Week One

After a five year break, I’m back in the corporate world. Every day, from 8:30 to 5:00, I have my own little seat in my own little cube at The Company.

The Company offers its employees a lot of exciting benefits, from great health insurance (that includes coverage for domestic partners!) to heavily discounted meals in the The Company’s Cafe (on a typical day, I get to choose from salads, four entrees, a sandwich bar, a pizza bar, grilled items, or a chef’s special for less than what I would normally pay for a grande latte at Starbucks).

But the most amazing thing about working at The Company? My daily commute.

By design, Clyde and I only shopped for homes that would be within walking distance of The Company. Our new home, then, is just a five- to seven-minute walk (depending on the traffic) from my place of employment. A week of walking has taught me this: Altanta, as seen from the sidewalks, is a very different city than Atlanta as seen from a car.

My stroll takes me past neighborhood eateries, towering skyscrapers, and several of Atlanta’s ubiquitous construction sites. Men in hard hats, carrying lunch pails, speak to me as I walk past. Restauranteurs, sweeping their patios and setting up outdoor tables, give me smiles and nods. I pass early-morning joggers and dog walkers, some of whom I’m beginning to recognize on sight.

The walk is just long enough to get my heart pumping … and just short enough to avoid breaking a sweat. It’s just long enough to work as a “moving meditation,” but just short enough to keep me from wondering “How much longer before I get there?”

In short, the walk is a great way to start and end my day, made all the more delightful because I didn’t expect just how much I would enjoy getting from A to B by foot. (Even in Thursday afternoon’s torrential rainstorm, the walk was one of the highlights of my day — and that’s saying something, since, by the time I got home, I was wringing wet.)

At The Company, my co-workers moan and complain about their commutes; whining about traffic is Atlanta’s equivalent of chatting about the weather. They invest hours driving into the city from outlying suburbs, or they spend their mornings switching from train to bus to train. Inevitably, someone will turn to me and ask, “How are you adapting to your commute?”

“It’s terrible,” I say. “In order to get here by 8:30, I have to leave my house by 8:20 at the very latest.”