The Walk: coming soon, I hope.
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Road Less Written
One of the main reasons I started this blog was that, as a lifelong writer who had burnt out on it and stopped cold turkey a few years ago, I wanted to see how it felt to write for no other reason than because I felt like it. Not because I was trying to GET somewhere. That’s what my feet are for. I chose walking as my muse because of its endless possibilities: a thousand paths on any given day, myriad metaphors and emotional responses. And then, I was loaned a car to make my current itinerant housesitting lifestyle more manageable. Et voila, next to no writing! What does this mean? I am not sure; I am certainly walking less, so perhaps the muse has simply been put on the shelf; on the other hand, perhaps I have simply not felt like writing. It comes, it goes.
The Walk: coming soon, I hope.
The Walk: coming soon, I hope.
Monday, July 27, 2009
If You Do Not Change Direction, You May End Up Where You Are Heading*
I have a good sense of direction. It runs in the family so I take it for granted and am sometimes taken aback when I tell someone I’ll meet them on the southwest corner and they say, “Huh?”
Therefore it was with some surprise and anxiety that I berated myself when I got lost in Thailand once. This was in a small town in the north called Chiang Rai. I had arrived in the evening with my driver (long story and not as glamorous as it sounds) and we’d got our rooms in a cheap hotel with ugly, peeling paint and no amenities (see?), although I take that back as I believe the toilet was of the sitting rather than squatting variety. Not that I particularly minded the latter, but that isn’t really relevant here. What is relevant is that after settling in my driver pointed me in the direction of the night market, which was apparently where to go. My travel journals are more or less in cold storage or I would do better justice to the details of this story but it’s been seven years and the water keeps flowing, so to speak. (That is not a toilet reference, apt as it may be. I am not really about toilet humor although, it happens. So to speak.)
Where was I? Ah, heading out to find the action of an evening in Chiang Rai. I strolled along, taking note of the street the hotel was on and the temple on the corner, and soon found myself at the market. Based on internet pictures I've seen, I'm thinking this was an off night, or too early perhaps. Or too late perhaps, what do I know? Come to think of it, maybe I was in the wrong place altogether. It certainly wasn’t what I had expected, being not very hopping and yet something of a tourist-oriented spot at the same time. Not that there were many tourists – of the plume-feathered Western-variety at any rate – but you could still tell that the food on offer and the “events” were geared toward such visitors. I had a bite to eat anyway (I'm sure my journal would tell us exactly what that was) then wandered off to find the "real" Chiang Rai. I don’t know that there’s much to see there; we were en route to or from the Golden Triangle, I can’t remember; but most towns in a country you’ve never been to before are interesting to walk through, and it’s always nice to strike up conversations of the part-your-language-part-my-language-part-flailing hands variety. (Although to be honest, the shy smile was often my best attempt on that trip. I did whip out the bubbles in a couple of small villages, which made me an insta-attraction to small children.)
Meanwhile, I walked and I walked, it being yet another pleasant February evening in Thailand, and I stumbled upon the real market, the one chock full of locals and unidentifiable vegetables. Delighted (mostly with myself, no doubt, for achieving the discovery) I wandered through, self-consciously smiling at everyone I passed because, indeed, they all stared at me, being the only farang in the ‘hood. It’s funny, by the by: in such places, when you meet another fish out of water just like yourself, you either greet each other ecstatically, immediately share your hard-earned info on, say, the best-kept secret guest house in Bangkok, learn that your maternal grandfathers were both Irish, and mayhap end up traveling together for six weeks – or, you immediately pretend you don’t notice each other or, you did but hey, we’re all just people here and anyway you’re messing with the tableau, dude.
Where was I? Well, the walk being the point. It was fully dark by now but I was enjoying the air and the quiet, low-key atmosphere after the relative bustle of Chiang Mai, so I kept on, knowing perfectly well where I was in relation to my lodgings. When it finally became time to turn around, lest I walk all the way to the wilds of Burma in my enthusiasm, I chose a parallel street for a new view and I walked just as heartily in the other direction. And I walked. And I walked. And long after it seemed that things should start getting familiarish, they didn’t. Huh, I thought. But I kept on walking, certain that something would soon make sense. Slowly, new thoughts began to form. Thoughts like: Hmm, I guess I should have written down the hotel name on a little slip of paper or a matchbook or anything really and stuck it in my pocket. And: Gosh, I guess my little book with all the phone numbers of my local contacts on it are back in my room, isn’t it? Just little niggling things like that. Finally I thought, ah ha! The temple! Just look for the temple. Well, if you’re not already laughing to death, let me explain. At this point I had only been in Thailand ten days or so. A few months later, hot and tired and dusty as I was, I would have recognized the folly in getting my bearings from a temple, because there are only about nine thousand of them in each small to middling sized town. So I found the temple! And then I found it again! And so on. What to do – short of getting a taxi and asking for a drive-by tour of every temple in town?
