FOUR WALKING

Parcs and Recreation

Pretentious. 

That was the feeling that stirred my Sunday breakfast-filled stomach. I knew the walk in the park would take a while, given the size of it on Google maps. Yet there I was on the metro. I was taking mass public transport to go for walk. Even worse, it was for a walk in the park. An experience of nature.

Suddenly the old 7biz train stopped. The lights went out in the cabin. But the composure of the almost-empty train and the small number of passengers in it remained unshaken. Indeed, there was no cause for alarm. Not even during the Alert Attende level of Plan Vigipirate. An approximate of four minutes later, the train roared back to life (although it was a feeble roar) and the train continued.

As if to mark the start of an obstacle course,the Buttes Chaumont station was designed with inevitable long flight of stairs. Now that I think of it, there must have been an elevator for the handicapped somewhere. Regardless, when I alighted onto the platform, I followed the ‘Sortie’ sign like an instinct. 

A woman was standing in the middle of the first phase of the flights. She had a bag in her hand and I thought she was resting due to an excessive weight. Two men climbed past her with a good amount of ease in their heavy overcoats. I paused as I passed her, contemplating whether I should help her with her load. Unaware of the flights awaiting me, I looked at her and smiled. She smiled back but I did not say anything else and continued with my hike. I did not know how to say “May I help you with that?” in French and I did not want to be suspected of any malicious attempts. It was only when I was close to the end of phase one that I realized the her smile was a one of identification. The “these stairs am I right?” kind of identification. She was familiar was what was to come, while I barely started to feel the lactic acid build up in my calves.

I turned to the next phase: Metro staircase Level 2. Kung Fu Panda, Po, popped into my head. “Ah stairs. My old enemy.” I even felt like a panda in my heavy below-the-knee overcoat. I began to pant in self-disappointment. You’re in your youth. What kind of stamina is this?!  I am certain that the woman’s fatigue was contagious. In retrospect the stairs were not that steep, or rather, I have conquered more difficult inclines. Huangshan, Bhutan and the claustrophobic vertical New York campus of The New School are some highlights of my footwork career. What should a mere few flights of stairs underground count for?

I emerged undefeated. The barren tree branches welcomed me against a cloudless, pale blue sky. The dense footsteps that I was counting during my ascent disappeared from my thoughts. A barricade was deposited in the entrance of the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. In front of it stood a post with the map of the park. 

There were two paths. One undisturbed while the other narrowed by the barricade, but still passable. I took a look at the map, and my insecurity in an unfamiliar environment directed me to the undisturbed path.

Two paths diverged, again. 

There was a man stretching in the playground on the right. He reminded me of the parks back home, where people put their legs up on bars in replica of gymnasts stretching their hamstrings. Elderly ladies doing vertical splits against tree trunks are a common sight in my homeland’s constructed natural space. The two coat-cladded men took a look at the park’s map as well. After they planned their route and chose the upslope left, while a young couple with a baby took the downslope right. 

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference

I took Robert Frost's words, even though it did not prove to be spectacular later. I figured I had nothing to lose. If I were to explore a smaller part of the park for, I was only saving the best for later. Besides, the sun fell in an enchanting way on the upslope it was difficult to refuse.

Parc des Buttes Chaumont encompassed a great deal of hills. Like Simba I ascended in the glory of sunshine, overlooking what I thought was the rest of the park (it turned out to be much bigger), glancing over the next hill. A turn changed my view into an urban landscape of buildings. Dull, modern, buildings without character. There was barely a trace of Haussmann in sight.

I recalled Henry David Thoreau’s words: encroachments of the city. What I stood on, was another edifice of mankind. What I looked at, was equally not a force of nature.

What is nature then? How can we distinguish between natural and unnatural? Is human behaviour unnatural? If urbanisation is part of evolution, and our tendency to make things, to make use of nature is instinctive, how is it unnatural? Are we not part of nature too? This is probably a matter of semantics.

I was not alone on that hill. By the way, that incline was not exhausting at all. There were two ladies weight-training with small dumbbells, an old man sitting on a bench and an old woman sitting on another. They did not know each other and I was part of this company of strangers, standing in the middle, looking.

I went down, and went up, and passed the playground again. The man was doing sit-ups. He was Chinese. That right path led me to the other hill I saw. I heard familiar upbeat music — Chinese music and followed it. I knew it must have been women in their fifties to seventies dancing to some routine of exercise. That familiar sight resurfaced as I made it up that hill by taking the moist grass patch route. I hated the feeling of mud stuck between the gaps of the soles of my shoes, it is as uncomfortable as the clumsiness of “of”s of this sentence. 

The entire park was filled with a desire for physical activity. Most were jogging, and almost everyone donned running shoes. I was inappropriately dressed in my attire of oxfords, straight-cut pants and a Chesterfield overcoat. One guy, whom I suspect is a demi-god, was in running in a short sleeved shirt and mid-thigh shorts. I admired his galloping fitness in my grandpa-paced stroll, bitter about the incompetence of my gloves as my hands froze.

I went in circles up and down the hill slopes without complaint, eventually entering a new chapter of the part when I chose a small fenced bridge on my left over the already familiar landscape on my right. It brought me to another larger suspension bridge. It was not majestic, but its moderate humility sent no sense of danger. I stood on it, slightly hungry for a sense of vertigo. The bridge gave me a peculiar sense of security. 

My walk continued, each footstep was followed naturally by the next. I thought about why I liked walking so much. The rhythm of walking is simple, monotonous and at times improvised to different speeds. It is spontaneous and predictable at the same time. Walking keeps one grounded. It is an activity that one relies entirely on oneself. No technology, no cars, only two functional legs. It is perhaps the most timeless and literally, down-to-earth thing to do. 

When I saw the serene scene of the lake, mandarin ducks, pigeons, seagulls (I think), people gleefully in leisure and the pavilion on the hill towering all this, I felt accomplished because I walked to it. Encapsulated in this engineered green space, I felt at ease. You see, parks are manifestations of our intrinsic bond to nature. Lingering by the water, soaking the post-rain, soft-lit sunshine and walking in circles repeatedly, I was glad I traded companionship for a focus that solitude offered on this tranquil adventure.

I left by Metro.