On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I walk, in the early morning, from the corner of 4th Avenue and University to the Education Building on the U of A campus. If you come out and watch as I perform this amazing activity (I manage to do it without an Ipod!) -- I'll tell you all about the thoughts with which I entertained myself as I drove down I-10 en route to putting my car in the same parking place that seems to always be available, as though it were expecting me.If you prefer, I'll narrate the route for you, as we stroll. I might be wearing shoes. Maybe not. You'll likely be impressed with the black leatheriness of my feet. Maybe not. You may suggest that the application of a belt sander will be the only way to return my soles to a state more closely resembling humanity. I likely will tell you that I prefer my feet to remain as hooves, able to successfully traverse any terrain.
You may remove your shoes, just to show off your own perfectly manicured toes and heels, in an attempt to convince me of the merits of your argument. I'll praise their beauty but quietly feel sorry for their softness. You would never be able to walk from the front door of my house to the mailbox without third degree burns, let alone walk barefoot along 15 downtown blocks because you have a blister; you would suffer the pain of your shoes instead. You'd have to. Nope, I'll shake my head to myself, this person, they may never be able to fully live here, with their fancy city feet. All the same, though, we can still walk together, in a grand demonstration of bi-partisanship: the rough heeled hand-in-hand with the genteel heeled.
Perhaps you have to go to work and can't walk with me on these mornings. Maybe you live far, far away, and walking with me would cost several hundred dollars to arrange. You just don't have the money to do it right now, but, how you wish you did. Perhaps you've walked with me before, but never at this particular time or along this particular route and you.just.know that it would be worth it, but, sadly, you just can't this time.
For you, wisher and hoper, I have created the.almost.like.being.here.experience. It will be as though you are here, walking with me. Well, almost.
We'll meet here:
I'll be waiting for you inside Epic Cafe. I'll have already ordered a slice of pie and a medium coffee. It won't be fancy, just plain coffee: lots of half and half and a fistful of sugar since I like it crunchy. You'll probably order a muffin. Maybe a scone. Pie, for you, is just not a breakfast food.
Muffin in hand, you'll look around. Where is she? Oh, over there, by the window. Come on over, I saved you a place.
I'll be watching the sidewalk sitters, who meet on the southwest corner of 4th Avenue every day. I'll tell you all about them. The pirate guy who always wears a bandanna on his head, tied over his right ear, in just such a way that his golden hoop earring is showcased. You'll ask about that circus tattooed ladywoman in the prairie dress. Everyone seems to know her! Is she famous? I'll smile at you and nod. Yes, she is dating Metalhead, that man who is wearing a hat made from hundreds of soda pop tabs, who is also out there. He never sits; he prefers to stand by his bicycle while he drinks his chai tea. You'll wonder how I know his hot beverage preferences and I'll wink at you, 'Everyone knows Metalhead only drinks chai.''I feel like a regular here!' You'll proclaim, as you tidy up the last of the crumbs on the table. 'Metalhead likes chai! I know that now!' You'll stand, excited to walk. We'll leave and you'll wave to the sidewalk sitters. They'll cheer and wave back. You'll feel so accepted.
We point ourselves east. You begin to notice the many cats that appear on the sidewalk. You wonder how I know so many of their names. I wouldn't want to ruin that magic for you, so I'll just shrug as you ohh and ahh. All part of the tour. No extra charge.We'll pass Time Market. There'll be hipsters on the patio. They'll be pretending to read Henry James or Herman Melville or David Eggers novels, making an obvious point of not noticing us. They'll be drinking Naked Juice or peeling hard boiled eggs. They might be blogging on their laptops or going old skool, using a legal pad and a fountain pen to take down their painfully bored observations. You'll admire their cowboy shirts and their 100 % natural hemp messenger bags as we pass by.
The next few blocks are the most beautiful, lined by tremendous craftsmen homes, their porches overflowing with flowering pots and old mesquite trees.
It is in looking into these tucked away porches that I invent the best stories for you. You'll interrupt me and ask, 'Is that a row boat in that front yard?' And, is that a bathtub? With claw feet?' We are quiet now, as we walk slowly. You are curious about what you would find in their back yards. I can see that you are realizing the reason I take this walk has little to do with efficiency or frugality and more with the sense of this place. The dragging pepper tree branches faintly drawing lines on the sidewalk, the aging stucco crumbling from these homes, their corners hidden in shadow, the sagging clothesline holding a single sock-- can this really be in the middle of a city, in the middle of a desert? This isn't how you had imagined it. It is better.Once we cross Euclid Avenue, you are no longer impressed. This is a cultivated place of commercialism that has nothing to do with the walk. I see you glance over your shoulder, hoping we will return to the lapse that was behind us. How was it possible to move through four blocks in such a few minutes but for the slowness of it?
We have started something now, haven't we? A routine. I see that you'll be walking with me three times each week. We won't talk the next times. Though I do wonder: what happened to your shoes?
