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h-speaking country. Canada won’t take us, and I’m dubious we can afford Dublin.<h2 id="006b">Option 2: Move to a big US city</h2>What about New York City or Austin or Honolulu? You could walk, ride a Lime scooter, or take Lyft!My sisters both live in Austin. They drive everywhere, but theoretically I could move into a cute condo downtown and spend my days eating sushi and my nights soaking up the best American music this side of Nashville.Major barrier: I do not have a million dollars. If I did, I wouldn’t be desperately searching for ways to reduce my fuel costs. Duh.<h2 id="7090">Option 3: Get incredibly fit</h2>Here in central Arkansas, we have a saying — no one is safe from chiggers!I still venture outside, though. I walk up and down the hills, through the forest, and down the street to the pickleball courts!I carry pepper spray ’cause along with chiggers and ticks, we have bears and the locals let their hounds roam the back roads.I am not fit enough to ride a bike up and down these slopes, so I have an E-bike. Sadly, I cannot ride it outside the gated community, because rednecks would crush me and my libtard E-bike as I cruised down the mountain to Walmart. Hell, rednecks are not required. All it takes is a drunken geezer behind the wheel of a Buick.Major barrier: No amount of fitness will save me from automobiles.<h2 id="36fc">Option 4: Live in a holler or as the kids say “off-grid”</h2>Who needs a car when your food comes from your backyard? I could raise chickens, rabbits, and goats. I could hunt deer in the fall, and fish year-round.Major barrier: I know people who do this, and they are tired AF.<h2 id="ddb4">Option 5: There is no middle ground</h2>Ultimately, the only way to save money on fuel is to have so much cash-ola that I can afford to move somewhere walkable.I am sinking into a pit of paradox. It’s a Catch-22.Walkable places are either high

Options

-priced or third-world. There is no middle ground.I met someone recently who is moving France. So began a surreal convo between Kaylee (52) and our elderly neighbor, Shirley (89) about why she’s moving to France:Kaylee: I don’t want to drive and I need health insurance.Shirley: [who is stone deaf]: I was a teacher for 40 years! We grew up on a cotton farm in northeast Arkansas. Boy, if that isn’t the worst. My mom told me to get an education, and I did!Kaylee: That’s nice.Shirley: Now, you said France, is it? [Tells long story about visiting Europe seeing all the art in the company of an art expert].Kaylee: Yes, I don’t want to drive. And the health insurance is much better there.Shirley: Oh yes, I see. When I grew up, the doctor was so far away we just prayed. Don’t you like driving?Kaylee: Not really, do you?Shirley: Oh, I love to drive! We didn’t have a car till I was 17. Cars sure beat out mules!<h1 id="2dac">Final Calculations</h1>If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s weighing my options. As a privileged white lady, I’ve had plenty of choices in life, so calculating my next move is a fun hobby.Sadly, my options are dwindling because I may be privileged but I’m not — as I’ve mentioned — a gazillionaire.My 71-year-old spouse has zero interest in moving again. I guess he figures I’ll drive him around like a taxi service.I’m counting on our visit to Ireland to open his mind, assuming it won’t cost $15,000 per ticket to fly there in two years.Maybe he’ll see there’s a land over the rainbow, a land where Budweiser-guzzling evangelist inbred skinheads are only characters in nightmares.A land where you can walk to the market without your suit of car-armor and your pistola, praying to Jesus you won’t die in a mass shooting or worse, get maimed and have to pay the hospital bill.</article></body>

The Dream of a Walkable City

The age of cheap gas is over, America

I went carless for six months when I was young, spry and living in Denver. The experience was not encouraging. I felt like I was one step away from bag lady status.

My metal armor had been stripped away and I felt like a naked chihuahua in a thunderstorm.

Speaking of small dogs: my tiny hound, Poco, fell off the grooming table and I had to ask a friend give me a ride to the vet so they could put l’il Poco in a cast.

This was in the Time Before Lime, the pre-Tesla era, when we all lived in the bubble of cheap American gas — also known as the 1990s.

It was before our euphemistic “climate change” got personal — but after most of the Mad Max movies.

