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
Monday, May 25, 2009
Will Walk For Food
Sometimes I get hungry to such a degree that I can’t make a decision about what to eat because nothing feels right. Yesterday, following a weekly get-together with my improv group and a meeting immediately thereafter to discuss a summer housesit, I was in just such a state of mind. Time to put my feet to work getting me to Food.
I am staying in friends’ rooms in the Mission while they are out of town and, having just got there, I didn’t really have much in the way of groceries, so I decided for a change I’d pick up take-out on the way back there. Asian sounded good and I knew of a couple of places on Mission Street that I’d be interested in trying but somehow, when I got to them, nothing felt right. I just couldn’t decide. So I figured I’d continue down to 24th and see what there was along the way before heading towards Bryant. What there was, of course, was Mexican food, as I well knew: no shortage of Mexican food in the Mission. Lots of options, nice cheap options at that. But, the thing was, I’d just had Mexican two days in a row and it just didn’t feel right for now. So I thought, oh wait, I remember a Thai place on 24th, that’ll work. So off I went down 24th. And went and went. And never saw the Thai place. And thought, wait – didn’t I do this once before, and never found it? Clearly that particular Thai place doesn’t exist any longer. Note to self, for God’s sake!
Further down the street I found a Chinese place. But it was so very cheap that I had my doubts. I thought: do I risk it? I felt like I hadn’t eaten a vegetable in three days because I've been on the go so much and it suddenly seemed direly important that I eat something healthy. And I just... hmm. Well... and so.
On I walked. I passed the house and went all the way to Potrero for all the good it did me. Backtracking, I looked at the Chinese/American place on the corner at Bryant. It just looked kind of cavernous and empty. I did remember my friend saying one time that it was OK, but after staring at the menu for a very long time, I couldn’t make my mind piece together something that felt right. So I thought, oh! I’ll just go down to 20th to the Atlas Café and get a good salad, and maybe, just maybe, they’ll still have soup if I'm lucky. Legs tiring, but hope in the air. And it was even possible that there’d be something along the way – closer – that I’d forgotten about. There was El Metate, which I love but.... mmm, no, I just didn’t want Mexican food. So, all the way to Atlas – where I was told they had stopped serving and were closing up.
** Sigh **
But, I refused to be brought down. If I were to go just a few more blocks there's a Vietnamese place that’s not bad. But Harrison Street had been host to some crazy Carnivale and was still shut down, trucks hauling garbage away, people lingering with their insanely uptempo music jangling... and I just didn’t have the heart to walk that gauntlet knowing there was a good chance the restaurant would be closed. So! Back I went, setting my intention on the way: some food is better than no food. Chinese from the corner it was then, and I went upstairs and consumed a goodly portion of it in goodly time.
This was not perhaps the most joyful nor the most peaceful of my recent walks. What do I take from this? Hell, I don’t know. I am no stranger to myself and my food quirks, so if I choose to overlook the warning signs it’s my own damn fool business.
The Walk: 5.9 miles
The Food: Better than no food.
I am staying in friends’ rooms in the Mission while they are out of town and, having just got there, I didn’t really have much in the way of groceries, so I decided for a change I’d pick up take-out on the way back there. Asian sounded good and I knew of a couple of places on Mission Street that I’d be interested in trying but somehow, when I got to them, nothing felt right. I just couldn’t decide. So I figured I’d continue down to 24th and see what there was along the way before heading towards Bryant. What there was, of course, was Mexican food, as I well knew: no shortage of Mexican food in the Mission. Lots of options, nice cheap options at that. But, the thing was, I’d just had Mexican two days in a row and it just didn’t feel right for now. So I thought, oh wait, I remember a Thai place on 24th, that’ll work. So off I went down 24th. And went and went. And never saw the Thai place. And thought, wait – didn’t I do this once before, and never found it? Clearly that particular Thai place doesn’t exist any longer. Note to self, for God’s sake!
Further down the street I found a Chinese place. But it was so very cheap that I had my doubts. I thought: do I risk it? I felt like I hadn’t eaten a vegetable in three days because I've been on the go so much and it suddenly seemed direly important that I eat something healthy. And I just... hmm. Well... and so.
