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.
I'm enjoying this stuff greatly. A little envious that I don't get a lot of good walking in lately.
ReplyDeleteAnd, hey! those are my feet!
Look again at those long toes, Missy! Yours truly and the eldest sis.
ReplyDelete