As I’ve lamented in these cyber-pages, we no longer have the Sunday NY Times “Westchester” section–or similar sections in Jersey, Connecticut, Long Island, or even the city, for that matter–to offer up hyperlocal news, and often transit-related stories.
I also miss contributing to the section, which I got to do fairly frequently. “Westchester” had bought an essay from me on what it’s like to walk in a place where nobody walks, but the piece will not run due to the section being eliminated. The Times gave me what’s known in the biz as a “kill fee” (newspapers do love blood), which means I get a fraction of the agreed-upon amount, and the essay becomes a free agent.
I’m currently exploring the numerous publications that would absolutely die for an essay about walking in Westchester (uh, Sarcasm Alert). In the meantime, here’s a snippet of the essay. At no charge, dear readers!
Walking Tall in the Land of the SUV
I was well familiar with the adage about how nobody walks in the suburbs when I arrived in them 2 ½ years ago. As much as I’d like to say my experience has been different since we departed the concrete jungle for the land of lawns, leaves and giant Hummers, the old axiom certainly seems airtight.
The first house we looked at when planning to move was a sagging split-level in Larchmont within spitting distance of I-95—all we could afford in the trendy village. I asked the owner, an earnest middle-aged man with wistful tales about raising his now-grown children in the house, about access to the train station. “Believe it or not I walk it,” he said. “It’s a mile.”
At the time I couldn’t comprehend why the fellow felt he needed to convince me that he walked a whole mile to and from the train every day. In the city, we wouldn’t think twice about embarking on a 20-block walk to try a new restaurant or hit a theater with a slightly better start time for a film we wanted to see. In fact walking frequently was the entertainment—a chance to do some peripatetic people-watching, a way to exercise without shelling out big bucks for the gym, or just an opportunity to get out of the claustrophobic confines of one’s apartment. Each evening after work, I’d take our (then) infant son out in his stroller, pointing out the beautiful town houses of
The empty-nester gent’s gambol to the train took him past a picturesque pond, under an attractive stone entranceway that used to front an estate, and into Larchmont’s charming village. How the heck else would one get to a train station a mile away–a Segway? A jet-pack?
We didn’t buy that house, but did end up with another that’s a mile from a different Metro-North train station. My first morning in our new Mount Pleasant digs, a crisp and perfect October day pushing above the horizon, I set out for the train expecting to walk amidst an army of so-called Dashing Dan’s en route to our jobs in the city. I didn’t see a soul on the first block, the next block, or the block after that. I briefly wondered if it was, in fact, a Saturday; perhaps the madness of moving had messed with my mind.
When I got home that evening, my wife was distraught. Like me, she was adamant that she could retain her walking ways in the land of the SUV. She’d tried to navigate the baby stroller down narrow, sidewalk-less streets, past perilous highway entrances to a playground about a half-mile away—scoring disapproving looks from motorists all the while.
“There’s nowhere to walk around here!” she cried. (It wasn’t completely true. There is an elementary school, a church and, if you’re really brave, a gas station that sells snacks, smokes and other sundries within walking distance. But I got her point.)
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