ASK Musings

If you asked, I wouldn’t describe myself as a romantic, hopeless or otherwise. I’m not a fan of grand gestures; I’m more a fan of someone who shows their love every day, in small ways, like doing the chore I hate the most, or remembering my favorite drink. However, when it comes to cities? Buildings older than the U.S. constitution? I find them endlessly romantic.

I grew up in a fairly generic suburban California area. We lived just about a mile from my elementary school but never walked; cars were just how you got around. It wasn’t that long ago that I realized how close we lived to the town center (maybe 25 minute walk), and am sad we didn’t spend more time getting around on foot. But even if we had, the area, while set against some lovely hills (at least in non-drought years), trafficked heavily in McMansions. Aesthetically, it was just not my thing.

I nearly went to college in New York City, but went with Seattle because I thought I’d get more of a college feel. I lived near campus, which was fairly suburban, but I enjoyed traveling downtown and taking in the the sights of Seattle. The buildings weren’t particularly old or storied, but it was a city, and my university campus was (mostly) gorgeous — the quad is still a place I visit when in town and in need of inspiration.

After college I moved to Los Angeles. HOO BOY. Talk about a city that isn’t really a city to me. I still went on walks, at times taking the bus up to the Getty museum to have some remove from it all, but everything felt sad to me. I had a car, and if I wanted to go to other parts of the sprawling metropolis, I needed the car. I remember going to a U2 concert after work one day. We left work at 5. The venue was 10 miles away. It took us 2.5 hours to get there. Ridiculous. I could have run there is less time.

Between the architecture and the need for a car, I wanted a change. I wanted to finally make the big move to the city that was always there, in the back of my mind. The one I’d only visited twice before, but fell in love with.

New York had been, for the first 22 years of my life, the end game. The ultimate goal. I wanted to be there. Not because I imagined a particularly bustling or glamorous life for myself, but because it was a proper city. Eight million people. A functioning (ish) transit system. And buildings that were older and taller than any I’d lived near before. I suppose I should be embarrassed to say that I became enamored of it because of Stacey in The Baby-Sitter’s Club, but screw that. I loved those books, and something about Stacey’s character and living in a city seemed so fascinating. I didn’t even really process that kids lived in big cities (ah, the sheltered suburban life). But I knew that I wanted to go there.

I can still picture the first time I took the subway by myself — the A C E up towards Central Park. I was doing it! I took my grad school reading and a towel and sprawled out in the grass in Sheep’s Meadow in September. I looked at the tall apartment buildings peeking over the trees on Park Avenue and Central Park West. I was here. I had, at 22, fulfilled what at that point in my life was my biggest dream. I was living in not just any city but, for me, THE city. The only one that mattered.

I started out living in the Village, in graduate student housing. The neighborhood was amazing, and like nothing I’d ever experienced. There was a kind of odd restaurant called Fuel Ray right on the corner, where we’d go for late night snacks (including amazing s’mores). There was a delicious burrito place — Harry’s, I think — that I frequented weekly if not more. I’d walk down to SoHo (literally a block from my apartment), and spend hours wandering around the different neighborhoods. I’d get lost (this was pre-smartphone) and have to consult my Not for Tourists guide to make sure I knew where I was. Every neighborhood was different, the architecture was amazing, and I could be around loads of people without having to talk to anyone.

I lived on the Upper East Side twice, which was a bit of a trip. Lots of rich people and super fancy brownstones. I had a doorman for the first (and only) time in my life. I didn’t take taxis often, relying instead on the subway and the bus. I went to Central Park as often as I could, not because I wanted to escape the city, but because it was such a part of the city, being able to see the buildings and hear the traffic while still totally enveloped in nature.

I lived in Brooklyn twice — once in a brownstone with a nightmare roommate (who owned the place), and once on my own in an extremely tiny studio apartment. I loved that I had gotten to a point where I could support myself in my own place in a gorgeous part of the city — Park Slope. I was a block from Prospect park, but a subway ride away from Manhattan. Again I would just go wandering, exploring. I’d spend Saturday afternoons window shopping, reading in the park, or going to a tiny old movie theatre (showing blockbusters – I’m not THAT interesting). I dated a few odd dudes, earned a graduate degree, and worked for a major private company and for the City. It was fantastic.

I loved that city, but after seven years, it was time to move on. I’m not sure why — I’d probably live there again, actually, but I applied to grad school in London, another world-class city. And one much, much older than New York. I moved into grad student housing in a converted women’s boarding house. I didn’t (couldn’t) work, and treated school like a job as much as possible: class and study M-F; take weekends and Wednesday afternoons off to really experience the city.

