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

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.

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