Taking walks at night

A soothing activity for the over-stimulated brain

There’s this thing I do, and have always done. It’s something I didn’t see as a core personality trait until recently. Almost every evening, under the cover of darkness, no matter where I am or who I’m with, I go on a walk. 

The world at night is cooler and it looks different. A lower visual intensity heightens my sound perception, but it’s gentler on all my senses. Fewer eyes are watching the streets at night, which makes them feel spacious and private. Nighttime is blissful solitude, a balm on my highly sensitive person (HSP) nerves. 

At night I cruise, enjoying the scenery and moving as quickly or slowly as I like. No two walks are alike because I try to pick novel routes each night. I usually add a touch of THC to enhance the sensory experiences, but not every walk is magical.

In Filipinotown at night, I walk past tents surrounded by trash. Uphill, over the freeway, I’m awestruck by the glimmering ribbons of red and white lights and the lack of a railing to prevent me from jumping. I stop to appreciate sunflowers taller than me, washed in purple street light. If I’m with Dudley or Misha, they pause to pee and poop. If the walk is a long one, I pee too. We stop at the yard where two aging Golden Retrievers live. They’re friendly, sniffing us, then allowing me to rub their silky coats through the fence. I pass rusting RVs and a vintage Jaguar with four flat tires. The pink neon cross indicating a church is the perfect angel topper on a strip mall’s Christmas Tree sign listing its tenants. Some are written in Korean and others in Spanish. I cross Beverly Boulevard just to wiggle through the crowd outside Crawford’s Bar, the only lively nighttime scene in the neighborhood. About once a week, I surprise a scavenging skunk in the darkness and we engage in a brief standoff before its black and white stripes waddle away.

Laurel Canyon is different. Walking there at night, I pass coyotes. They look like lanky dogs. Exotic cars and Lyfts whirr up and down the winding streets. A Disney-esque mansion has a twenty-foot front door and a turret. As I move from valley to ridge, the vegetation thins and the sky opens. A hot breeze, the kind that feels like being next to an open oven, comforts me. Dry heat is its own gift. On Mulholland, I enter Fryman Canyon Park and locate an empty concrete bench overlooking the San Fernando Valley. I wonder if the land below is navigable for mountain lions and which hills I can see in the distance. On my descent the air is already cooler and more humid. Downhill runoff leads to a grate where the water’s tinkle sounds almost like a voice. I imagine seeing Pennywise appear.

In Claremont, the only sound on a nighttime walk is the freight train blowing its horn. I pass bungalows and craftsmans with enviable front porches. Two-story colonials with gauzy drapes look like the quintessential setting of a horror movie. The entire town is suspiciously idyllic, like the only nefarious actors you’d find arrived by way of an empty caboose. I walk through multiple spider strands laced between hedges before entering Memorial Park and locating the swingset. It’s taller than average, which makes swinging on it extra fun. Whizzing back and forth brings me back to age ten, when I would swing at dusk with my friend and neighbor Stacey. In fact, all of Claremont looks a lot like Hyde Park where I grew up, down to the froyo parlor and sandal shop.

In Tampa these days, I walk on the Forest Hills golf course at night, where my dad now lives. Its man made contours and unnaturally smooth surfaces appear alien in the moonlight darkness. I avoid murky ponds and any silhouettes that move.

I grew up walking at night, but learned to embrace and appreciate it as a practice over the last six years living in California. While millions of people move about during the day, stillness rules at night. Cars are in garages, people are plugged into their screens. Pets are already fast asleep. It’s not typical to walk at night, but no laws criminalize it. It’s fun to slip in between the shadows and pockets of street light. Whimsical outdoor string lights twinkle and blink.

Walking at night gives me the creeps—and I like it.