Monday, March 7

the walk home

“Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.” Matsuo Basho

There are days when the walk home stands out.

When I lived in New York, I'd walk in between skyscrapers, with my ipod blasting "Suddenly I See" at full volume; I'd take a short-cut through Central Park holding a Starbucks Tall Skinny Late, and watch random people jogging at any given hour with their dogs running at the exact same rhythm. I'd feel like I was part of a movie-set or something. And that thought always made me smile. "I live in New York," I'd remind myself. But when I'd get home, to that 6th floor apartment on East 20th street, with nothing in the fridge and a pile of laundry waiting for me, my heart would sink. I missed the smell of caramelized onions in the kitchen, and the feeling of freshly ironed sheets. My roommate worked 23hours a day, and home was most often a combination of Grey's Anatomy, a soup from the downstair-deli, and me.

One of my worst walks home in Manhattan was on a hot day in August, when I stepped into a store for ten minutes, and by the time I got out, it was pouring rain. And when I say pouring, I mean the streets turned into a river with strong currents. It was the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Never mind that I was drenched from head to toe, and that every car that passed by splashed me with disgusting sewage water... the worst part was when I had to cross the street and the current was so strong that it removed my flip-flop from my foot, and dragged it away before I could catch it. Walked half-barefoot the rest of the way, trying not to think of all the diseases I could be catching. Needless to say, I was never so happy to get home.

But most memorable of all was me going through the walk of shame like it was a scene out of Sex and The City. Long story short (and to spare me from sharing too much) I was leaving the Four Seasons Hotel at eight o'clock in the morning, in my clothes from the night before --and as I was stepping down the entrance stairs of the biggest hotel in New York, hangover and in heels, I fell.

The walk home, that's the journey. Sometimes it's the best part of the day. It's three o'clock in the morning, and that gorgeous guy you met is with you, and there are butterflies in your stomach because you wonder if he's going to kiss you. And sometimes it's tortuous. It's raining and you don't have an umbrella, your phone falls and breaks in ten different pieces, and your new shoes are ruined.

And on days like these, it's uneventful. I walk home every day from the office. It's a three minute walk, and not a lot happens, except for the valet-parking guy who feels the need to make a disturbing comment every time I walk by. Now the days of skyscrapers and the Four Seasons feel like they never even happened, just memories among others. But still, they're my own. Part of my journey.

No comments:

Post a Comment