And here I am, a bit older and gobs wiser, trying to do the math.

Is it possible to live in America, and not drive?

Option 1: Move to Panama, Portugal, France, etc.

Americans are leaving the country, handing their car keys to grandkids or great nieces, or selling the jalopy on craigslist.

In Panama or Costa Rica, I wouldn’t need a car and couldn’t afford one. Imported cars are luxuries, and the bureacracy is thick as a swarm of angry wasps/WASPS — so I’d walk or take a scooter.

I might live in a high-rise on the beach, and hoof it to get my groceries or dine in the bistro down the street.

I’d socialize with other expats in our tower of safety. We would not discuss politics, because American expats come in two colors: ocean blue and deep crimson.

Major barrier: My husband will only agree to live in an English-speaking country. Canada won’t take us, and I’m dubious we can afford Dublin.

Option 2: Move to a big US city

What about New York City or Austin or Honolulu? You could walk, ride a Lime scooter, or take Lyft!

My sisters both live in Austin. They drive everywhere, but theoretically I could move into a cute condo downtown and spend my days eating sushi and my nights soaking up the best American music this side of Nashville.

Major barrier: I do not have a million dollars. If I did, I wouldn’t be desperately searching for ways to reduce my fuel costs. Duh.

Option 3: Get incredibly fit

Here in central Arkansas, we have a saying — no one is safe from chiggers!

I still venture outside, though. I walk up and down the hills, through the forest, and down the street to the pickleball courts!

I carry pepper spray ’cause along with chiggers and ticks, we have bears and the locals let their hounds roam the back roads.

I am not fit enough to ride a bike up and down these slopes, so I have an E-bike. Sadly, I cannot ride it outside the gated community, because rednecks would crush me and my libtard E-bike as I cruised down the mountain to Walmart. Hell, rednecks are not required. All it takes is a drunken geezer behind the wheel of a Buick.

Major barrier: No amount of fitness will save me from automobiles.

Option 4: Live in a holler or as the kids say “off-grid”

Who needs a car when your food comes from your backyard? I could raise chickens, rabbits, and goats. I could hunt deer in the fall, and fish year-round.

Major barrier: I know people who do this, and they are tired AF.

Option 5: There is no middle ground

Ultimately, the only way to save money on fuel is to have so much cash-ola that I can afford to move somewhere walkable.

I am sinking into a pit of paradox. It’s a Catch-22.

Walkable places are either high-priced or third-world. There is no middle ground.

I met someone recently who is moving France. So began a surreal convo between Kaylee (52) and our elderly neighbor, Shirley (89) about why she’s moving to France:

Kaylee: I don’t want to drive and I need health insurance.

Shirley: [who is stone deaf]: I was a teacher for 40 years! We grew up on a cotton farm in northeast Arkansas. Boy, if that isn’t the worst. My mom told me to get an education, and I did!

Kaylee: That’s nice.

Shirley: Now, you said France, is it? [Tells long story about visiting Europe seeing all the art in the company of an art expert].

Kaylee: Yes, I don’t want to drive. And the health insurance is much better there.

Shirley: Oh yes, I see. When I grew up, the doctor was so far away we just prayed. Don’t you like driving?

Kaylee: Not really, do you?

Shirley: Oh, I love to drive! We didn’t have a car till I was 17. Cars sure beat out mules!

Final Calculations

If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s weighing my options. As a privileged white lady, I’ve had plenty of choices in life, so calculating my next move is a fun hobby.

Sadly, my options are dwindling because I may be privileged but I’m not — as I’ve mentioned — a gazillionaire.

My 71-year-old spouse has zero interest in moving again. I guess he figures I’ll drive him around like a taxi service.

I’m counting on our visit to Ireland to open his mind, assuming it won’t cost $15,000 per ticket to fly there in two years.

Maybe he’ll see there’s a land over the rainbow, a land where Budweiser-guzzling evangelist inbred skinheads are only characters in nightmares.

A land where you can walk to the market without your suit of car-armor and your pistola, praying to Jesus you won’t die in a mass shooting or worse, get maimed and have to pay the hospital bill.