infinitely deep turquoise waters of Lake Atitlán.

I could hear Three-toe snoring on his mat outside and the irregular sound pleased me to no end. I opened the door to greet him and the day. The long pink datura bell flowers dangled from the trees around the gate; their sweetness hung in the yellow-tinged air. I could also smell the deep dog-stink on Three-toe. He was awake now too, stretching into a perfect Downward Dog, his broken tail hanging limply from his butt. It wouldn't wag, but I could tell he was happy too. I tossed him a handful of kibble onto the lawn and he lay down on the grass, munching each morcel slowly, one by one, his broken up teeth sensitive to the crunch.

I started to get ready for work and within minutes, Three-toe was back asleep, snoring louder than ever. He must have been out all night again, gang-raping and causing general ruckus around town. Three-toe was bar-none the toughest chucho in San Marcos. (A chucho is a local mutt, as opposed to any dog of class or breeding). His left ear was notched off half way down and his face and body were covered in scars, relics from any number of machetes and canine altercations. Every week or so, he came home half dead with some new injury. Slashed wrist gushing blood, brain abcess exploding pus, hacking cough with asthmatic seizures. This week's injury was the broken tail. There was nothing I could do for him. He always resisted any form of treatment, and would turn violent before I even approached him. He seemed to sense my nursey, maternal intentions. But his pride was strong; he did not want to be helped.

Ever since that very first day he showed up at my door, he knew how to read me. I found him nosing around the garbage on my porch and shooed him away. "Fuera," I shouted at this mangy diarrhea-coloured mutt with the mean look in his eye. He didn't move right away, but eyed me up carefully before trotting off. Not ten minutes later he came back, this time with a golden white puppy. She started a high-pitch bark-rant the minute I stepped towards her. "Ahhhh," I cooed. "Ever cute." Three-toe stood back and watched the scene placidly and that was when I noticed his festering middle claw sticking straight up, as if he were giving me the finger. "Three-toe," I called him instinctively, "aren't you smart, bringing along the cute little puppy to distract me from your evil ugliness." He just stared at me and Bobbie, the golden bitch, kept barking. I went inside and came out with treats. After the bread crusts and hard-boiled eggs, the two were mine forever.

In those days, Three-toe was the kind of dog that was nothing but a hassle to go out with. And of course, he followed me everywhere. He was tough as hell, and I always felt safe with him. But he was one gene away from Guatemalan dingo and he had the manners and training of a hungry grizzly in Spring. He had hundreds of doggie subordinates around town, most of whom just averted their eyes and tucked in their tail as he walked past them. He would sniff their asses and puff up his chest and growl deeply as he pressed them into the fence or against the wall. There was no doubt in anyone's mind who was the top dog. But that didn't stop him from wanting to prove it every now and again, lashing out with no warning at a random canine passerby, claws out and jaws flailing, fighting brutally until the other mongrel ran off yelping in fear.

But despite Three-toe's violence, his ugliness and his tendency to almost die, I grew to love him more than any other dog (or human) in San Marcos. And after Bobbie was poisoned and I lost the baby (another story), Three-toe and I became inseparable. Socially, it was difficult at first, going everywhere with this untrained ultra-aggressive mutt. He just couldn't understand that it was unacceptable to go into the vegetarian restaurant and eat off the table or attack the mongrel beggar dogs in the middle of a group of stoned hippies. I tried to train him; it was futile. My only option became to turn as violent as him, picking him up by the scruff of the neck and carrying him out, me kicking and yelling maniacally to show who was truly the top dog now. But invariably, Three-toe would sneak back in, only to repeat the scene again and again. As the years went by, he learned to sneak around subtly or at least stay hidden in the bushes of places where he was not welcome. A stern look from me became eventually enough to stop him from acting out and making a fool out of both of us. He kept his dingo shenanigans for the middle of the night in the barrios and finally, when he went out with me, he learned to behave less like a two-bit chucho and more like the kibble-eating first-world dog I'd turned him into.

I had gotten a job as a private teacher on the other side of town, about a fifteen minute walk along the lakeshore. After my oatmeal and Three-toe's kibble, my yoga and his nap, together we set out for work. I walked along smiling and complete as my dog scampered back and forth on the path. We were a natural and perfect pair. A light breeze swept off the lake and the volcanoes looked down upon us approvingly. We approached the Pyramids Meditation Centre, the new-age compound we had to skirt on our way to the job sight. A dozen lost gringos sat in half lotus on the lawn trying deperately not to dwell on their problems or the swarms of gnats that attacked their every orifice. I thought without thinking how wonderful my life was. I was almost in a state of meditative grace without even trying; just like Three-toe, I was completely at one with my environment, one hundred percent myself moving naturally through my world.

And then I heard it, a thud then a deep canine whelp. Shit, I thought, assuming that it was Three-toe attacking some dog, whacking me out of my quiet glory. But then, just up ahead, to the left of the path and right beside the group of meditators, I saw it: Three-toe was about to die. Luna, the Pyramids' dog, a giant German shephard with the behaviour pattern reminiscent more of a inner city punk's dog than that of the mascot of a meditation centre, was on top of my boy and her huge jaw was wrapped around his neck. Luna must have outweighed Three-toe by fifty pounds. She was a crazy bitch and she was out for blood. Three-toe yapped and struggled futilely under her weight as Luna bit into him. After a few seconds, he managed to wrangle his way free and took off running but after a mere pace or two, she pounced him again.

My maternal instinct kicked in and I screamed LUNAAAAAAA. Without breathing, I took three quick bounds and hopped over the one meditator who hadn't gotten up as soon the ruckus began. I kicked off my flip flop and began to smash my heel into Luna's back, all the while screaming GET OFF YOU FUCKING BITCH FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKING BITCH and so on. Without thinking of my own safety, I reached in and shoved my fingers into Luna's eyes. She whelped and struggled backwards towards me, snapping out towards my hands with her huge teeth, but leaving Three-toe time to flee. FUCKING PSYCHO BITCH DOG CUNT TRYING TO KILL MY DOG FUCKING PSYCHO DOG FUUUUUUUUUCK. I screamed and kicked out as the meditators cowered together in a bundle, their heart rates up from the dog fight, but more afraid of me than anything else now.

