Life in the Slow Lane

A major pet peeve of mine is a Slow Walker. Tied with the descending sensation of when your sock falls halfway down your foot, there is nothing more irksome than when another pedestrian becomes an obstruction in your path from point A to B. And sometimes, such an obstruction feels more like a barricade when, for example, a group of glacial-paced tourists occupy 90% of the sidewalk, leaving only a sliver of a lane for me and my oversized bag. Rude.

In this situation, I ride this person's ass so hard they wonder why I didn't pull their hair (I must credit this phrase to shrewd and lewd bumper sticker that I saw every morning on my walk to class last year. It read, "if you're going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair". Many thanks to the Schenectdoid with a sense of humor). When I get close enough that I am actually clipping the backs of their shoes with every step, they move out of the way, generally looking alarmed and startled while I accelerate passed them in a huff.

Some people have deemed this little habit of mine as impatience. But listen: my legs, though short, belong to a city walker, and have been conditioned over years of being late to move quickly. And sometimes that means, leaving Country Bumpkins in the dust. Sue me.

My city walking ways have served me quite well in London, as everyone here also races everywhere (the difference is that New Yorkers race because they are chronically tardy, where Londoners are so punctual that they put us to shame. And so to ensure their punctuality, Londoners race between appointments in order to arrive early). In other European cities, however, I have - most literally - ran into trouble with my speedwalking.

I've spent the past week in Italy, exploring the countryside and cobblestoned streets of Florence. Trust me, the Italians know how to do it: delicious wine that is cheaper than water, incredible food, breathtaking art... They've practically invented culture. Perhaps the only thing that they are not good at, is timing. Specifically, speed. People in Florence must not have any obligations. "Be right back"? Unlikely. Fast Food - were you trying to be ironic? If you're going to send a Florentine to run your errands for you, be sure to give him next week's grocery list, because that is probably when he will be back. You guessed it, Florentines are a New Yorker's sidewalk nightmare. While they would mosey along the narrow flanks of the street, I would closely tail them until there were an opportune moment to whiz passed, despite the risk of being hit by a vespa. I even found myself trying to telepathically move them aside, wringing my wrists in circles while I honed in behind them, willing them out of the way.

It wasn't until I had dinner with a family friend and proud ex-pat, Mary, who shared her knowledge of the Florentine lifestyle, that I realized the Italians' leisurely walking was indicative of how they like to live life. And I discovered that the aspects of their lifestyles that I considered an inconvenience was actually their way of maximizing their own happiness. It's clear in their pace and also, I found, in their restaurant operation: with food like the Italians, any Florentine restaurateur should be a millionaire. But instead, with only two seating times per evening and an environment that's rather unaccommodating to one's dietary limitations, they don't prioritize lucrative business. It's about doing their job, and going home to their families. And maybe that seems a little cut and dry, but I can't help but admire the integrity in that.

In New York, it's about time and money. In Italy, it's about life. Their priorities are different, and arguably, more appropriate. There may not be a perspective that is superior or correct, but looking through a different lens every once and a while sobers you up from the lifestyle you've grown accustomed to. So maybe I will try walking a little slower for a few days. Maybe I will see something new.