On I walked. I passed the house and went all the way to Potrero for all the good it did me. Backtracking, I looked at the Chinese/American place on the corner at Bryant. It just looked kind of cavernous and empty. I did remember my friend saying one time that it was OK, but after staring at the menu for a very long time, I couldn’t make my mind piece together something that felt right. So I thought, oh! I’ll just go down to 20th to the Atlas Café and get a good salad, and maybe, just maybe, they’ll still have soup if I'm lucky. Legs tiring, but hope in the air. And it was even possible that there’d be something along the way – closer – that I’d forgotten about. There was El Metate, which I love but.... mmm, no, I just didn’t want Mexican food. So, all the way to Atlas – where I was told they had stopped serving and were closing up.
** Sigh **
But, I refused to be brought down. If I were to go just a few more blocks there's a Vietnamese place that’s not bad. But Harrison Street had been host to some crazy Carnivale and was still shut down, trucks hauling garbage away, people lingering with their insanely uptempo music jangling... and I just didn’t have the heart to walk that gauntlet knowing there was a good chance the restaurant would be closed. So! Back I went, setting my intention on the way: some food is better than no food. Chinese from the corner it was then, and I went upstairs and consumed a goodly portion of it in goodly time.
This was not perhaps the most joyful nor the most peaceful of my recent walks. What do I take from this? Hell, I don’t know. I am no stranger to myself and my food quirks, so if I choose to overlook the warning signs it’s my own damn fool business.
The Walk: 5.9 miles
The Food: Better than no food.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Sleep(less) Walking
So, in case it hasn’t been made abundantly clear, this blog is about my love of walking.* It’s about what comes up when I’m walking, pondering walking, or writing about walking. Who knows what will come next? It’s like improv, another love of mine: you just have to put your foot forward and trust it’s going to land somewhere interesting. Agenda is an exercise in futility.
I’m wiped out. Not from exertion but from being behind on sleep. One thing about perpetual housesitting is that just when I’ve settled into one place it’s time to move on to the next and depending on how long I’m there or what the surrounding environment is like, sleep can be disturbed. There is a heightened sense of awareness at first and, inevitably, a different mattress. Right now I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night.
But earlier today, in spite of a restless "sleep," I walked down the hill to pick up my cell phone charger from where I left it at my last ‘sit. I am, briefly, in Pacific Heights. And the thing about Pacific Heights is, no matter which way you walk, in this case down to Cow Hollow, there is always going to be a hill coming back. Hence, I deduce, the term “Heights.” Now, I am actually one of those annoying people who can enjoy a good hill (and sometimes I’m one of those annoying people who can’t enjoy a good hill – depends on the day and your perspective) but man, I am tired! However, I’m also vain, so when I’m walking up those steep hills I don’t want the people zipping by in their BMWs and Priuses to think I'm working. They don't need to see me slowing down or, God forbid, breathing. So I stride at a very even and steady pace and hold my back straight instead of leaning too far into it, and when I get to the top I don’t stop to suck in a big mouthful of air that could really actually benefit me, I keep zipping along as though my heart wasn’t about to pound cartoonishly right out of my chest. Well, OK, in a way I’m not giving myself enough credit because I am in pretty good shape and the heavy breathing is short-lived, which sort of makes the vanity even more amusing. It’s this kind of, Hey, people in your zippy cars taking the eeeeasy way out! I’m doing this on purpose, yo!
If one did need an excuse to stop and rest, the view upon turning around is stunning. I often find that if I allow myself to really be present I am surprised again and again at the unique beauty of where I live. From up here, depending on the street, you might see any number of landmarks: Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge, Coit Tower and the East Bay or all of the above. And beyond that, the very sky is always different, even the way the fog moves, creeps, drifts, races through the spaces between things. The light changes the colors of buildings. A thousand sailboats are out, or one.
At the top of the hill I veered through Alta Vista Park, where I don't believe I'd ever been before. The view to the south from this park is perhaps subtler than those looking out over the Bay but is still quite something. It is a wide swath of city, a perspective I’d never seen just so, not a particularly dramatic statement but a rich, monochromatic jumble of hills and houses, churches and other grand buildings reaching out to make a mark but not impose a purpose.
