In my latest bit of deathless prose for Beverly Hills Patch, I cover my penchant for walking. I love to walk. Now, I love to drive as well. I love piloting an automobile, preferably a convertible along the byways of California. Or New England, the shores of Lake Michigan or the high desert of Arizona, where I once had an incredible drive with my BFF Dana during a meteor shower. We pulled over and spent a good half-hour freezing looking at a Spielbergian show with the top down and the seats of her Le Baron fully reclined, and a quarter century later I can still remember it. I can still remember driving into downtown Northampton in my college-years Spyder in autumn with the leaves crimson, the heater at full blast and Siouxsie on the radio. I can remember a recent trip to NYC on a hot summer evening walking through Times Square looking at someone driving a 1973-vintage 450SL with the top down, my envy as pea-green as his paint.
I love to drive.
I hate to commute.
Driving is carefree. Driving is top down, who cares where we're going or when we get there: let's stop at that funky place and grab an ice cream. Let's stop at that farm stand, that antique store, that stretch of beach. PCH. 17 Mile Drive. Taconic State Parkway
Commuting is girding the loins. Bluetooth on in case we're late. Coffee in cupholder. Water in other cupholder. Wondering what we were thinking when we got the stick-shift. The 10. The Henry Hudson. PCH..
So as much as I enjoy driving, I think I like walking more. When walking becomes a means of commuting (if you are lucky enough to arrange that in the megalopolis that is Los Angeles) it can be more pleasurable and sometimes even faster than driving. Don't believe me? Try getting from Santa Monica and Wilshire to City Hall during rush hour.
Even if you beat me there, I'll be refreshed by my nature walk through Beverly Gardens from the electric fountain to the big rock while you will have gnashed your molars to nubs driving..
image: my iPhone