First things first! – It's easier to walk when nothing else is running. I'd heard it on the radio this morning, even before I'd had my first coffee: a nationwide warning strike, buses and trains staying in the depots. The newsreader's voice sounded as matter-of-fact as newsreaders usually do when announcing things that will disrupt other people's entire day. But for me – and I'm almost a little ashamed to admit this – it sounded almost like an invitation.
I put on my jacket and set off. It was cold outside, that damp February chill that can't decide whether it still wants to be winter or something else. A woman stood at the bus stop in front of the building, her eyes glued to her phone, presumably looking for information that wasn't coming. The bus certainly wasn't. I walked past and nodded to her, even though she didn't look up; it was more of a nod to myself, a silent acceptance of the morning.
Further down the street. Empty. No buses, no people waiting, just the timetable sign, now obsolete. I paused briefly, looking at it, this sign I usually never notice. How many times have I walked past it without even a glance? Now that it had nothing to announce, I looked at it like a museum piece. Timetables, I thought, are really promises—small, printed promises that something will come along that will take us somewhere else. And when they aren't kept, we're left standing there, not quite knowing what to do with ourselves.
I continued walking, through streets that seemed strangely changed. There were more people on foot than usual, I noticed. Some with determined strides, saying: I'll still be on time. Others strolled as if they had resigned themselves to the standstill, as if the strike were a license to be slower. A man with a briefcase overtook me, his brow furrowed, his phone to his ear. He spoke loudly and quickly, something about a meeting that had to be postponed. I thought: How strange that we have such negative connotations for the word "standstill," as if movement were always good and inactivity always bad.
At the large intersection, a scene unfolded that made me smile: Three teenagers were standing around an e-scooter that had apparently broken down. One was tapping away on his phone, while the other two stared at the contraption as if they could somehow coax it into action through sheer willpower. Here, too, was a standstill. I walked past and thought of that word that had been stuck in my head since morning – strike. If I remember correctly, it comes from the English word "strike," which originally meant to hit or strike. I once read that sailors in the 18th century would strike their sails – to strike sail – thus refusing to continue their voyage. So, a strike is essentially a halt, a conscious decision not to proceed. And isn't that sometimes exactly what we need?
Of course, I know: For many, this day is a hardship. The caregiver who has to go to the early shift. The student writing their exam. The mother who drops her children off at daycare before rushing off to work herself. For all of them, the standstill is not an invitation, but an obstacle. And yet—perhaps therein lies something important: that we realize how much we depend on things functioning, on the invisible wheels that turn so we can move. The strike makes visible what otherwise remains hidden: the work of those who drive so we can arrive.
I turned into the park. It was quieter here than usual, although—or perhaps precisely because—there were more people about. Many had apparently had the same thought as me: If nothing is moving, then at least I can walk. An elderly gentleman sat on a bench feeding the pigeons, as if there were no strike, no news, no world out there. I envied him a little for his serenity.
On my way back, I passed the bus stop again. The woman from earlier had disappeared—either she'd given up or found another way. The sign was still there, with its schedules and routes, which meant nothing today. I stopped and read it, perhaps for the first time in years, really read it: the stops, the transfer options, the little footnotes that no one pays attention to. And I thought: Maybe sometimes we need a strike—not just in public transport, but in our own lives, too. A conscious pause, a reluctance to continue, so that we can see again where we're actually headed.
Once home, I turned the radio back on. The strike, it said, would last until evening. I poured myself a second cup of coffee and looked out the window. The street lay still, almost solemnly. Tomorrow the buses would run again, the city would resume its usual pace. But today—today was a good day for walking.
S.
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