The Walk: 2.0 miles, much hill.
*It’s also about writing but I’m not ready to talk about that.
I’m wiped out. Not from exertion but from being behind on sleep. One thing about perpetual housesitting is that just when I’ve settled into one place it’s time to move on to the next and depending on how long I’m there or what the surrounding environment is like, sleep can be disturbed. There is a heightened sense of awareness at first and, inevitably, a different mattress. Right now I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night.
But earlier today, in spite of a restless "sleep," I walked down the hill to pick up my cell phone charger from where I left it at my last ‘sit. I am, briefly, in Pacific Heights. And the thing about Pacific Heights is, no matter which way you walk, in this case down to Cow Hollow, there is always going to be a hill coming back. Hence, I deduce, the term “Heights.” Now, I am actually one of those annoying people who can enjoy a good hill (and sometimes I’m one of those annoying people who can’t enjoy a good hill – depends on the day and your perspective) but man, I am tired! However, I’m also vain, so when I’m walking up those steep hills I don’t want the people zipping by in their BMWs and Priuses to think I'm working. They don't need to see me slowing down or, God forbid, breathing. So I stride at a very even and steady pace and hold my back straight instead of leaning too far into it, and when I get to the top I don’t stop to suck in a big mouthful of air that could really actually benefit me, I keep zipping along as though my heart wasn’t about to pound cartoonishly right out of my chest. Well, OK, in a way I’m not giving myself enough credit because I am in pretty good shape and the heavy breathing is short-lived, which sort of makes the vanity even more amusing. It’s this kind of, Hey, people in your zippy cars taking the eeeeasy way out! I’m doing this on purpose, yo!
If one did need an excuse to stop and rest, the view upon turning around is stunning. I often find that if I allow myself to really be present I am surprised again and again at the unique beauty of where I live. From up here, depending on the street, you might see any number of landmarks: Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge, Coit Tower and the East Bay or all of the above. And beyond that, the very sky is always different, even the way the fog moves, creeps, drifts, races through the spaces between things. The light changes the colors of buildings. A thousand sailboats are out, or one.
At the top of the hill I veered through Alta Vista Park, where I don't believe I'd ever been before. The view to the south from this park is perhaps subtler than those looking out over the Bay but is still quite something. It is a wide swath of city, a perspective I’d never seen just so, not a particularly dramatic statement but a rich, monochromatic jumble of hills and houses, churches and other grand buildings reaching out to make a mark but not impose a purpose.
The Walk: 2.0 miles, much hill.
*It’s also about writing but I’m not ready to talk about that.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Do NOT Tell Me To Smile (or) The Inevitable First Time Pie Is Mentioned In This Blog
I accidentally walked to my yoga class yesterday. That is to say, I meant to walk for just a little while to check out my current neighborhood and then hop on the bus. But **newsflash ** I like to walk!
And the thing is, if you have extra time and riding the bus is simply not your favorite way to spend it, you just kept ambling along. And then at some point, even though your legs might be feeling just a wee bit tired and you’re about to undertake an hour and a half yoga flow experience, it seems silly to get on the bus because you just don’t have very far to go now, that’s all.
I didn’t have any interesting observations or encounters along the way, incidentally. Nobody spit to the side while they were walking in front of me so that the wind blew it back to lightly sprinkle my arm or anything. (That was Saturday.)
I did smile at several strangers. Not big pie-eating grins (mm, pie) but not those awkward, automatic, tight-lipped I-am-politely-acknowledging-you smiles either. It’s just that sometimes I notice how serious and careful and almost grim we all are and I like to loosen up and see what happens. When someone smiles at me first in an authentic (rather than, say, lecherous) way I just can’t help smiling back and then I might notice I’m still smiling two blocks down the street, which makes other people smile. Do NOT, however, confuse this harmless passing along of smiles thing with that obnoxious trait that some people have of demanding of strangers that they Smile! Smile! Spread the joy! or whatever. That just pisses me off.
The Walk: 2.8 miles
Number of times the word “just” appears in this pretty short post: 7
And the thing is, if you have extra time and riding the bus is simply not your favorite way to spend it, you just kept ambling along. And then at some point, even though your legs might be feeling just a wee bit tired and you’re about to undertake an hour and a half yoga flow experience, it seems silly to get on the bus because you just don’t have very far to go now, that’s all.
