You try walking across Seattle alone. At night. Barefoot.

My college roommate did all the time. I didn’t understand it, just as I didn’t understand his quiet demeanor, his watchfulness from the edges, or his aversion to typical college-life distractions. His after-dark disappearances intrigued me. So I took to walking with him. I wore hiking boots, and still I struggled to match his incredible stride. As I did, my own pace—in walking and in living—permanently changed. I came to value the rewards of adventures off the beaten path, of being quiet in good company. And I found a compassionate friend.

I think of Michael when I watch Tom McCarthy’s large-hearted 2003 comedy The Station Agent.

And I watch it frequently.

Read my reflections on The Station Agent here… in this week’s edition of…
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