Well, the moral of this story is not what you might think, i.e. always carry a map or the business card of your hotel with you when you go out for a solo walk in a strange town. It is this: trust your instincts! Because I know I have a good sense of direction; what I apparently don’t have, or didn’t that time, is a sense of how much ground I actually cover. Just when I was on the exhausted, edge of panic verge of dust-streaked tears, I came to a corner and there was the temple. Let me rephrase that: The Temple. And I was home, the end.
The Walk: who knows?
*Lao Tzu, apropos of not much
Therefore it was with some surprise and anxiety that I berated myself when I got lost in Thailand once. This was in a small town in the north called Chiang Rai. I had arrived in the evening with my driver (long story and not as glamorous as it sounds) and we’d got our rooms in a cheap hotel with ugly, peeling paint and no amenities (see?), although I take that back as I believe the toilet was of the sitting rather than squatting variety. Not that I particularly minded the latter, but that isn’t really relevant here. What is relevant is that after settling in my driver pointed me in the direction of the night market, which was apparently where to go. My travel journals are more or less in cold storage or I would do better justice to the details of this story but it’s been seven years and the water keeps flowing, so to speak. (That is not a toilet reference, apt as it may be. I am not really about toilet humor although, it happens. So to speak.)
Where was I? Ah, heading out to find the action of an evening in Chiang Rai. I strolled along, taking note of the street the hotel was on and the temple on the corner, and soon found myself at the market. Based on internet pictures I've seen, I'm thinking this was an off night, or too early perhaps. Or too late perhaps, what do I know? Come to think of it, maybe I was in the wrong place altogether. It certainly wasn’t what I had expected, being not very hopping and yet something of a tourist-oriented spot at the same time. Not that there were many tourists – of the plume-feathered Western-variety at any rate – but you could still tell that the food on offer and the “events” were geared toward such visitors. I had a bite to eat anyway (I'm sure my journal would tell us exactly what that was) then wandered off to find the "real" Chiang Rai. I don’t know that there’s much to see there; we were en route to or from the Golden Triangle, I can’t remember; but most towns in a country you’ve never been to before are interesting to walk through, and it’s always nice to strike up conversations of the part-your-language-part-my-language-part-flailing hands variety. (Although to be honest, the shy smile was often my best attempt on that trip. I did whip out the bubbles in a couple of small villages, which made me an insta-attraction to small children.)
Meanwhile, I walked and I walked, it being yet another pleasant February evening in Thailand, and I stumbled upon the real market, the one chock full of locals and unidentifiable vegetables. Delighted (mostly with myself, no doubt, for achieving the discovery) I wandered through, self-consciously smiling at everyone I passed because, indeed, they all stared at me, being the only farang in the ‘hood. It’s funny, by the by: in such places, when you meet another fish out of water just like yourself, you either greet each other ecstatically, immediately share your hard-earned info on, say, the best-kept secret guest house in Bangkok, learn that your maternal grandfathers were both Irish, and mayhap end up traveling together for six weeks – or, you immediately pretend you don’t notice each other or, you did but hey, we’re all just people here and anyway you’re messing with the tableau, dude.