I didn’t have any interesting observations or encounters along the way, incidentally. Nobody spit to the side while they were walking in front of me so that the wind blew it back to lightly sprinkle my arm or anything. (That was Saturday.)
I did smile at several strangers. Not big pie-eating grins (mm, pie) but not those awkward, automatic, tight-lipped I-am-politely-acknowledging-you smiles either. It’s just that sometimes I notice how serious and careful and almost grim we all are and I like to loosen up and see what happens. When someone smiles at me first in an authentic (rather than, say, lecherous) way I just can’t help smiling back and then I might notice I’m still smiling two blocks down the street, which makes other people smile. Do NOT, however, confuse this harmless passing along of smiles thing with that obnoxious trait that some people have of demanding of strangers that they Smile! Smile! Spread the joy! or whatever. That just pisses me off.
The Walk: 2.8 miles
Number of times the word “just” appears in this pretty short post: 7
Monday, May 18, 2009
Same Same, but Different
The highlight of a recent walk was the five ducklings swimming alongside the path that rounds the Palace of Fine Arts and its small lake. I am rarely down in that area except to pass through, and I don’t believe I’ve so much as stretched my legs there since I was a kid going to the Tactile Dome at the Exploratorium. It seemed necessary that I go by at least once this week, since I am staying just a few blocks away. This was primarily a “get out of the house” stroll; in fact I spent much of my time simply sitting on a bench with my face to the late setting sun.
Why are ducklings so doggone cute? Sure, baby things generally are, but ducklings have those rounded, upturned, smiling duckbills going for them. And they watch you, their little rapid-fire webbed feet paddling underwater, their fluffy little bodies shooting along the surface. It’s impossible to imagine a duckling in a bad mood, and I can’t help thinking they are cheeky and up for just about anything. I could use some of that right now.
Four of these little guys looked very much alike, mostly brown with matching yellow markings, and the fifth was the exact inverse of this and I wondered if it knew. And if so, how how did it feel about it? Is it an exclusively human trait to hold ourselves apart, to fixate on the things that we erroneously believe make us irrevocably different from everybody else? Sitting on my bench, watching the tourists snap pictures of themselves with the Palace in the background, I caught myself clocking the differences between us: different languages, different clothing choices, different bodies, different ways of looking at the world, surely, and of looking at me, different different different; and I thought, what about the sameness? That, for instance, we were all drawn to that very location at that very moment. That seems a large thing to me somehow.
The Walk: 1.2 miles
Why are ducklings so doggone cute? Sure, baby things generally are, but ducklings have those rounded, upturned, smiling duckbills going for them. And they watch you, their little rapid-fire webbed feet paddling underwater, their fluffy little bodies shooting along the surface. It’s impossible to imagine a duckling in a bad mood, and I can’t help thinking they are cheeky and up for just about anything. I could use some of that right now.
Four of these little guys looked very much alike, mostly brown with matching yellow markings, and the fifth was the exact inverse of this and I wondered if it knew. And if so, how how did it feel about it? Is it an exclusively human trait to hold ourselves apart, to fixate on the things that we erroneously believe make us irrevocably different from everybody else? Sitting on my bench, watching the tourists snap pictures of themselves with the Palace in the background, I caught myself clocking the differences between us: different languages, different clothing choices, different bodies, different ways of looking at the world, surely, and of looking at me, different different different; and I thought, what about the sameness? That, for instance, we were all drawn to that very location at that very moment. That seems a large thing to me somehow.
The Walk: 1.2 miles
Friday, May 15, 2009
First Steps
I haven’t figured out how to start this blog. As though starting it means something other than just writing. I keep thinking the first post should be one of great import, perhaps relating one of those epic treks through the city, replete with encounters with strangers, unexpected discoveries and spontaneous left turns. The kind that ends with a few well-chosen and well-earned groceries and a lovely, simple meal, feet up, good book open. But those come with less frequency than the daily sort of walk: the walk just to get somewhere instead of hopping a bus; the walk to get out into the air, catch a view, stretch the legs. Anything might happen but it so often doesn’t and that’s as it should be because something happening is not quite the point. Just to Be, rather than to Think, is more to the point, if indeed there is or must be a point. Thoughts come when walking, of course, but somehow they leave just as readily, and there is less attachment to them. It’s as if the subtlest breeze is always in motion, whispering in through one ear, rounding up the thoughts on its way and pushing them gently out the other.Another thing I’ve noticed is that I sit down to begin and then I think, no, wait, I can’t write about that – it’s too personal. Which begs the question: why write a blog?
