Matt's Journal

We lived in midtown Sacramento for many years. I grew up in the suburbs of many cities. It was pleasant being in a city for the first time – close to things, where walking could get you places.

I bought a handcart to go grocery shopping and brought it with us when we moved to upscale Land Park. I just returned from a trip, my second one, to get groceries.

It’s sunny and pleasant. I got the cart from the garage, put two grocery bags in it, folded it. I locked the front door and started my journey down the street. I saw a gardener doing yard maintenance. I passed a gray, stray cat darting into a bush.

I felt good, like a rebel, counter-cultural. I relished the idea of getting groceries on foot in a handcart, as I walked past the expensive houses in our neighborhood. I wondered “would anyone not like that I was doing this? Might it bring the neighborhood down?” I grinned to myself, laughed it off. I wouldn’t care about others doing it, especially if I recognized them.

I crossed Freeport at the crosswalk. I pushed the button and the lights went on then I crossed. People driving are usually nice. They wait as I cross. I try to do the same, even more now that I walk so much. I passed Espresso Metro, slow this time of day.

I saw a big crane and workers near the parking garage. I went by them, crossed the street and the plaza by the stadium, ascended the pedestrian bridge ramp, crossed the bridge (enjoying the view) and then descended it, passing a slower walker who looked like a student. I cheerfully proceeded off the bridge towards the store.

I saw utility workers in hardhats in a rectangular hole next to the street and gave one a nod. I crossed the street at the shopping center; someone waited in his car for me there too, a friendly guy. Around, so, to the storefront.

I opened the handcart and moved the two bags to the seat of a store cart, and folded and stowed my handcart under the store cart. Then I went in and scoped out the layout. My list was short. Peanut butter. Sausage. Tortillas and vegetables. I found them then went to check out.

In the checkout line I heard my name. I looked up. The woman behind me was someone I knew, from church, and we greeted each other. I pushed my carts out and returned the store cart to the queue outside. I wondered what my acquaintance thought of me with my counter-cultural handcart. Then I shrugged and cheerfully set out on my return home. I passed two young girls from the college and thought they raised an eyebrow at me. Oddball, or homeless.

On the bridge I was passed by an electric scooter. That’s somewhat counter-cultural, no? Or is it fashionable? If so why not the pushcart, then?

No matter. I walked joyfully in the warm sun, past the house with the cats, past the student apartments and Espresso Metro, across Freeport, under the trees, down the street. A guy with long purple hair passed by; I gave him room and we didn’t make eye contact. Counter-cultural both but in different ways.

Then I wheeled into the house and unloaded my cart. It’s stashed in the front closet should I need it again. We have to eat.

To summarize. A walking trip is almost always more fun than driving a car on the same trip. It feels good to be moving outside amidst the constantly-changing scenes and sensory stimulation there. The exercise is very beneficial and I save gas. I also create a precedent. Others who see me might come to consider getting their groceries on foot, even with a handcart. We may not be able to distinguish the bums from the neighbors if that goes far enough. It won’t be counter-cultural at some point. But we’ll have cleaner air, and maybe we’ll keep the area safer just being out there.