Love thy obstacles
On New York City’s Open Streets, keeping pace with monks and maniacs, and embracing the things that get in your way.
During the early days of Covid, something truly remarkable happened on our street. The city shut down the small, one-way artery that runs in front of our home to all but local traffic, transforming it overnight into a pedestrian thoroughfare.
Our neighborhood was already tree-lined and peaceful compared to denser commercial areas of Brooklyn, and Manhattan itself. Taking away the traffic made it feel at once more alive and less busy. Where once the street had been a place for trucks to idle and cars to speed by or jockey for parking spaces, now there were children riding scooters and bikes, people walking their dogs and stopping in the street to talk to one another. It was a rosy image that felt plucked straight out of Jane Jacobs’ classic book on urbanism, The Life and Death of American Cities. Indeed, given urban planners fondness for her vision of vibrant street life, it probably was.
Open Streets, as the program is called, closed our street to some in order to make it available to others. It was a sudden and, during Covid, necessary reversal of fortune, a conscious privileging of pedestrians (the majority, among which I am included) over car owners (the minority, among which I am also included), after decades of it being the other way.
In practical terms, it means that anyone who wants to drive down our street must negotiate with a series of obstacles, ranging from unwieldy metal barriers to the pedestrians themselves. Inconvenient? Yes. But also a small price to pay for the transformation of a street that benefited some into public space that can be enjoyed by nearly all.
Of course, not everyone feels as I do.
It is easy to mistake the constant, frenetic movement of people and things in a city like New York for speed. Yet, what is true of molecules is also true of people: the denser things are, the slower they get.
Whether you’re on foot, two wheels, four, or rails, it is very hard to get anywhere in NYC quickly or easily. The obstacles between points A and B come in numerous forms and infinite varieties: potholes, construction, pedestrians, bike lanes and bicycles, tourists stopping mid stride to take selfies on the sidewalks, non-tourists stopping mid stride to check their phones, the prohibition against turning right on red, double-parked cars and delivery trucks on every block, fires on subway tracks, stalled trains, gridlock.
We humans are wired for efficiency. Conserving one’s energy was quite necessary in the less plentiful periods of our human evolution. Today we live in times of relative plenty. Rather than enjoy the extra energy our modern society affords us, we seem to be in a never-ending quest to make life more convenient, efficient, comfortable, frictionless — from fast-food, the most efficient (if ineffective) way to reach one’s daily caloric needs, to same-day delivery, which combines the ease of shopping online with the instant gratification of going to a store. Research has shown that if a website takes 3 seconds to load, 32% of people will simply leave. 5 seconds, 90% give up.
So in my city, and perhaps where you live, too, the natural inclinations of humans and the demands of an unnaturally dense modern environment that’s grown far too populous for its 20th century, car-focused infrastructure collide. And what looks from a distance like life at a faster clip is really just the manic desperation of people wanting to move more efficiently than the city and its many obstacles allow.
You can hear the resulting mania in the near-constant honking of horns and shouting out of car windows, the grumbling and shuffling whenever anyone’s forced to wait in line, the repeated pleas to “please step away; the subway doors are closing,” as passengers try to force them back open to get on a train that will inevitably be followed by another. Our ability to cope with life’s inevitable hiccups has atrophied. The result is incivility.
Towards the end of my pregnancy on a hot, humid summer day I myself became the object of one impatient New Yorker’s ire. I was lumbering up the subway stairs, ankles swollen, lungs taxed by the task of providing oxygen for two, as more nimble commuters dashed past me down the stairs. A man clambered up behind me and, unable to get around, started snarling, inches from my head, “Hurry up. What’s wrong with you? Come on. Come on. Come on!” He brushed past me so quickly when we reached the top that I’m not sure he ever realized just what was “wrong” with me. I’m not sure he would have cared.