So, to take my own words to heart – walking the walk, as it were – here goes: step by step.
I am housesitting in Cow Hollow. For those unfamiliar with San Francisco neighborhoods, Cow Hollow is nestled between the Marina to the north and Pacific Heights to the south. It also butts up against the Presidio to the west, so this was my first intentional walking destination. Since I like to have something of a destination in mind – although on any number of whims this destination might change half a dozen times en route – I decided to head for Andy Goldsworthy’s Spire near the Arguello Gate.
http://www.presidio.gov/experiences/spire.htm
Since it’s been here for many months and on my do-list for most of them, this was a destination I intended to reach. I started by walking up the Lyon Street steps and did not count them, which is unusual for me and maybe a good sign that I was out of my head.* Some years ago when I was in Luang Prabang, Laos, I was compelled to count the some hundreds of steps one took to reach a certain temple on a hill, only to discover a sign at the top proclaiming the exact number. I thought, you couldn’t post this at the bottom?
So. At the top of the steps there is a place to veer into the Presidio, which I did, although I stayed on the path at the edge along W. Pacific Avenue as I made my way toward the Gate. It’s pretty sweet just there, as you can imagine, quiet, with large houses facing the trees, and a nice playground that I’d love to take my six year old niece to. When I reached Arguello I could see the top of the Spire so there was no confusion, I just crossed the street and went up the short path, passing a few departing visitors on my way. I was now the only person there and as I was in a Mood that made it perfect. I won’t describe the Spire itself (or the Mood) as you can use the link if you’re interested. I walked around it a few times and then sat at its base and felt what I felt and looked at the view over the Presidio and the Bay, and at a hummingbird who shot straight up into the sky over and over and over, dropping each time so fast that at first I couldn’t even see it, not even the blur, it just disappeared. I imagined these exuberant antics were meant to attract a mate, but none appeared to be attracted while I was in the neighborhood.
After a good while of hugging my knees at the base of the Spire, the sun passed behind the trees and I needed to get moving again. Never one to go the same way twice, I ventured down a different path, received some complicated but ultimately very accurate directions from a kind resident and ended up exiting the Presidio at the Lombard Gate, a few blocks from my temporary home. Excuse me for passing over this part of the walk but, shoot, this isn't a tourist guide.
I can’t remember what I ate when I arrived home, which is slightly unusual for me, being the one who, when somebody says, Hey, remember that time we passed through Walla Walla on that trip in 1979?, says, Oh yeah, that was where we went to that Italian restaurant and had mediocre ravioli. What I remembered most about the Grand Canyon for years – it might have been that same roadtrip – was breakfast in the restaurant there because my sister and I were each allowed to get one of those single-serving boxes of Kellogg’s cereal in the flavor of our choice. This might not seem much of a thrill to the average kid, but we were cursed/blessed with very healthy eating habits at home and sugary cereals were not part of the regular mix. I got Fruit Loops and was sorely disappointed, by the way. And I always hated milk, which made eating cereal a pretty peculiar exercise in the first place.
Also by the way – and being more relevant – the Grand Canyon was where my Dad taught me how best to walk downhill. Being more interested in the super-cute chipmunks dashing hither and thither than in exerting any kind of effort on a July day in Arizona, and being 11, I was complaining about it. You have to add a bounce to your stride! said Dad. You have to sink your knees a little as you come down! I did so and by gum it helped, although I still grumbled, cutting short what, if left to him, would surely have been an epic walk. Funnily enough, Dad had that bounce in his walk anyway. Still does.
The Walk: 2.9 miles
*I just rethought that sentence “a good sign that I was out of my head.” It’s not exactly what I meant but worth leaving as is.
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