I picked up a five pound rock on the side of the path and threw it as hard as I could towards Luna. PSYCHO BITCH DOG. It missed by several feet, but off she scampered towards the Temple, a giant shingle-covered pyramid a hundred yards away. My heart was still racing and I had just started to catch my breath when one of the meditators stepped forward and spoke up. "Dude, chill out, would ya? We were trying to meditate here." His tone was feigned compassion and I scoffed as I reached down to pick up another rock.
"You shut the fuck up, you poseur bodhifuckingsattva. This is supposed to be a place of peace? So what's with the psycho bitch dog attacking to kill? Fucking shit fuck poseur peaceniks." I faked towards the group with the rock then tossed it to the ground at my feet. "Fucking hippies," I growled. And with that I ran off in search for my wounded dog.

I found Three-toe near the garbage pit on the other side of the Pyramids property. Blood was dripping down his neck and he was licking the nickel-sized hole on his rear flank. The poor boy cowered when he saw me. "Don't worry," I said, and deliberately turned away. I knew I couldn't approach him or he'd run. In a soothing but indifferent voice, I said, "Let's go, kid. Let's get to work." And then I turned in the direction of the meditation class and screamed as loud as I could, "FUCKING BULLSHIT PEACE FUCK POSEURS." An old Mayan man on the path looked puzzled and stepped aside quickly as I went to leave. Three-toe waited for a second, then followed along behind me, limping and bleeding.

The water lapped up on the shore and the early morning sun shone down. Children darted out from behind fences and traditionally-dressed women spread their laundry out on the rocks to dry. A neon red butterfly hovered around a broken avocado that had fallen from its tree. Our heart-rates returned to normal and we walked slowly, Three-toe and I, a little less at one with our world than before. We arrived at work five minutes late, but nobody said a thing.

Loving It

By Christine Dorothea-Maris
San Francisco, CA

For the last eight+ years I have been fortunate to live in close proximity to where I work. There was only a short period where I had a temp job and had to take the bus there but was able to walk once in a while if I had the time.

Walking to work has been almost a family tradition. The last years that my grandmother worked, she lived directly across the street from her job. My mom walked about five blocks to her bank job for years and when the branch office moved closer, she only had two blocks to walk. My brother worked at his last job that was only about seven blocks away and he enjoyed coming home for lunch.

I have to admit that when my boyfriend bought a car I got a bit lazy. Plus, there were those times I left late, the period I had a foot problem and it hurt to walk, or the year I was on a medication for my chronic illness and couldn't use the energy before work to walk there, but often, when I was driven to work I'd walk home.

San Francisco has been my home for almost all of my life and it has always been a city for pedestrians. I learned to drive, but never got a license since neighborhoods are so convenient in this city. And there are plenty of public buses at hand, not to mention how crowded S.F. is with all the cars here now.

I live right close to the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park and my job for four years was just four and a half blocks away on the Haight Ashbury side. I love walking on Fell Street as there are so many beautiful and interesting houses to look at and to imagine living inside. On lucky days, I will see a couple cats inside their windows, sunning themselves and I can stop to admire their beauty and perhaps say "hi". In the Panhandle, I love to see people walking their dogs and wish that I could bring my cat "Daisy" for an outing, although she did temporarily "run away" for a couple days and rumor has it that she stayed in the Panhandle.

There are always robins and black birds flying over the park, or just hanging around in the trees. I especially love spotting crows and ravens, since I am an artist and have similiar collecting habits as they do. I use my found objects for art not for a nest!

Most days, no matter how I am feeling, I try to say "hello", or "good morning" to people I pass. It makes me smile and usually brings a smile to the other person's face too. Sometimes I run into people I know, or my friend who picks her children up at school near my job, and I'm able to accompany her and we can have a nice chat.

I mustn't forget how walking to work on Sunday afternoons in this neighborhood is especially rewarding. With only a few dollars in my purse, I'd be able to find great things at neighborhood sidewalk and garage sales, often purchasing items to use with my clients at my job. Plus, an added bonus is finding free things left on the sidewalk and I've found some great things! And there's always a free book or more left in a box or propped up against a house that I can never resist looking at and possibly taking with me.

Walking to work is also great exercise and walking home is a good way to reflect on a work shift and to destress, as I had to do after almost every shift I worked. I am blessed to live in such a walkable city, and have been exceptionally fortunate to be able to work close to home.

The Big Easy Walk

By Cindi Hensley
New Orleans, LA

I once had a job in the French Quarter of New Orleans. After taking the streetcar to Canal Street, I still had a good fifteen minute walk between my streetcar stop and the front door of my employer. It was easily the most pleasurable part of my day - meandering through historic streets, followed the sound of street musicians at all times. I languished in the invigorating smell of cafe au lait and beignets in the morning, followed by the tempting scents of seafood jambalaya and red beans and rice in the evening. All along my walk, I was fascinated by the faces of the locals and tourists, oftentimes walking a good part of my way engaged in conversation with them. I met people from all over the city, and indeed, all over the world, during those walks.

I learnt every crack in the buckled sidewalk, and the way the paint peeled more easily from the sides of buildings after the rain. I learned that every block had its own odor like a fingerprint, a mix of its bars and bathrooms, kitchens and back rooms. In my morning walk, I became part of the waking up ritual of a still sleepy city and in the evening I was another source of energy for the street as it braced for another evening of debauchery. I must admit I was lured more often than not to the embrace of one barstool or another on the way back to the streetcar, my route now treacherous with its number of distractions.

One particularly fine morning I made it only halfway to my destination, my interest turned quite sharply elsewhere, the barstool, or the blossoms of the magnolia tree taking my interest and turning it away from work. I don't remember which, though I know I enjoyed both that day. That day I didn't show up, nor ever again, to my employer in the French Quarter.

Brilliant Day

By John Akre
Minneapolis, MN

The day was brilliant thanks to the sun and the sky. I could have ridden my bicycle to work but that would have made the trip go by too fast. I wanted to stretch it out, to make the most of this precious half hour of Minnesota spring heaven before I had to seal myself up in my windowless office, so I walked to work. I walked to savor the day for twenty-five minutes, to taste and live every centimeter of the path from my house to my job.

