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.

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.

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

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

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.