Where was I? Well, the walk being the point. It was fully dark by now but I was enjoying the air and the quiet, low-key atmosphere after the relative bustle of Chiang Mai, so I kept on, knowing perfectly well where I was in relation to my lodgings. When it finally became time to turn around, lest I walk all the way to the wilds of Burma in my enthusiasm, I chose a parallel street for a new view and I walked just as heartily in the other direction. And I walked. And I walked. And long after it seemed that things should start getting familiarish, they didn’t. Huh, I thought. But I kept on walking, certain that something would soon make sense. Slowly, new thoughts began to form. Thoughts like: Hmm, I guess I should have written down the hotel name on a little slip of paper or a matchbook or anything really and stuck it in my pocket. And: Gosh, I guess my little book with all the phone numbers of my local contacts on it are back in my room, isn’t it? Just little niggling things like that. Finally I thought, ah ha! The temple! Just look for the temple. Well, if you’re not already laughing to death, let me explain. At this point I had only been in Thailand ten days or so. A few months later, hot and tired and dusty as I was, I would have recognized the folly in getting my bearings from a temple, because there are only about nine thousand of them in each small to middling sized town. So I found the temple! And then I found it again! And so on. What to do – short of getting a taxi and asking for a drive-by tour of every temple in town?
Well, the moral of this story is not what you might think, i.e. always carry a map or the business card of your hotel with you when you go out for a solo walk in a strange town. It is this: trust your instincts! Because I know I have a good sense of direction; what I apparently don’t have, or didn’t that time, is a sense of how much ground I actually cover. Just when I was on the exhausted, edge of panic verge of dust-streaked tears, I came to a corner and there was the temple. Let me rephrase that: The Temple. And I was home, the end.
The Walk: who knows?
*Lao Tzu, apropos of not much
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Dog Daze
I am walking the dog these days. This, let me clarify, is not Walking, per se. It is step, step, stop, wait, wait, wait; step, step, stop, wait, wait, wait, while the dog does his thing. For the first several days of this I was exceedingly impatient and repeatedly asked Cosmo why he wasn’t a cat. But one can get used to anything, and now I’m enjoying our minimum twice-daily outings. We don’t go far – my god, how is it even possible with such short legs and so much to sniff?? – but I have found the rhythm in it and spend many fine moments admiring gardens and choosing which house I would like to make my own.
Interestingly, while walking was my inspiration for this blog it’s ultimately a metaphor and I have to remember that when I feel silly – for starting a blog about walking and then not walking. And the fact that much of my walking life right now consists of step, step, stop, wait, wait, wait, is a testament to that. Enough said*.
And anyway, I did walk today sans pooch: a friend and I met on Church Street halfway between our places with the intention of taking a walk, which we did – as far as Dolores Park. It was a beautiful day and we sat at the top of the slope in the dappled shade. The cityscape was sharply cut into a very blue sky. I’m all about sitting, too.
The Walk: 2.8 miles
The Sit: longer than the walk
*Except that, metaphor aside, I have actually been walking for most of my life so certainly have a well to draw from!
Interestingly, while walking was my inspiration for this blog it’s ultimately a metaphor and I have to remember that when I feel silly – for starting a blog about walking and then not walking. And the fact that much of my walking life right now consists of step, step, stop, wait, wait, wait, is a testament to that. Enough said*.
And anyway, I did walk today sans pooch: a friend and I met on Church Street halfway between our places with the intention of taking a walk, which we did – as far as Dolores Park. It was a beautiful day and we sat at the top of the slope in the dappled shade. The cityscape was sharply cut into a very blue sky. I’m all about sitting, too.
The Walk: 2.8 miles
The Sit: longer than the walk
*Except that, metaphor aside, I have actually been walking for most of my life so certainly have a well to draw from!
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Jiggity-Jig
No, I have not been sick all this time, thank goodness, just scattered. But nor have I been racking up many ped miles. For the ten or so days between housesits I had a borrowed car (thank you, thank you!) to make the transition easier; two suitcases, a rolling backpack, laptop bag, guitar, and various bags of food and, um, tea tins, is a bit tricky to negotiate on public transportation. Also, I was alternating time between the city on days when I had commitments and Santa Rosa – not a walking town – where I stayed with family, so l’auto certainly made the back and forth tres simple.
I finally landed in my six week housesit yesterday. The first day or two can be jarring and I often find myself dazed and confused. A couple of things are immediately required to make me feel at home: food preparation and a walk to the nearest library. Since I know this part of town well (Upper Noe/Glen Park) finding the library was no exciting act of discovery, but it was a great pleasure to get the gams moving again. It was an incredibly windy afternoon, not my favorite walking weather, but the sun was out and people looked happy because of the holiday weekend. Drivers were patient and polite (mostly) when I crossed the street.
