Farewell walking

Yet another nice spring morning, with more sunny weather in store, and I am walking these streets with growing intensity. At least the current pandemic has given me more time for these walks, short and long, through comforting streets and neighbourhoods. Many of the sights are familiar, and I appreciate the constant embrace of tree canopy and the vigor of local gardeners in shaping their small paradises. Fashions and colours change from plot to plot, and sometimes flavours of cultural roots shine through. Although I have come to know these streets well, there is always an element of surprise: a small magnolia tree, blooming later than its peers, planted in between the large maple trees, by the city or more likely a local resident with guerilla gardening ambitions. A different corner turned, a changed perspective. A sudden break in the rain, sunrays lighting up the landscape in a kaleidoscopic way. Children’s laughter from a backyard, as some things never change.

For many centuries, walking has been recognised as one of the best ways to connect with the places where we live. Walking has also been an expression of protest, of claiming landscapes and rights. We’ve also walked to reconnect with a romantic ideal of nature and the Wild, and of escaping crowded cities. Having lived in many places in my life, from small Dutch villages to Asian metropolises, it has become part of who I am, of the way I make my connections and form my ‘place attachment’. There is something about the physical, bodily interaction with a place, and the full engagement of all senses. Walking should be done in all seasons and under all conditions, as a locality only then truly presents itself in its true richness. For me, solitary walks help me build stronger connections with my environment. Unknown spaces are gradually shaped into places, as I make towns or cities my own, one step at the time. The rhythm of the walk is meditative and I sometimes need to force myself to come out of it, as I want to take in my surroundings. Deep breaths, holding them in, being mindful of where I am, and with that who I am.

These days my walks are part of a farewell. My family and I will leave this city in a few months, moving back to Europe after years of settling in. I recall the excitement of our first contacts with the new city, and of the initial jetlagged, early-morning walks. The fact that things here, in our first North-American home city, were so similar but on the other hand also so different. The spectacular view of the snow-capped mountains and of a skyscraper dominated downtown. The majestic trees that grow as if being on steroids, thriving in the moisty and mild climate. As always, it took time to make this city into my own, from exploring a smaller circle close to our home to establishing a much wider roaming range. Now I know these neighbourhoods and I recognise sounds and smells. The melody of the languages spoken here. The bird calls that were once exotic are now so familiar.

Just like walking is part of a ‘welcome’ and the establishment of a potentially strong relationship, it is also part of a ‘farewell’.

Just like walking is part of a ‘welcome’ and the establishment of a potentially strong relationship, it is also part of a ‘farewell’. I now need to walk these leafy streets to slowly disconnect from the city. It has treated us well and deserves an appropriate farewell. I soak it all in, once again, and many sights already make me nostalgic although I still am here. It results in a feeling of longing that is physical. Returning will bring some of it back, but it will never be the same again. Will I miss those flowering cherries? How about that pretty corner garden that oozes people’s sense of place? That smell of bread, and even the rancid aroma of last night’s beer when I pass the pub’s terrace?

Soon I’ll start my walking exploring once again, in another world-class city bordering salty seas, this time on the Mediterranean. A city that has been hard hit by the virus, and its usually overcrowded streets have mostly been emptied of their frantic energy. How will it be, once we get there? Will people have returned to the streets and plazas? Less trees, that will be sure, and less gardens. But more historical buildings, narrow streets, many smells, and a grittiness that will probably have me on my guard, as a newcomer who does not knows how to read all the signs. A city defined by many generations of stories and walkers. I have been there before and made some connections during my walks, but this time will be very different, as I won’t just be a passerby.

But for now that city is still far away, and it is not more than an abstract thought. This city, still my current home, on the edge of the wilderness, with its provincial nature but its global desires, is still here for me. I slow my pace and study the ferns and mosses on the trees. An elderly couple passes by, making sure to keep their distance, faces covered by masks. But their eyes smile, and I smile back. An unspoken acknowledgement between walkers, so often experienced before. These walks represent a mutual farewell, current home of mine. You’ll do fine, and so will I. Please welcome all new walkers, just as you welcomed me.