In the middle of the journey of my life, I am--as always--a woman on a bike. Although I do not know where this road will lead, the way is not lost, for I have arrived here. And I am on my bicycle, again.
How many years ago?, you ask. Well, the nuns who taught us were covered from head to toe, except for their faces, in black. I remembered them when, years later, I learned about the severe sartorial codes conservative Islamic states impose on women.
Needless to say, women who live under such restrictions don't do much cycling. To be fair, that also has to do with other restrictions--arguably, the most extreme have been imposed by the Taliban in Afghanistan--on where, when and with whom women can work, travel or simply be in a public space.
To my knowledge, even the most conservative orders of nuns aren't so constrained in their day-to-day movements. Still, I have a hard time imagining a woman riding a bicycle in one of those long habits. Unless...
When a bicycle ends up underwater, it's not a good thing. At least, most of the time. I think now of all of those bikes from share programs that were sent to "sleep with the fishes" (if indeed any are present) in the rivers, canals and lakes of the cities served by those programs. Or of any other stolen bikes that met a similar fate, or bikes that were made to take a dive without scuba gear because their owners were too lazy to find new owners or simply discard them in more environmentally conscious (though not absolutely environmentally conscious) ways.
Perhaps it surprise no one that in Amsterdam--where the bicycle-to-person ratio favors velocipedes even more than the gun-to-person ratio favors firearms in the United States--thousands of two-wheelers have met their untimely and uncalled-for demises at the bottom of the city's canals.
This week, however, the city's cyclists can leave their bicycles under the waves of the so-called Open Harbourfront--and their bikes will not only collect seaweed, barnacles, debris or toxic chemicals, they will even remain dry. And safe.
In a stroke of genius that can come only from a city that's one of the world's most densely populated--with people and bicycles--a bicycle parking facility, complete with useful racks and a security system, opened under those waters where they lap up by the Amsterdam Central Station, the city's main rail terminal.
Now, aside from its unique concept and design, what else makes this facility something from which other cities can learn? Well, the fact that it allows direct access to the city's--and, by extension, the country's and continent's--rail system means that bicycles can become part of a reliable transportation system for many more people.
A few forward-thinking planners are starting to realize that if they want to get at least some cars off their city's streets, they not only have to make cycling (whether on a traditional or electric bike) more available and safer for more people, they also have to integrate it with mass transportation--which, of course, also has to be made more available and safer for more people.
Many people who would be willing to cycle for all or part of their commutes, or simply for recreation, are not long-distance cyclists or any other kind of athletes. Even for those who are, the distances between their homes and classrooms, offices or other workplaces make an all-cycling commute impractical or simply inconvenient. (After all, if you have to ride two hours each way, spend 8-12 a day at work, you don't have time for much else.) But riding to a train or bus, and knowing that, when they return, the bicycle will be where and in the condition in which they left it, could entice some people out of their cars.
The thinking that went into Amsterdam's new underwater facility is a hopeful sign. Here's another: Another such facility, albeit smaller (4000 bikes vs 7000) is scheduled to open next month.
Dear Readers, I am still alive--but not well. That is why I've been posting less frequently.
My illness isn't life-threatening or disabling. But it has drained, seemingly, all of my energy.
As I recounted a few posts ago, I started to feel congested and tired near the end of my Paris trip. My former religious self might've said that I was being punished for having too good a time. Truth is, the only possible connection I can see between my sojourn and my illness is the Munch exhibit I attended with Alec and Michele at the Musee d'Orsay. It was one of the most crowded exhibits I've ever attended: We, and other visitors were literally shoulder-to-shoulder. It was all but impossible to move individually and independently.
(That, by the way, was my only complaint about the exhibit, or any other I attended while in Paris: I thought it was well-presented but I couldn't linger at some of the works, as I often do when I'm interested.)
I came home just in time for a long weekend. (Monday the 16th was Martin Luther King Jr. day.) Surely, that would give me time, aided with copious quantities of chicken soup and orange juice, to recover my energies for the beginning of the semester on Tuesday.
My body--specifically, my respiratory system--didn't get the message. I felt as if I were being submerged even deeper into a sea of phlegm. My routine has included going to classes, answering only the most urgent emails and curling up with Marlee.
I figured--correctly--that whatever I was suffering wasn't COVID or the flu, as I was vaccinated as soon as the jabs became available. Finally, I called my doctor who believed I had a respiratory infection and advised me to go to the nearest City MD center rather than to make a trip to his office.
His hunch was correct. All I can do now is wait this thing out. Then, I hope, I'll be back to my regular habits of cycling--and blogging.