I stepped down my front steps and made it by only two houses before I got to the house of my beef jerky strip of a neighbor, G. bent over his cane, he called out to me, “What’s that bright light in the sky? I forgot what it was called.”

After weeks of spring rain and pregnant gray clouds, he did have a point. The sun was pretty amazing just above the profile of the corner bar brick building. But G. is a guy who starts talking and then will not stop. He was directing his tenant in how to cut up the shrubs in his
small front yard, but G. was just talking to me, about the bars on the corner, about what is art, about plants and planting. I was seeing his wispy gray hair melt into the sky above his home security camera as much as I was hearing any of his words. All I could get in was “I gotta
be going” a couple times, before I was able to make it real and actually get going.

At the corner I passed by the two bars. It was getting near to noon and the outdoor tables at Mayslack’s were delicately rounded by the people eating, drinking, smoking there for lunch. They were the last people I would see for quite a few blocks. From here down to Third the humans must have all retreated into their cold cars. It was just me and the sidewalk.

I heard the wind roar in my ears and then clear the path for the whole sphere of acoustics that rose above the sidewalk. The birds, a passing jet, some car sounds made a globe all around me. Then the church bells, startled by the noon hour, let go their rings. The first one came from
ahead of me, the next one came to the right side of me, and then one after that came from behind, as if time were migrating north for the spring. The old bells in their towers rang out the hour and even the birds had to shush for the movement of moment.

I got to busy Broadway, where the cars were fast and wild. I crossed on a corner without a traffic signal, so I had to make a run for it when a gap between engines came up only temporarily. As I crossed I glanced at the gas price at the Superamerica a block away. It was only $1.99, and that disappointed me. I hoped it would be higher to convince more people to abandon their cars and their global warming ways and meet me and greet me on the sidewalks for the sun.

Down the tree-lined sidewalks of lower Fourth Street, the sun and shade and walking made the whole world flicker like an old movie. A man walking his dog stretched up like tai chi on the corner as his dog sniffed after something. That dog stayed silent, but all the other neighborhood dogs behind fences led my walking way, barking like a red carpet so I knew where I would have to go.

The odor of a stand of lilacs across the street rushed over the anthills and up to my nose to wake me up to all the colors, the fading tulips, the choir of irises, the flowering bushes dropping their slow petals, the whole color symphony of spring.

I hit the wall of newer townhomes between the old residentialneighborhood and the railroad tracks. This is where a freeway was supposed to go, but thirty years ago the neighbors fought it and stopped it and built condos where the trench had been gutted. Then I stepped
gingerly over broken beer bottles on the sidewalk of the bridge crossing the railroad tracks and I descended down to the eastern most edge of downtown Minneapolis. Suddenly there were many more cars, and pedestrians, and sidewalk tables at restaurants, and more.

I passed more people sitting in groups and talking over their soup, and one woman sitting alone with her legs up for the sun on another chair for ottoman, and her laptop computer comfortable between her knees.

I cut through Chute Square Park, where picnickers from the beauty school down the street were sitting on the grass. I knew they were clippers, because they all wore the same white shirt uniform and had the same odd hairstyles and most of them were smoking over their paper lunch bags. I glanced at the time and temperature on Union Bank. 12:13 and 69 degrees (20 Celsius).

I crossed busy Central Avenue between the corners; it was clear of cars for a moment so I ran for it like a robber. Then I walked down the cobblestones and the stairs and saw a glance of the Mississippi River. The chatter of pedestrians died out and I heard again the rush of wind
in my ears. I walked into the building where my office is, and I said goodbye to the sunlight for the time being and just felt good all over from such a nice day walk.

My Walk to Work

By Roberta M. Gubbins
Chisinau, Moldova

Walking in the US is what I did for exercise. The evening and morning walks were tasks to be performed like the other tasks of the day. At all other times I fleetingly saw the world through the windshield of the car. Now I am in Chisinau, Republic of Moldova, a city of walkers. As I have no car, my mode of transportation is to walk and because I walk I see this city from a much more intimate viewpoint.

In the morning, the walk to my new office takes about one-half hour depending on how speedy I feel. I leave by the back door. I lock it by turning the key twice. As I walk around the house to the front gate, I look at the yard around my house. As in days of old, the gardens of my new home are completely walled. The walkways and driveway are tiled in white. The gardens are raised, edged in stucco-covered cement block. The red brick wall surrounding the house and outbuildings is seven feet high capped with rust slate.

At the front of the house, in the midst of the brick enclosure is a solid barricade of steel. It is painted a rusty color to match the brick walls. There is a gate for a car and a door for humans. Both are securely locked. This barricade is capped with pointed spikes of varied heights. So far no one has attempted to climb into my yard.
I unlock the human door, step out, and relock the door. The walk begins. The neighborhood is residential. The homes hide behind brick or stone walls. The street is narrow with very narrow sidewalks. Grass and wild flowers grow between the sidewalk and the brick walls. One of my neighbors takes advantage of the greenery letting her four goats graze as she herds them along. She sells the goat’s milk to the residents. My neighbors also keep chickens; a rooster can be heard heralding the dawn every morning.

The narrow sidewalk is paved. The pavement often disappears to be replaced with broken up chunks of concrete or dirt. Holes can appear suddenly. One particularly big hole is just a few yards from my gate. It is about a foot across and very deep. It is marked by many sticks placed in the hole with a plastic bag tied at the top to warn of the danger. I am sure a kind citizen placed the sticks there. The soil is so rich in this country that many of the holes marked this way now have living plants growing out of them.

There are street lights and electrical wires overhead. Looking up I see, to my surprise and concern, a heavy conduit which has split apart and is hanging down. Someone has carefully pulled the seven plus lines out of the cable bending them to the side, so that their uncapped ends do not touch. I can not determine if the lines are “hot”, but the method used is a practical solution which allows for immediate future use.