I had started running a year prior, so used my training runs as an excuse to see more of the city on foot. I ran across Tower Bridge almost daily, marveling at the architecture. I ran along the Thames, weaving around tourists and office workers. I visited museums on my own, wandered streets and neighborhoods that were unfamiliar to me. This is what I wanted. It was New York, but bigger. Better? Unclear. But so much of London seemed to be working well – more transit, free museums, TONS of parks.

But it ended, and I returned to Seattle. I was sad, depressed even. No more underground to rapidly get me where I wanted to go — buses took an hour or more from the suburban house I was staying in. No more free museums. No buildings more than 200 years old. It was a hard adjustment. But it got better. After seven months in a poorly managed apartment, my partner and I moved into a place in the heart of Capitol Hill. We could walk everywhere – even to work. I felt more connected to the city. We even bought a townhome a mile away, just on the edge of the neighborhood but still a mere block from the grocery store.

And then … We moved to London. I didn’t think I’d ever be back, but the opportunity arose, and even though I was settled in Seattle, and loving the city, it felt right to come back. We first lived in a 200+ year old building, with two underground stations a 12-minute walk away, a bus stop in front of us. I didn’t have a full-time job for the first 11 months we were there, so I could explore. I walked miles every day, and eventually found a job I could walk to.

After six years, we made yet another move – this time buying a flat in a tenement in Glasgow. Our neighborhood is south of the city center, but right in the middle of glorious architecture (including our own building), loads of parks, and even a bit of a country in the form of a herd of highland cows within walking distance. This will be our home for years, if not forever, and I love that it is in a city but also in a highly walkable neighborhood.

– – –

I know I love the buildings and infrastructure, the ease to get around. But I think what I love most is walking. Sidewalks and paths that make it safer for me. A small grocery store two blocks away; a large one 20 minutes’ walk. A movie theatre and multiple shops nearby, and buses or the tube available to take me to another neighborhood with delightful architecture, unique shops, and restaurants.

For me, cities mean walkability and freedom, but I know that some cities don’t fit that description.

I remember the second time I visited Houston. The first time was for a conference and I stayed downtown. The second time was also for work, but it was a smaller affair — a two-day training at a government office. I didn’t rent a car because I booked a hotel that was maybe 1/2 mile from the office. It may as well have been a nation away. There were sidewalks, but I might have been the first person to use them. The front desk staff seemed surprised that I didn’t need to park there. And in the evening, after the training ended, I assumed I’d go for a walk and explore the area. Just across the road was a big shopping center, after all.

Or so the online maps said.

However, that ‘road’ was a giant highway, and the only way to the other side was to walk beyond the office (maybe a mile in total), then find a functioning crosswalk signal (I eventually gave up and just froggered my way across) to get to an underpass and to the other side. Took 45 minutes when a well-designed (for pedestrians) rout would have been maybe 15? 20?

And look, the hotel, office, and shopping center weren’t in the middle of nowhere. If sidewalks and crosswalks and overpasses were designed with the walker — or wheelchair user — in mind, more people could take advantage of the businesses without getting into their cars. With the set up as it was, to be safer, one would drive, which deprives people of some exercise and some time outside. It’s a shame.

My sister used to live in Tampa, in a little development on an eight lane arterial. In one direction I could find a neighborhood in which to safely go for a run. But crossing the highway was like blood sport — drivers turning right paid no attention to the crossing signal and would get pissed if they almost hit the pedestrian who dared be out in the wold sans auto.

Tampa is a city, and so is Houston, but those areas clearly wanted to be more like the suburbs, the ones that don’t even bother with sidewalks, because who is walking anywhere?

This is another reason why I love the densely populated areas of cities. Old cities are not as accessible for people with mobility aids, but they usually at least have cobblestones or pavements connecting everyone. You’re mean to see the world there slowly. The grocery store is nearby, as is the doctor, and school.

Whenever we visit a new country that is small, or a city that is really a town, I wonder — could I live here? We spent one Christmas on the Isle of Lewis, in the Hebrides, and it was stunning. Open air, loads of sheep, beaches, the works. I ran my best times there. But if we needed pasta, or tampons, we needed the car. There was a bus, and it came once or twice an hour, so with some planning it could work. And maybe with a cycle (something I’ve had for a few years now, and use to get further afield, to football training and choir rehearsals) it might work, but I do wonder if I would be truly happy in a place where I couldn’t walk everywhere I needed to go.