Courthouse Square in Fairfield, Texas.

I love walking. I have long found in it a powerful temporary salvation—a sort of encapsulated, artificial sense of escaping, of departing on a journey and returning having discovered something about the world.

Here comes the obligatory New York reference: this is one more reason I'm going to love my life a whole lot more when I get there. I hate cars. Even the shiny ones that cost millions of dollars. I would be happy to only ever drive a vehicle as a hobby or rare romantic rendezvous—and then only on country roads or vast estates, far from the cluthes of the police.

Today, I was going about my final day at my temporary job, measuring office windows on the downtown square of Fairfield, Texas, for graphics and lettering. Once I finished one side of the square, my last stop was the West—directly across four lanes of TX Highway 84. I didn't notice the upper-90's heat, I was just excited about getting to walk around town for once.

Crossing through the traffic was instictive—I've done it enough all over the place—Washington, New York, Chicago, San Francisco—that I never gave it a second thought. But as I stood, a lone figure on the street corner, I missed my fellow marchers. Truck after SUV after tractor roared by. Enough pedestrians can stop a frantic stream of traffic any day, but here the downtown walker is an alien in a foreign land.

Funny thing is that in a few short months, I'll probably be missing it.