Further on, there is construction. A break in the unfinished cement block wall large enough for trucks to get through reveals a large courtyard. Four very large homes are being built. The courtyard is teeming with arriving workers and trucks. The houses are constructed of cement block which is eventually covered with stucco and painted—usually yellow or beige with white trim. The roofs are tile, copper, or tin. The houses are three stories high. Work is progressing slowly but steadily. The workers use hand tools. One can hear the rasp of the hand saws and the tap, tap of the hammers as they work. These houses are not for the average Moldovan.

I pass people on my way. We try to pass on the sidewalk, making ourselves very small as we move along. All of us are carrying tote bags of some sort. Mine is from Busch's in Ann Arbor, the others are sports bags or plastic bags from stores in Chisinau. As marketing is done almost everyday, it is necessary to carry a tote bag.

The people are varied. Coming toward me are the construction workers, the nannies and cleaning women for the big houses up the hill. Going my way are the clerks, students, business men and women. Children with book bags hurry to school, some carrying flowers for the teacher. Mothers with children too young to walk alone are moving as quickly as the youngest child allows. A few of the students and business people carry computer bags slung over their shoulders. All have mobile phones strapped to their waists.

The walk in the morning is one long hill down and a relatively short hill up. Each morning the hill gets easier. Like the Moldovans, I take my time climbing the hills. Once at the top of the hill I am on a Strada A. Mateevici, a main thoroughfare three or four lanes wide. One can not tell as the lanes are not marked. The drivers sort it out for themselves. I turn left to continue the walk. I take advantage of the street light at the corner when it is working.

The trolleys and maxi-taxis, packed with people move quickly up and down the street. The trolleys are very old, very dirty and cost 2 bani, or about 2 cents. The maxi-taxis are small vans, independently owned, cleaner and cost 2 lei or 26 cents per trip. Number 180 goes by my house and office which means I can ride if the weather is inclement.

The largest building on this street is the Moldova State University founded in 1946. Street vendors, catering to the students, set up their stalls to sell their wares. One can buy snacks, soft drinks, and water from some vendors. Others carry pencils, pens, paper, high-lighters (be sure to test as most are dried up) and cigarettes. Each vendor has his own spot on the street. Some have pop machines which are not plugged into any outlet so are for display. The streets are lined with poplars, planted by the Russians for the people of Chisinau. The trees are in bloom and the “fluff” from the trees is everywhere. Pensioners are sweeping the fluff off the sidewalks with short handled stick brooms.

I am now in the midst of the students. They are on their way to class. They act like all University students yet ever so slightly different. The men dress in western style jeans and shirts with ties. Many of the young women wear form fitting slacks, sheer blouses and very high heels. Others are more conservatively dressed with mini skirts replacing the slacks. The students mill about talking to each other—some hold hands, some flirt. They stand in long lines at the Xerox magasin (store). The store is one small room with one copier and a clerk. The cost for a copy is 25 bani per page or 2 1/2 cents. Few carry bulky book bags as books are scarce.

I turn right at the water tower to walk the two blocks to 76 Kogalniceanu, the home of the ABA/CEELI office. The water tower was built in the 1800’s by Bernardazzi. It is a tall beige stone structure surrounded by ornate wrought iron fencing. Like many of the buildings in Chisinau, it was once beautiful, but is now in need of landscaping and repair. It is rumored that there is a city museum in the tower. No one has seen the museum.

Continuing on, I reach the corner of Kogalniceanu and G Banulescu Bodini, both very busy streets. Crossing is difficult but there is a stop light with a little green figure telling you to walk. One just needs to check that the cars have seen the little green man.

Once safely across the streets, I continue on. I am walking along enjoying the nice weather and the even sidewalk when I hear a discreet beep at my backside. Turning around I see a cab right behind me. He is on his way to deliver a fare and, being in a hurry, he drives on the sidewalk. I move over.

I reach the building that houses our office. The main floor of this green tile building is leased to INFOTAG, the news agency, and Eximbank, a money exchange office. The covered stairs leading to our offices on the third and fourth floors of the building are on the outside. There are 38 steps to the third floor and 14 more steps to fourth floor where I have a very nice office. Don’t ask how I know how many steps there are to my desk. Just remember that elevators are unknown. A rooster crows; perhaps he is announcing my arrival. I have seen much and will see more on the walk home but for now the walk is complete. I settle down to begin my work day.

Untitled

By Erin L. Wright
Bozeman, MT

I lived in Boston in the summer of 2003, and of all the things I saw and did, walking to work was one of my all-time favorite things to do. Actually, I lived in Somerville, which is a ten minute or less T-ride to the city. I’d close the door, walk down the stoop, smell the moist, sickeningly sweet garbage in their cans right next to it, and take my first right onto Chandler Street. The T was a four minute walk down the hill lined with brick houses with preppy, but pretty flower gardens. I’d get to the station, go down the stairs and into the hottest, stickiest hell. There were loud fans, but they only blew the hottest air from the stickiest hell for no relief. I’d sit down and wait for the train, and when I got up my shirt was always sticking to my back. Thank God for long hair. The little Spanish man on classical guitar was the soundtrack for boarding the train.

This next part is my favorite. I’m listening to my headphones while I watch people, mad that they’re going to work, happy they’re making eye contact with some cute opposite-sex person across from them and sometimes deep in thought. And I’m trying to guess what they’re thinking and sometimes just making up my own little stories in their heads. I got off at the Downtown Crossing stop, out of the wet hot underground to the one upstairs. A left out of the station, another left around the corner at Macy's. Then I walk through the sea of tables with yellow umbrellas over them and take a right at the flower stand where the sidewalk turns to brick again. This block is a clusterfuck of people moving every different direction and all looking grumpy. It makes me smile to wonder what they’re all so mad about. Moody brooders. Then as I walk down the block. The guy at the Mediterranean food window on my right always tips his hat even though he’s not wearing one and winks. I wink back and walk past the street vendors peddling everything from sunglasses to purses to Boston baked beans to hot dogs. And I’m wondering why my stomach is growling at the thought of sauerkraut at a quarter of nine in the morning when I already had a piece of limp toast. Washington Street is longer still, and I’m walking past the all-white Euro clothing store with a flourescent pink and yellow window and more shops I wish I could stop in, and then past a Starbucks with an endless line, and I smile at the served ones sitting on barstools facing out the window and wonder why they don’t go to the multitudes of better coffee shops that are everywhere but the cookie-cutter window I’m looking into. Past the Russian lady selling fruit on the corner where I just bought a green and yellow bunch, past the old statehouse and the stairs I’ve wandered down many times for cheap stale-smelling leather books and paperbacks and a hardback coffee table book of the Rockies made in the seventies with below-average photography by today’s standards. It was twenty-five cents. I’m heading down Milk Street, because it’s the street name I love to say out loud, especially in the morning, then a left and another turn—right this time, onto State Street. I cross without regard to traffic, grinning because I know they just hafta stop, or else run me over and continue walking down this street teeming with identical suits and bike messengers donning tiny baseball caps and big numbers on their backs while weaving in and out between cabs and crabby people and more suits that are wishing they had nothing to do. I switch my clutch from sweaty hand to not-as-sweaty hand and walk past the sleek-mirrored storefront whose open door gives me my last smell of Boston summer, which is a new car smell plus cool air conditioning and hot, sour garbage, before I open to the door to 84 State Street and work for six hours before the walk home.