When I told this story to a friend of mine, a very chill-seeming academic from California, she described going down the subway stairs behind a man and thinking to herself, “Oh my god. This man is moving too slowly!” urgency rising in her throat. “What’s wrong with him?!” When he reached the bottom of the stairs and turned she realized the man was her own father. He’d been visiting from California and she’d randomly wound up walking behind him. His pace didn’t match that of the rest of the city’s citizens, of which she, clearly, was now one. The impatience and frustration and rage she felt seemed as inevitable as the obstacles themselves. She wound up moving back to California not long after. I stayed.
Ask anyone in the fitness world and they’ll tell you: moving slowly is much more difficult than moving quickly. I discovered this firsthand after attending a yoga class in which I practiced next to a man who moved like magic. From his dress, I surmised he may have been a Buddhist monk. His movements were perfectly smooth and controlled — and just a few, subtle notches slower than everyone else’s. Every flex and bend, every contraction and release required to transition from one shape to another was clearly articulated. He seemed to float above his mat.
“Oh!” I thought to myself, “I want to move like that!” And in every yoga and pilates class that’s followed, for the past dozen years, that’s what I’ve tried to do.
Forget the pretzel-like binds, the gravity-defying backbends, the monkey splits, and arm balances. If it’s a challenge you seek in yoga or any other physical practice, try doing the basics evenly and with control, so that no part of any movement is any faster or slower than any other. To do that, you have to move slowly, so you’ll notice the exact moment when momentum swoops in to save your fragile ego from having to face the truth of your own weakness. Those weak spots are the obstacles within yourself you’ll need to overcome. Pay attention to those. Work on them. Keep going.
Before long you may find yourself practicing this way outside the yoga studio, on the streets and sidewalks of New York City or wherever you live, attempting to navigate the chaos and obstacles and pressure of the city with the same grace and equanimity that you’re seeking to find on my mat. You may assume a slightly slower pace overall, or modulate your pace as dictated by the people and objects around you. See if rather than get frustrated and struggle to get around the people and things that get in your way you can keep your movements smooth and fluid, like water over stones.
Moving through the world this way isn’t natural or easy, but with time and practice, it can brighten the most mundane of commutes. And you may be surprised to find, it has no effect whatsoever on your punctuality. Being on time is and has always been out of your hands. So keep going.
Open Streets may never have happened without Covid. The pandemic swept away the resistance to change that’s built into our governmental systems, enabling city planners of a certain bent to skip the public hearings and other obstacles that hold back the good ideas along with the bad and to rapidly approve an idea that had been bubbling for decades. Then, following a public survey that showed overwhelming support for our open street, the emergency measure became a permanent feature.
Planters and buffer areas were added, reducing the overall number of parking places. This presented an additional challenge to those of us with cars. Finding a spot was already a slog, especially during weekdays, because we have both an elementary school and a college within two blocks of our home. Twice a week street cleaning removes half the available spots and forces you to go even further afield. Film crews love our street and often take over one side or another for filming. You can circle and circle endlessly, deeply aware that you’re supposed to be somewhere, anywhere but here. With the closure that all got worse.
The barriers, the same kind used for parades and protests, were unwieldy and loud as their metal legs scraped against the pavement each time they needed to be moved to allow a car to go through. A neighbor began putting tennis balls on the feet of the barriers, but this required repeated effort and eventually, the metal legs prevailed.
If you were on foot, there were other challenges. Electric bicycles and scooters, especially those piloted by hurried delivery drivers, sped and weaved dangerously through the sea of pedestrians and pets.
Our older and less able-bodied neighbors worried about whether the ride-sharing services and ambulances they depended on could get to them. They struggled more than the rest of us to move the barriers. And because the older residents of our neighborhood tend to be black and the newer, younger ones tend to be white, the debate over whether the street should remain open took on a racial tinge that challenged the notion that those of us in favor of Open Streets were reclaiming public space and making it safer for everyone.
When the theoretical is put into practice, the flaws in our plans are inevitably revealed. This doesn’t mean the theory was wrong, just that you can’t predict everything that will happen when it becomes reality. A public hearing was called to address the concerns and simmering anger. I worried it would become one of those ugly spectacles that get replayed over and over again online, with people shouting threats and obscenities into microphones. Fortunately our Council Member Crystal Hudson had a better plan. A black progressive woman, she seemed perfectly poise to bridge the divide within our diverse community, though it wouldn’t be easy. Everyone’s voice will be heard, she explained, but you must write down your thoughts and we will read them out loud.
