From My Post Road Window / Nicholas Troilo

Whenever I feel disappointed or upset I start to walk. But nearly no one walks. I mean people in Darien take walks but nobody walks for a purpose. Well, people do walk for a purpose like a cure for this and a cure for that or help for this cause or help for that cause. But nobody walks for a quart of milk or to get a prescription filled or to look through shop windows.

Not walking is not just a Darien problem. Not walking is a Stamford problem and not walking is a Bridgeport problem, too. I know this because I walk a lot because I'm disappointed a lot. And I walk in Darien and Stamford quite frequently. Today I walked in Bridgeport.

I was called for jury duty in the United States District Court, District of Connecticut, Bridgeport Division. That was a first for me and I looked forward to it. The U.S. District Court hears interesting cases that claim a violation of federal law.

To get to Bridgeport I caught the 6:44 a.m. train from Stamford. Jurors' report time was 8 a.m. Although officially the 6:44 a.m. train is considered a peak hour train, my senior ticket worked and I rode for $3.50 round trip. You can't beat that for tax payer efficiency.

It was an uneventful train ride. I finished the usually easy Tuesday morning NY Times crossword just past East Norwalk. I dozed a bit. I watched the crowds gathered at stations on the westbound side of the tracks and thought how lucky we are in Darien and Stamford to have quick and direct train service to New York City.

On the eastbound side, from about Westport on, students were the main riders of my morning train. Most were girls wearing black pleated skirts and white blouses. They were bundled up in winter coats so I didn't see emblems on their uniforms but I would guess that they were headed for Laurelton Hall. And like every teenage girl in convent school uniform, their skirts where rolled at the waist to what might be called "stylishly" high by the girls, "surprisingly" high by visiting grandparents and perhaps "immodest" by the Mother Superior if such a person still existed in girls' convent schools. Alas, I think Mother Superiors are long gone from the educational scene and perhaps modesty is long gone from teenage girls' lives too.

At Bridgeport I walked the few blocks to the court on Lafayette Boulevard. There are actually some impressive buildings along the way. I stopped to look at a few but didn't really pay much attention. Bridgeport isn't lovely but it isn't ugly either. The newer construction in the downtown area is sort of utilitarian -- like government-issue.

It is the way I imagine downtown Darien will impress passers-by 30 years from now or maybe even today. You know, nothing impressive, nothing ugly, but nothing beautiful -- just sort of utilitarian and ordinary.

The U.S. District Court building was the most utilitarian of all. It has a large sidewalk plaza that I imagine would attract comfortable loiterers in warmer weather -- that is if anyone came out to walk in the area. But no one was about and as cities do when there is no pedestrian life, Bridgeport seemed deserted and bland. So I just went in.

The Bridgeport court house was guarded by a security system manned by three senior men. One man gave me instructions, another passed a metal detector over my body, the third studied contents of my brief case. With nothing deemed dangerous, I was cleared.

A hand lettered paper sign was taped onto more permanent stanchions directing, in purple ink, jurors to a fourth-floor holding area which gradually began to fill with what the law deemed as my peers.

Some smelled of morning coffee and that dried, stale cardamom smell I always associate with Dunkin Donuts. One man was over cologned. Some tried to gain special attention. One woman complained about the tax rate in Newton, and said aloud she was moving to South Carolina in 79 days.

Some potential jurors failed to park in the proper location and had to leave to move their car. "You will be towed," was the announcement. One potential juror wore orange sneakers. An announcement was made. "The dress code is business casual,"

A perky, bouncy, civil servant gave orders like a WAC drill sergeant. "Complete this form." "Sign on this line." "Get your parking voucher validated" "Turn off your cell phones." "Never say your name. Only your juror number."

I? I sat and watched. But I wanted to walk. I was suffering a major disappointment from the evening before. I just needed to walk. But when you are in a holding room, you can't walk. Nobody walks. Nobody.