From Diversey to Wrightwood

By Anonymous
Chicago, IL

When I first moved to Chicago, I was amazed at the hotness of the women who rode the Brown Line downtown to work.

I decided early on that, to be close to that hotness, I'd have to give up the drive-everywhere mentality I'd embraced as my birthright for 24 years, and start using public transportation.

And how did I get to said transportation? I walked.

To my young, impressionable mind, walking was equivalent to being "a city person," which I most decidedly was not (yet). I wanted to know the City of Broad Shoulders, or at least my little lily-white, mostly safe corner of it. So I started walking, and most often to the El stop.

My first El stop was Diversey, which was about eight blocks away from the studio that my best friend, John, and I shared in Lincoln Park. When I first discovered it, I thought "Gee, eight blocks is nothing. It's not that far. I can make it."

How wrong I was.

Walking eight city blocks was not like walking eight blocks in the little podunk town in which I grew up. Eight blocks was, like, almost a mile. One way. In the snow. Uphill, both ways.

But I learned to love those walks -- especially the ones home, because the ones in the morning were too blurry and non-caffeinated ... The walk from Diversey and Sheffield to Clark and Wrightwood was glorious, and I broke it down to three distinct phases:

Phase I, from the El stop to Diversey and Halsted: Full of beautiful people, especially women, all streaming home from Anderson Consulting or Leo Burnett or the Merc. They'd peel off, seemingly in groups but actually just a cluster of people alone, down Mildred Avenue or Dayton Street. I envied them, because they were young, worldly, beautiful and the kinds of people I'd see hanging out at Durkin's, late on a Tuesday night, dancing and smoking and singing.

Phase II, From Halsted to Clark on Diversey: Here things got a bit sketchier. There was a Walgreens on the north side of Diversey and Halsted, and attached to it was a KFC. There always was a homeless person/beggar situated there, I guess because there was a popular late-night ATM that the drunk frat-boys-in-exile would frequent, and partly because Walgreen's allowed "Streetwise" vendors to sell the paper there.

It was not much better if you crossed to the other side of Diversey, because you'd pass the fur shop that always had vagrants sitting/eating/sleeping on the wide, curved steps leading to the place where bad minks go to die. And as you got closer to Clark, the mood changed; you'd look in on the "garden" level classrooms where language classes were always held, and never attended. You'd see the surface parking lot that serviced Barnes and Noble, Pier One and the health food store. You'd encounter the stretch of businesses that always changed, bordered by Orchard to the east and Clark to the west. And then, on that magical "corner" of Clark and Diversey, another street was created -- Broadway -- out of thin air.

It was the first three-way intersection I'd ever encountered, and it blew me away. It still does. It's just alive with action, and each direction you take contains its own unique feel and flavor. I'd recommend visiting it sometime, and if you head up Broadway, be sure to check out this one pizza shop on the west side of the street, right around the bend from Borders. I can't remember the name, but the deep dish is well worth the trip.

Phase III, The Magical Three-Way Intersection to home: This was where things got fun. Diversey got sketchier as you moved on, but it held some of my favorite places, such as the Starbucks where I spent many an underemployed afternoon, and the Market Place, the grocery store where, I swear, the following exchange took place:

John: (serious) You know what this store needs?
Me: Cheaper prices!

Many a movie was filmed down Hampden Court, as it was one of the most scenic streets in all of north Lincoln Park. And it also was the one with the least number of open parking spaces after 4 p.m., and especially on weekdays.

As I rounded the corner to my apartment building, my heart always skipped a beat. I was learning the neighborhood, even if I wasn't making much money in the process. I was on my own, the world was full of possibilities, and for the first time in my life, I felt free.

I don't want to credit walking with all of this, but I learned there are some things you just won't see if you never leave the comfort of your car.

Dancing With Cars

By Liz Gill
Oakland, CA

For four years I was lucky enough to have a fifteen minute walking commute to my job. I was working at a bookstore in the Rockridge shopping district in Oakland, California, a trendy strip of restaurants and specialty stores where moms with baby joggers and students from the art college, drawing boards tucked under their arms, maneuvered around nervous patrons sipping lattes at fragile sidewalk tables. There were always people out on the street, though for most of the stretch between my home and work, the streets were fairly deserted.

I was living in an area of Oakland called Idora Park, so named because where cute bungalows now stand there was, about a century ago, an amusement park. Most of the homeowners were African-American, many retired, and many seemed had lived there a long while. The neighborhood was quiet and fairly safe, but was flanked by notorious drug dealing spots and sites of recent shootings. For this reason I did not walk to and from work when I was on the late shift, from which I would get off after eleven, though on many a balmy night I would have loved to walk.

The dangers I faced during the day were quite enough for my nerves. I crossed to main streets between home and work: Telegraph, which runs from the U.C. Berkeley campus into the heart of downtown Oakland, and Claremont, another artery running between Berkeley and Oakland. Both streets are wide thoroughfares, two lanes each way, frequented by commuters heading for nearby freeway on-ramps.

