The bike ride to work is beautifully easy. The bike path shoots west in a straight line. Then, a right and a few blocks of weaving between cars and buses and I am there.
The route back is more complicated. Now, in the late afternoon, I begin to have choices. Time is usually not of essence. I meander, backtrack, move in toward State Street, then zip to the alley back of the Kohl’s Center. I am crafting pleasure. With each block I think – was this a good choice? Should have I gone east a little further?
People have a fascination with doors and bridges. I had a t-shirt once with sketched bridges of Cambridge (UK). There are the Paris ones, too. And I have looked at many beautiful posters of doors – on both sides of the ocean. Oh, and windows – I can’t resist them either: with geraniums and lace curtains and old warped shutters. Photographic bliss.
But what strikes me as uniquely pretty on my ride home, as I pedal and weave, are the brick walls. The ones that are like barricades, windowless facades. And yet, someone takes a brush and suddenly, the wall is transformed. No longer a barricade, it now invites. Come in and smell the flowers, listen to the music. Chat us up, lean forward, catch our eye.