In the library I forgot myself for a time browsing the New Books section. The Noe Valley library is small but sweet, and surprisingly quiet just like the old days, and I always find good stuff. I am, however, a picky reader and I also confess to judging a book by its cover. Aesthetics matter. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all part of the same message and the presentation should be suggestive of what’s on the page. I’m sure I miss some quality writing merely because some art director did a poor job of representing the content, but hey, there are a heck of a lot of books out there and I’m not going to read all the good ones anyway. So, my eyes browse the bindings. And then, should something stand out – a title, a font, a color – the cover. If that passes muster, I'll skim the description, but skim only: I don't like to know too much about the story, I just want a very general sense of it. If it seems interesting, then I will open the book. I tend to open at random, glancing at a few pages in the center to get a sense of the layout. How does my eye respond to the composition of words and negative space? Then the front page, the all-important opening sentences? They either grab me or they don’t, it’s instinctual. It’s not a fool-proof method, but I have to say it has served me quite well over the years and I’ve made many remarkable discoveries.
From the library I swung down toward the Mission to pick up my mail at my old house, then circled round to get a few groceries from the shops at the end of Church Street. What I really wanted was a watermelon but I didn’t realize this until I’d paid and was leaving and I didn’t want to go back in. Fool.
Well, all this to say, even though I have the Transition Blues each time I move, there’s nothing like walking the new ‘hood to shake it off. In the next week or so I’d really like to head out for an epic walk in some direction I’ve never gone. And now, having put it in writing. it’s bound to happen.
The Walk: 2.7 miles
I finally landed in my six week housesit yesterday. The first day or two can be jarring and I often find myself dazed and confused. A couple of things are immediately required to make me feel at home: food preparation and a walk to the nearest library. Since I know this part of town well (Upper Noe/Glen Park) finding the library was no exciting act of discovery, but it was a great pleasure to get the gams moving again. It was an incredibly windy afternoon, not my favorite walking weather, but the sun was out and people looked happy because of the holiday weekend. Drivers were patient and polite (mostly) when I crossed the street.
In the library I forgot myself for a time browsing the New Books section. The Noe Valley library is small but sweet, and surprisingly quiet just like the old days, and I always find good stuff. I am, however, a picky reader and I also confess to judging a book by its cover. Aesthetics matter. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all part of the same message and the presentation should be suggestive of what’s on the page. I’m sure I miss some quality writing merely because some art director did a poor job of representing the content, but hey, there are a heck of a lot of books out there and I’m not going to read all the good ones anyway. So, my eyes browse the bindings. And then, should something stand out – a title, a font, a color – the cover. If that passes muster, I'll skim the description, but skim only: I don't like to know too much about the story, I just want a very general sense of it. If it seems interesting, then I will open the book. I tend to open at random, glancing at a few pages in the center to get a sense of the layout. How does my eye respond to the composition of words and negative space? Then the front page, the all-important opening sentences? They either grab me or they don’t, it’s instinctual. It’s not a fool-proof method, but I have to say it has served me quite well over the years and I’ve made many remarkable discoveries.
From the library I swung down toward the Mission to pick up my mail at my old house, then circled round to get a few groceries from the shops at the end of Church Street. What I really wanted was a watermelon but I didn’t realize this until I’d paid and was leaving and I didn’t want to go back in. Fool.
Well, all this to say, even though I have the Transition Blues each time I move, there’s nothing like walking the new ‘hood to shake it off. In the next week or so I’d really like to head out for an epic walk in some direction I’ve never gone. And now, having put it in writing. it’s bound to happen.
The Walk: 2.7 miles
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
There Be No Fakery Here
I have a cold. It’s not the worst cold in the world, but I’m not up to much. To test myself earlier (lest I be faking) I took a walk to the library and back. The verdict? Not faking.
That’s all I’ve got.
The Walk: 1.4 miles
That’s all I’ve got.
