A series of interiors

I’ve been reading Wanderlust: A History of Walking, and this paragraph made me pause:

Many people nowadays live in a series of interiors — home, car, gym, office, shops — disconnected from each other. On foot everything stays connected, for while walking one occupies the spaces between those interiors in the same way one occupies those interiors. One lives in the whole world rather than in interiors built up against it.

I’ve had a similar reflection before when traveling: that you could leave home and go from taxi to train to airport to the other side of the world and emerge on a subway exit in New York or Tokyo twenty-some hours later, without having set foot on an open space.

And a similar feeling is portrayed early on in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance about riding a motorcycle instead of walking:

You see things vacationing on a motorcycle in a way that is completely different from any other. In a car you’re always in a compartment, and because you’re used to it you don’t realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You’re a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame.

On a cycle the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming. That concrete whizzing by five inches below your foot is the real thing, the same stuff you walk on, it’s right there, so blurred you can’t focus on it, yet you can put your foot down and touch it anytime, and the whole thing, the whole experience, is never removed from immediate consciousness.

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