A few calendar days ago on a cool dark evening, I was driving down Lewis around eleventh street, making my way home. I was listening to something melodic with the windows down, wishing I was walking. I had one of those longing feelings in my gut, wishing that my arms were swinging freely from side to side, that my eyes were free to roam from wherever to wherever else, and that my legs and my feet and the feeling of motion in my bones were the things I was relying on to get me home.
I guess I could have pulled the car over and parked it, but that would have been entirely impractical and quite dangerous, so I continued to give gas to the pedal, braking when necessary, eventually putting Fiona in park at the rose colored house, and turning the key towards me, cutting the power.
I arrived in Florida yesterday, after nearly missing my flight, after clearly reading the departure time on my itinerary completely wrong. It’s such a strange feeling, when your confident you have done something really right and responsible, like arrive for your flight two hours early, when the opposite is what’s true, and the people in crisp professional uniforms checking you in look at you with those judging eyes that say man, she must be quite irresponsible and unreliable as a human being, daughter and friend. Ok, maybe not judgements quite that harsh, but they did do the - I am not quite going to completely look her in the eyes thing - because if they did, it could be construed as condoning my behavior. They gave me the, “they won’t hold the plane for you, but if you hurry you might be able to make it,” speech, and I took off to ask the people in line at security if I could cut in front of them, as I was about to miss my flight. They stepped to the side, judging eyes in check. “It’s not what it looks like,” I wanted to yell! I just read the time wrong! I thought I was getting here early! But there was no time for that.
I spent a few golden hours with my nephew, throwing the beach ball on top of the garage, and waiting to see if he could catch it, rolling around in the grass, and successfully making a batch of delicious imaginary pumpkin cup cakes that he ended up stuffing himself with (I think he ate seven).
When I arrived back at the apartment, I talked to my mom about all of her efforts to rent me a car while I am here. I have a very considerate mother...But it was turning into a hassle, with the insurance and the price and the picking up and the dropping off, and so I stopped. I began to think about my summer and the fact that I didn’t have a car, and I started to wonder where this thought that I needed one came into play. I called her back and said sorry but never mind. I just don’t want to begin to get into habits of necessity for things I know aren’t, just because they are accepted in the place that I am. This is not a tirade against rental cars. It’s a really fantastic way to get around. It was just the realization for me that this time, I didn’t need one. And if I had gotten one, I would have used it to drive down the street to the coffee shop, instead of walking there...
Which is what I did. I walked. I have become fond of not actually doing my hair, so much so that at home, I have resented the cold mornings that keep me from being able to walk outside with a wet head. So I packed my ipod and my book and my computer in my bag, thankful for the temperate climate I had traveled to. I took the majority of my steps on the sidewalk that led to the light, where I crossed the intersection that took me to the corner where the coffee shop sat, melodic tunes in check. I was breathing in each step, the comfortability of the sunshine and the breeze and the ground beneath my feet. I realized that I didn’t have to be in a foreign country to attain that feeling I had previously been longing for, and I fully, wholeheartedly and completely enjoyed each and every moment of the walk I had been waiting to take.
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