When Lisa and I first moved to Lowertown (adjacent to and essentially a part of Downtown St. Paul), I started walking to work every day. It’s less than a mile, and, I learned from living in Minneapolis and walking a good deal to get to the express bus route for a while, a lengthy walk at the end of the day practically forces one to unwind and reflect on or disassociate from the stress of the day. It is, I discussed with a coworker earlier today, very different from driving home from work. In a car, you’re separate from everyone else commuting around you — you’re in your own bubble.
Walking, surrounded by other people, offers no sense of mutual humanity or collective end-of-workday relief. To pretend that I feel ‘connected’ to other people on a walk to or from work would be a lie — in fact, I actively avoid connecting with people in public whom I don’t know. A guy this morning said, as I passed him on the left, “How are you doing, sir?” And then, louder, after I was a few more feet ahead of him, “Good morning, sir!” (I’m fairly sure this was still to me). I’m not into talking with strangers without any context other than occupying the same space. Call me a curmudgeon.
But walking, especially in the Skyway, does help me remember that there are people outside of home and work. It’s somewhat of a trivial point to make, and one that I doubt can really strike in a short essay without unique, illustrated case studies, but people (and I mean ‘I,’ but let’s say ‘people’) have a really, really hard time considering perspectives other than their own, or even remembering that real, thinking, living humans exist outside of their tiny circles, humans who have thoughts and beliefs subtly yet drastically different than their own. In the Skyway, in a confined but open space with hundreds or thousands of people circulating in and out and throughout the system, it’s a more compelling fact than alone in a car, or on a bus with a small, countable number of co-passengers, or on the sidewalk, where buildings dwarf pedestrians and become the focus. The Skyway is human-sized — in parts of it I could stand on my toes and touch the ceiling. It’s human-centric — shops and offices and, in one building (Mears Park Place), apartments open directly onto the hallways. The absence of people in the Skyway (I can say from experience) is a terribly lonely experience, more than a deserted street. While an urban or suburban street might not be characterized by a presence or absence of people, the empty Skyway (like a ghost town) is immediately notable as lacking figures. You will not forget, in the Skyway, that there are other people in the world. You’ll think about your pace in relation to that of others, you’ll step to the side to allow passing, you will interact with them regardless of your ambulatory intent. You can’t avoid it — the Skyway’s denizens are on the move, hurriedly going to and from work, on their way to lunch, rushing from a workout to an appointment. In one space, signs are even posted quoting a city ordinance: “Don’t stop in the hallways. Keep moving.” (Don’t believe me? See below.)
I stopped to take this photo.
My main complaint is that, while the Skyway does bustle, it really only does so between the hours of 8 a.m. and 5 p.m., weekdays. Granted, St. Paul at large shuts down at night most days (unless there’s a hockey game), but the Skyway in particular seems to cater to business hours. I think the Skyway is important. I value it on a physical level, when 95% of my daily walk takes place at room temperature as opposed to single Fahrenheit digits. I value it on a mental/emotional level as a sort of decompression chamber between home and work. But I wish that my enjoyment of the Skyway were less utilitarian. I want a Skyway that could offer relaxation, entertainment, engagement (all the things cities generally tout to tourists). Cafés that don’t begin closing up until 10, 11, midnight. More and varied restaurants, and bars. Great, open spaces with all of the former, as well as offices and apartments. An intermingling of professional and personal life, rather than a blurry nexus bridging the gap between the two. Let the Skyway be a sponge to downtown living, absorbing elements of home and work. A field, with the people who occupy it both figures and ground. In and around and a part of.
