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

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!

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