The Walk: 1.4 miles
Friday, June 12, 2009
House (And Maybe Head) In The Clouds
At the end of a long day a few months ago I was just getting off the bus to make my connection to the J-Church line when it zipped by without me. Shoot. This was one of those things. It would probably be at least twenty minutes at this time of day – after 8:00 p.m. – for the next one to come along. Normally I would cheerfully put my feet in motion and get home in about the same amount of time and feel good doing it, but this night I felt done in. After hemming and hawing over my options as is customary for me, ask anyone, I decided to zip down a block or two to the excellent Bi-Rite and pick up a few things for dinner. I knew I had no vegetables at home and would regret it if I went home empty handed; the risk being, of course, that I might miss the next J train. A nourishing dinner vs. a timely ride home? Winner of this bout: food. Big surprise.I browsed the store more swiftly than usual, snagged some Russian kale and a few other items now forgotten – although a sourdough baguette could very possibly have been involved – and zipped back up 18th Street. While zipping, I decided that my ride would come moments after my arrival at the stop and all would be well. And indeed, after a mere minute or so of waiting, along it came. But this was not the J-Church stopping in front of me, this was one of those classic old streetcars that the city brought in some while back, most of which travel up and down Market Street. Usually the ones I’ve seen on this route appear to be for training purposes, taking no passengers. So when it stopped immediately in front of me and opened its doors, I stayed where I was, peering in a bit idiotically. The two drivers looked down at me benignly. Can I get on, I asked? Yeah, they said. So up I went and sat on one of the long wooden benches. I was the only passenger. We clattered along and they chitchatted and I admired the woodwork and the metalwork and the signs written in Italian – apparently this car originated in Milan, which made me feel like I was on a grander journey than merely on my way home to stir fry kale. Well, there’s not much to this story really, no punchline; it's only that there wasn’t a single other soul at any of the stops between where I got on and where I got off, and I was left with the distinct impression that I had manifested this ride entirely for myself and myself alone. Never has a yellow streetcar from Milan picked me up on this route, never have I traveled the necessary distance solo, without anyone else getting on or off, never (well, seldom) has the timing been so divine. It seemed as though, when I stepped off and the streetcar moved on, first out of sight and then out of sound, it must just have vanished. In fact, I'm saying it did. Which makes me magic, and I’m fine with that.
I am reminded of this little interlude because at my current housesit near Dolores Park I hear the J-Church rumble by several times a day. I find it oddly pleasant, but then there’s just enough distance for it not to be intrusive. There is an interesting distance from just about everything in this house, save the wind, as it is one of those tall Victorians built high on a man-made hill so that it’s above most everything around it. There is, of course, a sweeping city view, but what makes even more of an impression on me is the abundant light that washes in since there are no buildings to block it. It makes me very happy. But views and light don’t come without effort, if you know what I mean: stairs are involved. Stairs to climb the hill, and stairs to reach this, the second of the two flats in the house. Sixty-five stairs, to be precise, because of course I counted. If you go out just twice in a day, you’re going down and up 260 stairs. Just an observation.
It doesn’t deter me from going out, though, the thought of climbing back up [see Sleep(less) Walking]; what does, sometimes, deter me from going out is the out part. As in the world out there. I have been out once today, to test-walk the dog at my next housesit (all well there, thanks) and had plans for further outness until.... until.... I don’t know. I was home for a while, watering the garden and having lunch and a phone call or two, and then all those reasons to go out just sort of drifted off with the clouds. It happens. Sometimes that’s a good thing, meaning I am perfectly content in my own company and desire nothing more. Often those times occur immediately following a couple of busy days filled with fun and people or just plain busyness. But the other option, the less-good option (if one were to impose judgment) is that I might be moody or anxious and the world is too full of sound and motion for me to bear. Which is it today? I'm not entirely sure myself – infer what you will.
So, by the way: magic and manifestation? So very adept with some applications, so very inept with others.
The Walk: 4.1 miles + stairs (twice: once to go walk the dog and once, just now, to double-check that I'd counted right the first time)
Recent Manifestations: Six housesits beginning late March and going through August – so far – with remarkably little in the way of gaps.
Friday, June 5, 2009
The Wonderful Thing About Beer Breath is Not (or) The Inevitable First Time Tea is Mentioned in This Blog
One might assume from my lack of posts that I have not been walking but that assumption would be erroneous. I am walking like crazy to get here and there because I’m a fool for not taking the bus. As in "Fool For Love." Fool for Not Bussing. (That can be spelled with one S or two, incidentally. I choose two.)
