“Sometimes it’s like another planet,” I told her.

I moved to Orange County just two months ago, so the picture I painted to my old architecture school roommate was new to us both. “It’s not like being surrounded by space,” I went on — “it’s like being on top of it.” Space is reduced to a rippled surface eternally baked by the sun. Asphalt launches toward the horizon, blurred by heat mirage. The forests we had grown up with were light-years away. Here, there were only palm trees, scraggly bushes and cacti: spiky, blooming aliens that had steeled themselves for centuries to withstand apocalypse-level conditions. They feed off of the sunlight, so incessant that the landscape almost hums.

I remember my first time flying over this bizarre terrain, fascinated by the suburbs spreading like a rash over the low, dry hills, between office parks and strip malls the size of small towns. It was clear at first glance, and it is even more clear to me now: like many “cities” in the U.S., the suburban sprawl between Los Angeles and San Diego was never constructed for humans. It was made  by humans to exchange capital: to drive our energy-thirsty steel pets to one destination, one strip mall, one suburban paradise at a time. Space is what flies past the windshield. 

It was made so successfully that the phrase “I don’t have a car” immediately invites questions. Sometimes to avoid any follow-up explanation, I’ll add: “I don’t have a car yet.” Other times, I’ll go on: “I only have a bike.” These five words baffle, concern, and even inspire pity in most listeners.

I don’t blame them. By the laws of Southern Californian culture, the notion that a resident would actively choose this lifestyle doesn’t make sense. I should be deterred by the prospect of waiting for a bus, but not by waiting in constant traffic. I should not be able to traverse the city practically for free, or at least without paying for gas, tolls, parking, auto insurance, repairs, etc. The urban planners, politicians, etc. who created this city thought so as well. Nevertheless, I am learning to traverse this new landscape on two feet, two wheels, and one underrated public transit system. The process has sculpted my perception of space, accessibility, and the agency that both residents and design professionals have to be the change they want to see in their built environment.

On this planet, as in all my previous ones, I walk more than most people I know. Usually for business, often for pleasure. But getting around Orange County on foot can feel less like of a mode of transportation or a pastime and more like an endurance sport. I navigate the shade-less sidewalks with a baseball hat and squinted eyes, grateful for the vitamin D but not for the slight headache that catches up with me after a long day on my feet. In the many “neighborhoods” where every other street is a six-lane highway, I can spend just as long walking as I do waiting at crosswalks. I wait lengths of time that, on a particularly cold or hot or glaringly sunny day, seem cruel. Steel creatures roar past me, belching and gasping. Mammoth SUV’s driven by tiny women. Tourists in vintage camper vans. Mac-trucks. Teslas. Somebody programmed these stoplight timers. Somebody designed this elaborate intersection with too few crosswalks. Nobody thought anyone would be using this sidewalk much anyway, at least no one worth considering when designing.

I am gradually training myself to appreciate these long treks and obligatory pauses. While I walk and wait, I fixate on the palm tree’s reflection in the office parks, on the way the green construction fencing glistens and breaths in the wind. I stop and crouch down to photograph every captivating new alien plant or creature I see. I stream a podcast or a playlist and let the roar of traffic fade away entirely.   

Especially in Orange County, I don’t expect to get anywhere particularly fast; I couldn’t if I wanted to. The most ancient form of human transportation is the way I feel most present. It’s the simplest, cheapest, and most immersive way I know of to understand any given place and the varied ways my animate and inanimate neighbors move through it.

For added efficiency, exercise, and fun, the weather here is nearly always perfect for a bike ride. My bike has become my most treasured possession and my oldest “local” friend. Together we roam the OC’s extensive network of bike paths and bike lanes. They never quite feel extensive enough, but they’re plenty for the weekend bikers, on roads and paths funded by taxpayers with the Blue Lives Matter flag emblazoned on their matching father-son biking jerseys. Monday through Friday, they are used by kids going to and from school, and in the evenings, there are a few delivery bikers bringing my neighbors their takeout. I pedal along thinking about blue collars and white collars and how sweaty my T-shirt collar will be by the time I get to work and change.

When my own two legs or wheels won’t suffice, the bus system has been a lifesaver and a pleasant surprise. I hear time and time again, exclusively from car owners (many of whom have never boarded a bus themselves), about the shortcomings of the public transit system in Southern California. However, Orange County has the cheapest, cleanest, and most reliable public transit system I have experienced in any city in the US.  Without it, my car-less existence in the OC would be impossible.

I board the bus with a full collapsible cart of groceries in hand, which typically seems to surprise and confuse onlookers. A gentleman waiting at the bus stop with his sleeping bag asks if I am alright. I say yes, sir, I’m doing just fine, have a good night, and haul the day’s winnings onto the bus.

Carting my groceries home from the bus stop, I realize I am almost the only human in site, certainly the only one not jogging or walking a dog. I strongly suspect that the neighbor driving past me in her minivan saw me and shook her head thinking, “we really have to do something about the homeless problem in this neighborhood.”

Often as I walk, bike, or ride, I find myself craving urban spaces that welcome all varieties of human movement. Remember mixed-use neighborhoods? Walkable streets? Tangible public life? I daydream about densification right here in suburbia. Imagine: increased availability and lower cost of housing, increased demand for and eventual access to public transit, decreased dependency on cars, less demand for parking spaces and car-related infrastructure, more dedicated bike lanes, more pedestrian-friendly and vibrant streets, more affordable and accessible communities … is it science fiction, or is it part of my responsibility as a design professional to push toward such a future? 

If there’s any possibility of the latter, the least I can do is support and celebrate existing infrastructure. Even in quintessential Californian suburbia, there are opportunities to not just enjoy movement, but to “walk the walk” toward a more inclusive and humane city. To inhabit with joy spaces that at times feel actively hostile to those outside of a vehicle is to reject SoCal’s exclusionary, gas-guzzling playbook. 

I try to tickle the edges of its hostility as I trek through my new home. There, along the hard concrete borders, are little bursts of life, including some of the most gorgeous succulents and wild herbs I’ve ever seen. Sometimes going against the status quo looks like stopping to smell the native rosemary — even crouching down to bring a sprig home with me. Sometimes it involves being irritated. Being patient. Boarding a bus. Walking down the street with a cart full of groceries. Flying by rush-hour traffic in the bike lane. 

I am immensely privileged to be able to live comfortably, especially without a car, and am reminded every day that many of my neighbors are not so lucky. For all of us, moving against the formidable current of “car culture” means recalibrating notions of comfort and convenience. It’s claiming this space-less space as our own and finding little ways to love it. 

I once heard happiness described as moving through space with relative ease. The “ease” part is a work in progress. But nothing, not even this alien planet I have always called home, can stop me from moving forward.