For years, each time I made the trip to Connecticut to see my family, I'd complete my last leg of travel on foot. I'd hoof it for 35 minutes or more from the train station to my parent's house, where I'd arrive either in a full-on schvitz in summer or with a cold runny nose in winter.

I hadn't planned these power-strolls through the leafy 'burbs, and I was none too thrilled with them at first—they made my two-hour trip even longer (and my visit much shorter), but once my parents stopped driving, I had no choice. Far from the city, cabs were hard to come by, and for the expense, they saved me no time. Instead, I planned to enjoy the free exercise, sunshine and even the rain, which I swear is more fragrant on the grass and tree leaves of New England.

I also concluded that walking is the hands-down best way to shake off the grogginess inevitably induced by sluggish commuter rail. Indeed, at the end of a 92-minute locomotive crawl up the coast, I feel more like a parolee of Metro-North than a passenger. I'd step through the two metal doors and onto the pristine concrete platform towards freedom. Towards the line of waiting cars, with their engines running and trunks popping open for luggage and laundry bags, I'd keep going, straight towards the empty sidewalk, an open road, a literal memory lane.

Halfway home, I knew that the street names I'd pass recalled towns in California (Hollywood, Burbank, Los Angeles, and the like), but riding in a car all those years earlier, I'd forgotten how a particular tree nudged the sidewalk gently around its stocky trunk, and how a small dip in the paved earth once sent my red banana-seat bike airborne when I pedaled hard enough.

I came to relish my walks, even when the snow made them longer, and even when I hurried only to miss my train. The exercise and fresh air were no small joys, but who knew the pleasure there'd be in retracing each rise, bend and fall in the winding concrete path of my youth?

Paul Freibott

Connecticut