I took the bus yesterday and a man sat in front of me and talked his way across town. Not to me – exactly – although now and again he did direct his stream of consciousness chatter my way and, whenever a gust of air came through the open windows, some very, very strong and very, very stale eau de beer would shoot my way. I’m not saying it came from him, but it might have. This does not deter me from riding the bus, or does it? There is the inevitable dash of inner eye roll (I think it’s inner) and a smidgen of compassion and a bucket of patience and those fifteen imperfect minutes are over before you know it. Still, it’s possible that at some point I might decide to get a car again. I gave my last car away almost seven years ago. I lived in Portland, which is an excellent biking and not a bad walking town. And if ever there was a town that was a good place to not have a car, San Francisco is one. Yet... now and then... and not purely for aromatical reasons... because sometimes I’d just like to hop in the car and drive an hour north to see my niece. Or yes, fine, okay – my mommy.
But I digress.
Walking hither and yon to get around. I traversed half the city one day this week: errands in the Mission, tea in the Lower Haight, dinner with a friend in the Inner Richmond. I didn’t walk all of that, but I did walk a lot of it. By the way? Tea. I realize that coffee is the It beverage and one must largely cater to the Its to make a living, but people, people, people. Tea lovers have needs too and so little is done for us. What is with the two bucks for a crappy little tea bag in a cup that goes cold faster than a –er, what's something really fast – ? Sure, there are some very fine places, whose proprietors know their tea and how to do it justice, but it’s not every day I want to spend $9 for the pleasure. So why is there so little available in the middle? The middle, to my mind, is this: a decent sized pot, enough loose leaf tea to more than color the water placed to order in a tea ball or bag that I can remove when it has steeped to my desired strength, served with a small cup that I refill as I go, so that the bulk of it stays hot. Charge me just two or three bucks for this (what does it really cost you, anyway?) and I just might get a scone or biscotti to go with it. Okay, yes, la di da, do I know how much you can get for a double shot cappuccino latte espresso Americano? Si, but listen up: tea drinkers have friends. Who drink coffee. And we meet up in cafes. Regularly. I’m just saying.
By the way, I probably made that drink up. I drink tea.
What was I saying? Yes, well, it probably wasn’t all that important. I did have fried catfish and mashed potatoes subbed for fries for dinner that night, I remember that much.
The Walk: 6.6 miles
The Mashed Potatoes: heck yes
I took the bus yesterday and a man sat in front of me and talked his way across town. Not to me – exactly – although now and again he did direct his stream of consciousness chatter my way and, whenever a gust of air came through the open windows, some very, very strong and very, very stale eau de beer would shoot my way. I’m not saying it came from him, but it might have. This does not deter me from riding the bus, or does it? There is the inevitable dash of inner eye roll (I think it’s inner) and a smidgen of compassion and a bucket of patience and those fifteen imperfect minutes are over before you know it. Still, it’s possible that at some point I might decide to get a car again. I gave my last car away almost seven years ago. I lived in Portland, which is an excellent biking and not a bad walking town. And if ever there was a town that was a good place to not have a car, San Francisco is one. Yet... now and then... and not purely for aromatical reasons... because sometimes I’d just like to hop in the car and drive an hour north to see my niece. Or yes, fine, okay – my mommy.
But I digress.
Walking hither and yon to get around. I traversed half the city one day this week: errands in the Mission, tea in the Lower Haight, dinner with a friend in the Inner Richmond. I didn’t walk all of that, but I did walk a lot of it. By the way? Tea. I realize that coffee is the It beverage and one must largely cater to the Its to make a living, but people, people, people. Tea lovers have needs too and so little is done for us. What is with the two bucks for a crappy little tea bag in a cup that goes cold faster than a –er, what's something really fast – ? Sure, there are some very fine places, whose proprietors know their tea and how to do it justice, but it’s not every day I want to spend $9 for the pleasure. So why is there so little available in the middle? The middle, to my mind, is this: a decent sized pot, enough loose leaf tea to more than color the water placed to order in a tea ball or bag that I can remove when it has steeped to my desired strength, served with a small cup that I refill as I go, so that the bulk of it stays hot. Charge me just two or three bucks for this (what does it really cost you, anyway?) and I just might get a scone or biscotti to go with it. Okay, yes, la di da, do I know how much you can get for a double shot cappuccino latte espresso Americano? Si, but listen up: tea drinkers have friends. Who drink coffee. And we meet up in cafes. Regularly. I’m just saying.
By the way, I probably made that drink up. I drink tea.
What was I saying? Yes, well, it probably wasn’t all that important. I did have fried catfish and mashed potatoes subbed for fries for dinner that night, I remember that much.
The Walk: 6.6 miles
The Mashed Potatoes: heck yes
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