A few years ago a friend and I drove up to our former college campus, located about two hours north of the Maine-New Hampshire line. It was a beautiful day at the end of May. We went to a local bar that night. After a couple of drinks, we started talking with the man to our left, a professor. He explained that he spent his summers building an entirely self-sufficient home on a property a few hours north of town. He was either in the process of wiring the house for electricity or putting in a plumbing system for water; if I recall correctly, both would draw from renewable sources.
A few days ago, I was walking through the Public Garden. An unmasked man sat on a bench with a woman and a young girl - likely his wife and daughter. I caught the tail end of an exchange with a masked couple walking by - you don't like freedom? I'm only guessing here, but I assumed this comment was related to the masks. I couldn't help but think back to that short conversation in the bar.
There is a difference between freedom and being free to do whatever you like. They are very much the same thing most of the time; the exceptions are delineated by effort. I bet the unmasked man on the bench wasn't aware of the distinction. He probably lived in a home where if the water stopped running or the electricity cut out, he fixed it by calling someone. I'm sure he valued his freedom and meant no harm with his decisions, but there's a certain price to pay when you replace your toolbox with a cell phone, and I'm not just talking about the electric bill.
I wonder how the professor would have answered that question - you don't like freedom? I can imagine what might have gone through his head - in a city, I don't have freedom, and neither do you - that's why he was spending his summer solving 'problems' like how to attach a pipe to a toilet. I don't mind trading some of my freedom in exchange for enjoying certain sanitary advancements, which is why when we started driving back to Boston the next morning, the professor was probably on his way north, to the edge of the grid and beyond.
We drove steadily, listening to The Bones of What You Believe - twice, at my insistence - and pulled over to stock up at the New Hampshire liquor outlet. We crossed the state line into Massachusetts, but the bottles remained closed while I kept the car between the lines; we were enjoying the freedom of the road, but we were only free to do so much.
