Walkers and Movers

by Madeleine Kando

Before I became a suburbanite with a family to raise, I used to live in the city. First Paris and Amsterdam, then London and Madrid. There is skill involved in being a successful city dweller, and the art of walking down the street is one of them.I first became aware of the complexity of this art form as a young girl, growing up in Amsterdam. I don’t mind telling you: I was shy and not very confident. I did not like to draw attention to myself, but I had the misfortune of being endowed with good looks and passing a group of teen-age boys on the way to school was something I dreaded. My instinct told me to cross the street in order to avoid being harassed. But my indignation took over and I started to observe some of my more self-confident friends who didn’t seem to be intimidated by these annoying males in the making.

It is then that I first realized that there are two kinds of people in a city: the walkers and the movers. I, unfortunately, was a mover. I moved to the other side of the street to avoid confrontation with these young chimps. My friend Amanda, on the other hand, was a walker. She was loud, self-confident and quick with her tongue. I tried to immitate her stride – her way of looking past other pedestrians as if they didn’t exist. She knew instinctively that most of them were ‘movers’. That they would move so she could walk. I envied her and in her presence I too became a walker. But whenever I was alone I reverted back to being a mover.
Later, when I lived in London, I tried to stare other pedestrians down as she had done but it backfired and I often ended up with bruised shoulders. By now I was obsessed with the notion of turning myself into a walker. When an assignment took me to Madrid I was determined to start out as a walker from the get go. But male pedestrians in Spain love nothing more than bumping into a walker, especially when they are tall and blond. So, in Madrid I became a very fast walker trying to dodge male movers with a rolled up newspaper in my hand as if I was swatting flies.

Now I have two grown children and time to reflect. I have come to the conclusion that people are born either walkers or movers. Walkers don’t fret about the dark side of life. Life gives them what they want. Movers, on the other hand, are not so sure about things. They care about poverty, misery, injustice. Sometimes the walkers walk all over them. Walkers on the other hand are so busy walking that they miss out on the beauty of things.

I am still trying to turn myself into a walker but my heart isn’t in it any more. Living out in the country makes it somewhat irrelevant. I have yet to meet a deer or a bear that would stare me down and bump my shoulder as we pass each other on a country lane. leave comment here