Urban Psychogeographies of Midsummer

Last summer, on a long early-August night, I confessed to a friend how much I love the sense of emptiness that settles over the city as the holiday season approaches. We were sitting on top of a small hill, quietly staring up at the sky, watching the shooting stars light up and vanish above the black rooftops. “In August, it always feels like I have more time,” I whispered.

I know that for many neurodivergent people, summer can be a sensory and emotional nightmare, especially in the city. The oppressive heat, the unbearable feeling of sweaty clothes clinging to the skin, the crowds of loud tourists on every corner. And then there's that social euphoria that demands more time outdoors—parties, gatherings, endless events—along with the challenge of having to say “no” more often, and the guilt and inadequacy that often follow.

Up to a certain point in the summer, this describes my experience quite accurately too. But then something shifts. Somewhere between late July and early August, I start to sense a kind of rarefaction in the urban atmosphere.

The obsessive noise of traffic is gradually replaced by the rhythmic chirping of cicadas. The streets and sidewalks suddenly feel wider: no more cars parked chaotically, no more office-dressed people rushing who knows where, heels clacking on the asphalt. The sunsets grow softer, quieter. Time stretches out. The city finally seems to breathe. And I breathe with it.

For many autistic people, routines are a lifeline. I can attest to that: blessed be my daily rituals. My mornings are a chain of gestures and small acts repeated in the same order, day after day, offering stability and safety. Even my walks with my dog, although they offer a break from more pressing responsibilities, follow a predictable pattern. We walk the same streets, in the same order, at the same time every day.

But in August, something loosens. The outside world becomes less hostile, and my mental and physical boundaries become more porous. I not only feel more like walking—I feel like walking without a destination, exploring my neighborhood as if seeing it for the first time. Even spaces I usually avoid—like the park in the afternoon, which is normally a chaos of sounds, bodies, shouting, and overwhelming stimuli—become accessible, even pleasant. I can navigate them effortlessly, pause to observe the sunlight filtering through the leaves, and pick a bench to sit on for as long as I like without feeling overwhelmed.

It's as if the world, stripped of its hyper-social and performance-driven pace, becomes more attuned to my rhythms. And in that rarefied space, I find myself wanting to explore.

In these days of apparent suspension, I’m reminded of psychogeography.

In La città autistica ("The Autistic City", which I had already enthusiastically quoted in the last issue of this newsletter), Alberto Vanolo describes psychogeography as “a set of techniques and strategies for exploring urban space that emphasizes the idea of getting lost and opening oneself to the randomness of encounters and possibilities.”

Drift is the main tool in this practice: letting oneself be guided by an instinct, a detail, something that catches the eye, and abandoning the usual reasons for moving—work, duty, efficiency—in order to construct new situations, new meanings.

Now, on the surface, all of this might seem at odds with an autistic brain. Too many unknowns, too many unexpected stimuli, too much exposure. And yet, in August, in the emptied-out city, my body and mind feel safe. I can walk without a predetermined route. I feel drawn to take long walks in the middle of the night. I sit and watch the sunset from the highest hill in my neighborhood without once checking the time.

The urge to experiment, to let myself be moved by the urban landscape, replaces the need for control. And so I ask myself: how many of my “autistic traits” are truly innate, and how many are survival responses to a hostile environment?

If routine, rigidity, and hyper-planning relax when the world quiets down, maybe they’re not "natural traits" but strategies. A form of protection. A necessary way to keep it all together in a world that is too chaotic, too fast, too demanding for someone with different rhythms and perceptions.

And so I return to Vanolo, who writes that the project of an autistic city

“is not only about social and cultural dimensions, nor does it end with the need to educate and foster a tolerant, inclusive, informed citizenry open to the multiple forms of neurodiversity, or to guarantee autistic people access to spaces, resources, experiences, and services. The project has a much more radical political dimension: the invocation of a right to the city, the proud affirmation of a presence and a difference, the confrontation between radically different ways of doing things or inhabiting urban space.”

In this sense, the autistic experience can be a generative alternative. A form of resistance. A detour from the alienating logic of urban life, a conscious misalignment from productivity, capitalist frenzy, and the constant pressure to perform and consume.

How much good would it do, for all of us, to live in an autistic city?

Sommersə is taking a break and will return at the end of summer. I wish us all a slow, quiet August—which, in my mind, sounds like this:

Thank you for sticking with me until the end.
If you feel like it, you can share your thoughts by replying to this email or leaving a comment.

Talk to you in September,

Camilla

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