On these streets I crossed at traffic lights; on Telegraph I went two blocks out of my way to do so, though I was once nearly clipped by a red light runner while toting a full laundry basket across the street. The red light woman was a one time incident, but over the course of two years I saw the same surprised and embarrassed look on dozens of drivers’ faces as they either slammed their brakes, or skidded past me turning left across the crosswalk. On both of these streets, I was coming from a direction from which relatively few cars emerged, so when the left-turners saw that they did not have to wait out the cross traffic, they punched it on the green.

I came to expect this dance with the cars, and was ready to jump if need be. I often held an umbrella tightly in my grip, or my bag in which I carried my lunch, ready to strike a car as it went by if it came too close. I ended up simply slapping a few rear ends, not knowing if the driver was ever even aware.

This was all fine enough when the worst that came of it was a rush of cold blood in my veins after a particularly close call and a mental image of myself pasted on someone’s windshield. For the last few months of my walking-to-work era, though, I was pregnant and the mama-bear hormone was running in my veins, making me feel especially protective of my body. I still walked to work and enjoyed it just as much, and benefited from the exercise more than ever, but I felt a touch more indignant when drivers came straight at me. I wanted to yell, “pregnant woman here!!” Mostly I just rolled my eyes at them.

These encounters do not overshadow my fonder memories of walking to work. I saw neighbors I would not have seen otherwise, many of them customers at the book store. I got to enjoy countless fabulous gardens and watched them change with the seasons. I was greeted most days by the man who sat in his garage and called out, “have a great day!”, to everyone who ventured down his narrow side street.

I am surprised that the East Bay is not more pedestrian friendly. I won’t go into the shortcomings of the public transportation system, or the disparity between housing costs and wages that don’t allow people to live near their work. I would just love to see more people have the opportunity that I’m grateful to have had.

Chatting With Strangers

By Lisa Turner
San Francisco, CA

I am no stranger to the “kindness” of strangers. Though I’m not a beauty queen, apparently there’s something about me that invites conversation. Men of all shapes, ages and colors chat me up without invitation and usually in an overly familiar way. I hate it.

Maybe it’s my height. At a categorically unthreatening five-feet-four-inches, I’d like to think my “small-of-stature” status would make me stealthy. But apparently some other offending part of me (hair? nose? the space between my neck and navel?) whispers its own story. In spite of my sincere wishes to walk to work undisturbed, some treacherous part of me seems to be offering invitations to chat me up.

So I tuck away those parts as best I can before walking the stretch between my Alamo Square neighborhood and Market and Fifth. It’s a daily descent into the inferno, beginning with clean sidewalks, Victorian homes and polite neighbors, ending in red walkways that stink of urine, tchotchke stores peddling everything from cell phones to porno flicks, and dozens of strangers ripe for conversation.

For someone who enjoys being alone in her own head, it’s a constant struggle. But, I wonder, should I be more concerned that I can’t stand engaging with my fellow man?

Perhaps I can find comfort that I’m not alone. The other day, while waiting for the bus, a woman of similar stature was approached by a homeless man. He was actually quite friendly, but again, the conversation was unsolicited, and she seemed to be enjoying her book.

“Hey there, sweetie! How are you today?”

I was making an effort not to watch the exchange, lest he mark me as his next target.

“Good, thanks,” she answered obligingly. I recognized the tone: the perfect tension of not wanting to be impolite, not wanting to encourage him.

“Well that’s good,” he pressed on, not the least bit daunted.

“Good day so far?” he insisted, as if she were his kissing cousin rather than a pale little woman waiting for the bus. “Nice weather, huh?”

“Yup,” she non-committed.

“Well. You headed home then?”

“No. I’m actually just standing here, enjoying a really, REALLY good book. It’s a real pleasure reading this book.”

Now there’s some chutzpa! She said the last bit with a smile – another gesture I recognized well. Joking on the surface, apologizing underneath. “I’m sorry that you don’t have somewhere warm to sleep,” that smile said. Or did it say, “I refuse to be rude with all these people staring at me”?

I had been rooting for her until the smile. It made her brush-off less definitive. I know, because sometimes I practice my own shut-down speech.

What she really meant to say was, “Sir, you may not be aware of it, but what you’re doing right now is a real imposition. I relish my time alone, believe it or not. I’m not actually here for your pleasure, to be commented upon and forced to talk just because you’re feeling personable. Do you realize that I have to deal with this kind of thing at least six times a day? All I want to do is get to the end of this chapter to see if she decides to get on the plane and leave his ass in Houston, or whether she opts for ten more years of abuse and suffering. So please, sir, would you mind if I kept reading?”

(That’s what she MEANT to say.)

In my own unsolicited chats, sometimes I make nice. I almost never feel “aggressed upon,” even when the occasional drunk screams “BITCH!” as I cross Ninth and Market. Part of why I love San Francisco is that I always feel safe. A bit naive, perhaps, but it’s how I truly feel – despite that an artist friend was recently shot in the head in the Marina, or that a teenage boy was killed in a drive-by just outside my grocery store.

No, in spite of the stories on the 10 o’clock news, I don’t feel afraid in San Francisco. Mostly I feel glad to be outside of that crazy drunk’s spittle trajectory.

Perhaps I’m bothered by the chats because the imposition doesn’t always end when I arrive at work. Back in the dot-com days, when ergonomics were enough of a life-and-death issue to squander company funds on bi-weekly massages, I was delivered to work in my sensible car, safely south of downtown’s dirty malingerers. At work, conversations happened mutually and everyone had the right training. An untarnished pleasure, in retrospect: the simple joy of interacting within common social codes.

Now, so many lost stock options away from my cubicle glory days, I do marketing and event sales for a family-owned restaurant downtown. A good day is when everyone on the street has correctly interpreted my headphones as the international symbol for “stay away.”

But like I said, these days the fun doesn’t stop when I step into work. No sir! Again, whichever duplicitous parts of me whisper sweet nothings to strangers earn me a just-slightly-more-refined brand of attention. Although I hold a position of some authority at the restaurant, sometimes you’d think I arrived in nothing but a push-up bra and thong.

