Whenever I go down to God’s Waiting Room (i.e. South Florida) to see my father, I’m always struck by the fact that I can’t walk anywhere. I can’t stroll to the grocery store, can’t hoof it to a movie theater, can’t amble to -- or stumble home from -- the bar. It’s almost like the entire I-95 corridor from Jacksonville to Miami was designed to favor cars over actual humans. Oh, wait. It was.
New York, though! You can walk to pretty much anything -- which is why you don’t get cabin fever here as you might in LA or Fort Lauderdale. I spent my formative years in the pedestrian wasteland of Orange County, where the closest grocery store was a 2-mile walk through a gated subdivision. People driving by would actually slow down and ask if I was alright if they caught me walking; only a deranged person would ever venture out of the house on foot.