Flaneur

All this time I thought I was just nosy. Now, according to a NY Times article, it's obvious what I really am is a flaneur and I've been engaging in flanerie. This activity began in 19th century Paris. "The flaneur would leisurely stroll through its streets and especially its arcades--those stylish, lively and bustling rows of shops, covered by glass roofs--to cultivate what Honore de Balzac called 'the gastronomy of the eye'."
That is exactly what I do in NYC. Hours and hours of flaneuring. Not sure where I'm headed, without a real goal. Just absorbing and mentally cataloging, in the process locating myself within the bathos surrounding me. Or I could just be a nosy bastard.
Do I hope to meet someone? Not really. Is eyeballing strangers inherently wrong? I don't know, but I always catch people eyeballing me for no reason. I'm normal height and weight, walk at a normal pace, wear presentable clothing and boring hats. What if there are thousands of flaneurs clogging sidewalks, pretending to be awed tourists? With me, architecture is just as much a target as people. I find myself stopping dead in the middle of the sidewalk, gazing up at a particular style. Sometimes others will stop and look where I'm looking, in which case I will quickly move on. Don't like imposition into my flaneuring territory.
Looking in shop and business windows is something I can't control, especially on weekends. I want to see the faces of those stuck working like I used to be, want to feel their pain. Boutiques without customers, imprisoned clerks with nothing to do but refold sweaters, has to be one of the saddest sights imaginable. A life sliding by on a beautiful spring day.