Like the line cook who used to greet me with a syrupy, “Hooooooooooola, Lisa, bonita. Como estaaaaaaaas, guapa?” Or the other “just being friendly” guy who found occasion to kiss me lingeringly on the cheek every time he arrived at work until I finally shook him up a nice little cocktail of “Mira, eso no me gusta.” Or the other line cook who used to summon me by whistling loudly as I walked toward the restaurant offices, until I just stopped responding to him altogether.

At least I have some recourse at work. One by one, “friendly guy” by “friendly guy,” I stage mini-tutorials on boundaries and respect, in medium-level Spanish whenever possible, but stopping short of the complete speech.

And I wonder, does anything click here? Or do these guys get off work and “chifla” at every last woman on the way home?

I live in San Francisco, and as far as cities go this one is pretty benign. There’s a flower bed next to City Hall that spells out “LOVE” in petunias, for God’s sake! But I still feel miffed when a strange man wearing a big gold cross walks alongside me, asking if he’s right to assume that I don’t take any crap. According to him, I look like someone that people shouldn’t mess with.

Again, I’m 5’ 4”. The man could bonk me like a whack-a-mole right there in front of the titty joint. I should be thankful that he just wants to find out if I’m someone to be messed with. Perhaps he’s performing pre-emptive reconnaissance in an effort to avoid a turf war.

I understand where this stuff comes from, and I hate it anyway. Is it so wrong that I don’t want to talk with strangers on the street? It’s enough to make me want to shave my head and bind my breasts. But rather than seeking refuge on the bus, I keep walking to work on nice days. My Little Protest. I guess you could say it’s my job not to let The Man, in all of his shapes, sizes and walks of life, get me down.

The Road to My Commute

By Anonymous
St. Paul/Minneapolis, MN

I walk to work. It takes me about 10 to 15 minutes. Door-to-door it’s about .68 miles. Half of my commute is on a greenway—a pedestrian-and-bicycle-only path. Every morning I am grateful when I walk out of my apartment building. I can feel the wind and sun on my face. I don’t mind when it rains, or even the wintry wind chills.

It wasn’t always this way. I used to live 15 miles away from work. I would take two buses to get to my job. A one-way trip lasted an hour. The morning commute was easier than the return trip. I called the evening bus, Bleak Bus. It consisted of teen mothers screaming at their children and young men hoping out loud that the jail under construction along the route wouldn’t be their next stop some day.

Now, when I walk to work, the only characters are the neurotic urban animals. One of my favorites is Mr. Black Squirrel. He is constantly protecting his area. This means spastic games of chase with the other squirrels.

One summer morning, I saw a baby blue jay sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. Usually when you think of a baby bird, you think small and scrawny. This little guy, however, was chubby. And he held himself in such a still way that said, “you really can’t see me.”

Another afternoon I saw a mating pair of ducks. There was a lull in traffic, so the road was empty. It was a surreal scene, because they flew right down the middle of a four-lane road less than 10 feet above the asphalt.

My commute by bus used to take up two hours a day. So I tried driving to work to save an hour. I even got a carpooling partner to share the ride and to help with the cost. It wasn’t much of a carpool. She never drove. And I had to accommodate to her schedule by going to work earlier than necessary. She even called me her “cabbie” a couple of times.

Commuting by car lasted about half a year. I opted for a studio apartment during the weekdays and my house by a lake on the weekends. It was my partner’s creative solution to a commute, that was making me anxious. It’s the wisest choice I’ve made in a long time. I’m happier, more relaxed now. I have more time for people and I’m more present.

By walking to work, I save myself an enormous amount of time. To get to work for 8:30, I had to be at the bus stop at 7:20. That meant I had to wake up at 6:30, earlier if I wanted to do anything substantial in the morning like exercise, or write. Now, I’m less bound by the clock. I can wake up at 8:00 if I want and still be at work for 8:30.

I used to spend 10 hours a week commuting. Now it’s less than 2 hours a week. In a work year, I have saved myself 25,000 minutes of commuting which is more than 17 days.

And I don’t have to worry about external factors like road construction, ice storms, or fugitive car chases. I feel freer. Really, all I need is my coat and shoes and I’m ready for my commute.

Untitled

By Casey Lewis
San Francisco, CA

I’m walking down Columbus and about fifty feet in front of me there is this little man (about 5’ 2”, not little like Willow), dressed immaculately in a white suit, blue shirt, nice tie, hat – like a trumpet player at a 50’s jazz bar. He’s screaming into a pay phone.

After living in SF for 2 years, something like this seems completely normal at 7:30 in the morning. Here’s another example of this “normalcy”: I was driving back to North Beach and saw a man walking with all of these crazy, herky-jerky arm motions. And I thought to myself that in any other city the guy is just your regular old mentally challenged arm flair guy. But in SF there’s a really good chance that he’s a yoga instructor and he’s making those motions on purpose.

Oh, where was I? Okay, I’m back to the well-dressed guy screaming into phone. He’s yelling, “This is not right your honor. Even if it doesn’t follow the normal procedure, this evidence is still crucial to my case and deserves attention!” He’s going on and on about this – screaming into the phone as loudly as he can.

I’m walking towards him and I’m thinking to myself, “This is injustice! This man is going to Shawshank and he’s innocent! I have friends who are lawyers. We can help this little guy!” So I walk past him thinking all of this shit to myself and getting inspired. Then I look over my shoulder at him and realize that the phone cord is not connected to the phone box. He’s standing there, yelling into this phone with a severed wire.

Any Morning Last May

By Michael K. Gause
Minneapolis, MN

I passed the cab on Adams I see every morning, parked but still running, with the driver catching some sleep in the morning light. I see him every morning, twisted in his seat, mouth open. It’s rough on the body – surviving on scraps, sitting still for hours at a time with the patience of an ascetic monk. They always look tired but as if they are planning a scream that would last a year. One of these days I'm going to have to knock on his window and invite him out for a 7:00 a.m. beer. We’ll sit down and I’ll ask him about his home country (“How do you spell that? Is it near Istanbul?”), the family he’s bringing over one head at a time (torn pictures tucked into the dashboard), how he’s working on putting those degrees he earned back home to use here. I won't understand his strange situation, of course. I'm far too bourgeois. The conversation will fade, and we’ll end up looking around the bar for other things to keep us talking. Finally, he'll get frustrated and leave, thanking me for the beer. I'll stay a while with my feet stretched out behind the juke box, thinking: another chance to understand, unplugged and left inside a half empty longneck.

