The Walking Hour

I leave the office, south of Baltimore, at four-thirty. I’m slightly ahead of the rush, so it’s a commute with options. I could take the beltway, or MLK Boulevard – either of which would be shorter, at least mileage-wise – but instead I like to quick-turn through the city, passing the familiar people and buildings that pop up like Outlook reminders, letting me know what it is I’m about to see.

Every day, I hit Charles Street a few minutes either side of five o’clock. Today, despite the cold, my people are out and walking. All of them, it seems. The teenagers who eat chips and drink sodas in front of the Subway. The girl who carries a portfolio across Mulberry Street. The guy who walks his scarily tiny dog up the hill past the Walters Art Gallery. There are dozens of dog-walkers out; a group gathers on the grass at Mount Vernon Place, people talking, dogs sniffing, but I don’t have time to recognize them as the light turns green. I’m jealous of the walking hour here on Charles Street. There’s no better hour for walking than this one, when everyone has just left work, changed shoes, and is facing the best choice of the day: what to do with the wide-open rest of it. I’m only sorry I’m in a car headed north, speeding past it all, having already made my choice.