As a writer I know the challenge this presents. Your thoughts flow freely inside your head or come pouring out of your mouth in a jumble. Writing forces you to slow down and articulate what you’re trying to say. This is why people find writing so hard. What comes out at first rarely resembles what you had in mind. This is where many give up. You have to work the language into something resembling your truth. Work at it long enough, you may discover that what you’d initially wanted to say wasn’t worth as much as what you wind up saying.
For the most part, the audience complied, but there were a few whose rage didn’t want to be tamed by the rules of grammar and rhetoric. They kept trying to disrupt the meeting, but they did not succeed. Because they did not succeed and because people’s thoughts were written, kept brief by the size of the cards, I, at least, was able to hear what the “opposition” had to say.
They made some good points along with some misinformed ones. More important was how they felt. They felt as though they were losing something, and didn’t feel like what was gained was meant for them. Because they didn’t feel like their needs had been considered, they feared that the changes to their street could bring them harm. Regardless of whether we agreed or not, or whose side the data supported, it seemed clear to me we needed to slow down and ensure their needs and perspectives were part of any future plans. It was clear we needed to work together to make our Open Street better for truly everyone.
Last fall, my husband and I were in a taxi, heading home from dinner in Manhattan. Some cab drivers are calm and go with the flow. The worst ones, though, spend the entire drive angling to get ahead. This makes for a frightening and jerky ride. On this particular evening, we had one of the worst ones.
When we were less than a mile from our apartment, he tried to skip a high curb that had been put in place to protect pedestrians from people like him. The curb won. Even as we heard the tire deflate and felt metal scraping against metal in the wheel well, the man drove on, determined not to be slowed down. We insisted that he pull over and let us out. Reluctantly, he conceded.
This story is mild compared to many. Every year in New York City, hundreds of pedestrians and cyclists are killed and grievously injured, all because someone couldn’t be bothered to slow down or pay attention. It got so bad that the citywide speed limit was lowered to 25 mph, part of our last mayor’s Vision Zero initiative, which is being followed by our new mayor’s campaign “Speeding ruins lives. Slow down.”
I should add here that I don’t believe this is just a city problem. I’ve been on many a country road with nothing but trees and beauty around for miles, only to have some driver ride my tail before passing, not always when it’s safe to do so. Cities have more obstacles per square mile, but people are the same everywhere.
I have little hope that simply telling people to slow down, threatening them with penalties, or even appealing to them to save lives will do any good. Haven’t we heard our whole lives that haste makes waste; slow and steady wins the race; and hurrying won’t get you there any faster? We know these maxims, clichéd though they may be, to be true. Yet, putting them into practice requires something more — a commitment to practicing patience, a willingness to do what’s difficult even when there’s no immediate reward in sight, an investment in building one’s own character. These values are extremely rare in our convenience-obsessed, individualistic society. Why should they suddenly appear when someone gets behind the wheel of an automobile?
For those of us who want to create a safer, slower world, we’re left with forcing people in cars to slow down. Roadway redesigns. Barriers. Speed cameras. Bumps. You name it. And if that makes some people angry and frustrated and unhappy, so be it. That part’s on them.
Sometimes I like to imagine that the city has a mind of its own, and that it places all these obstacles in my path in order to show me something I might have missed — the vibrant world outside my car window, a rare pocket of time to breathe and listen to music. Sometimes on my walks to work I pause to count the sounds in the air. I stop to appreciate the sky, the trees, the air on my face. I straighten myself up and walk with as much ease and grace as my body allows.
Sometimes I forget to be calm and shout into the stale car air and pound my fist on the steering wheel. I too am human and, as a 9-year-old recently admonished me, practice makes progress, not perfect.
Perfect doesn’t exist anywhere, except in our imaginations. What’s real is whatever comes between you and where you’re going. How you approach it will determine everything that comes after. Choose wisely.