But, like every other morning, I walked past and let him sleep. I made it to the old warehouses just north of Central. They're being gutted – I mean renovated – into lofted condos. How I hate the taxidermy of the gentry. The guts (people, lumber, memories) will be hoisted out and left to wander down to the railroad tracks running right beside the structure, as if city planners knew they would need a way to the next town, once the bright lights found them.

Where will he go? The mute who drives the three-wheeled rickshaw in Uptown? I've seen him dozens of times there, always wondered where his bat cave was. It’s here. I've seen his buggy for months through the large window. He has it parked in his living room, right next to his bed.


Calumet Lofts. That's the new name. They have a perfect little painting on a sign out front of what they envision this place will look like. Evidently they are using Mr. Roger's Neighborhood as a model. Hell, it’ll never look like that. It doesn't even show the railroad tracks next door. I guess that's not a selling point. Would be for me. And I've thought about it, too. I would try to do the whole bohemian thing, but I’d succeed only half way. I would live in a run down room, won in a poker game, writing poetry in the window with a bottle of cheap wine. I had to cheat, of course. I'm terrible at poker. I never learned how to bluff. But I just had to live there. I had to assure my place in the history of artistic cliché. I saw years ago that I needed to dig my way to the center of it. I would eventually be tossed out, too weak for the juggernaut of gentrification. "How long before it reaches us?" everyone on my floor would say in nervous glances and loud, drunken binges.

Like that creature, Doomsday in the Superman comic, it comes razing everything in its wake, ending things by fixing them, leaving them with a perfect, bloody sheen. "Where is Superman?" I would yell. I, the Blue Beetle, or some such lesser god. No real powers, just dedication.

But that never happened. I never moved in, and now I never could. Nope, I just pass these lofts walking to work daydreaming. I glance down the alley sometimes to see if someone's drinking last night's dinner for breakfast, complaining about the future in hysterical shakes and laughter.

I get to the office and unlock the door, but not without a final thought: I hope I see him leave, the rickshaw guy, pedaling his rickety chariot down the tracks toward the horizon, a finger raised behind him in defiance. I want to see him disappear into another town, find himself another mirage, and, if we’re lucky, another couple of years at best.

Why I Walk to Work

By Bruce Ario
Minneapolis, MN

Growing up it was one of my big ambitions to own a car. I loved driving and owning a car seemed logical and practical. So I bought my first car at age 20 and owned two more before I stopped.

A lot of factors entered into my decision to not own a car, financial, environmental, and great public transportation in the city where I lived. I rode the bus a lot because it was cheap and surprisingly I could go almost anywhere easily.

Then I started jogging to stay in shape as I got older. At this time I found myself jogging to destinations – I was using jogging as a form of transportation. This worked until a physical injury caused me to opt out of jogging.

Walking was the logical choice at this point. I wanted to do something that kept me in shape. Doctors had long claimed that walking was the best form of exercise. At first, I took recreational walks such as around the lake.

However, it was only logical that I start walking to work. My job was a perfect distance – 3 miles away. I would get out at 5:45 AM every morning stopping on the way for coffee. The perspective that I got from this experience stays with me. I kind of watched the city come alive while on my walk. Especially since I walked into downtown, the closer I got to work, the more activity.

And I had another incentive to walk. My company pays me to exercise. For every 15 minutes of walking I was reimbursed a certain amount. What more did I need?

Well, I got transferred. The new location put me out of reach for commute by foot. But I got around that. I chose a bus stop that was a good distance away. Now I walk to the bus stop every morning and then back home at night. Also, I have a second job that is a couple of miles further. So I walk to that job every day.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever own another car. I’ve become sold on pedestrian commutes. The exercise is great, my company sponsors it, and it's a great way to wind up and unwind after each day of work.

Walking 4-27-05

By Buford Buntin
San Francisco, CA

I head out the door.
Ahead of me is the alley,
the garden, tall chain-
link fence on one side of me,
the leaves of vegetation
waiting for hands to
nurture and pick their
stems, bathe in dirt. Artwork
hangs on the fence.

I walk down the sidewalk &
have to squeeze
through the narrow open-
ing between the tall fence
& the telepbone poll.
Cars meet
me on the way.

I turn left on to eighteenth
street, bus top ahead,
my Muni-less adventure.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

According to the US Census Bureau, of the 128 million+ workers in the US, only 2.9% walk to work.

To celebrate this mode of commuting, I am compiling essays on walking to work. If chosen, your by-line and writing will appear on a dedicated web site. As a long-term goal and with enough popularity and quality material, it could become a printed published anthology.

I encourage all types of works--essays, stories, and poems--in any mood--reflective, annoyed, happy, etc.

I am looking for a variety of experiences, diverse perspectives, and geographic locations (not limited to the US). Being a writer, or journalist is not a requirement.

Below are just some ideas that would be interesting:

-- why you (chose to) walk to work vs. drive to work
-- a memorable experience while walking to work
-- reflections on walking to work
-- "unusual" destinations or exotic locales -- for example: a remote location like an oil rigger, or walking to your home office
-- an architectural perspective of your walk to work

Compensation: I cannot offer monetary compensation at this time. Seeing your name and work as part of a collaborative web project is the only reward I can guarantee right now.

Submission Guidelines:
Limit: 1,000 words or less
Deadline: none

Please send submissions via email to: walk2work AT mailcan DOT com

Pedestrian Facts

Top 5 states that have the most workers who walk to the office.

(*District of Columbia = 11.8%)
1. Alaska = 7.3%
2. New York = 6.2%
3. Vermont = 5.6%
4. Montana = 5.5%
5. North Dakota = 5.0%

And the state that comes in last is Alabama with 1.5%

Top 5 cities with the most pedestrian workers
1. Boston, MA
2. Washington, DC
3. New York, NY
4. San Francisco, CA
5. Philadelphia, PA

[source: US Census Bureau]