Those Songs by the Proclaimers, or, You're Not Really Lost

My brother has this saying: "You're not really lost until you run out of fuel." He said that a lot when I first moved to California, along with the advice that the best way to get around and know where you were going was to just drive out beyond your comfort zone and get lost.

I had a car for my first two years in California, and, having not had a car for the last five years, I have to say in hindsight that I missed a lot those first two years. I knew this, even then. I would often hop the train in Mountain View and just take off for the Peninsula cities on foot, picking a name off the list and exploring Burlingame, Palo Alto, San Francisco. I was scared at first of San Francisco, and then thought to myself, "Ah, well, you gotta die of something," and took the train into the City more and more. Then I got a job there and got lost the first day. Embarrassing. But I didn't mind--it was a temp job and I loved seeing a part of the City I never would have known otherwise, even if it was the Tenderloin (no joke, and *gulp*). It took me two years to ride my first bus (I limited myself to foot traffic and light rail in the beginning).

Flash forward to 2011. Not only can I find my way around the City without a map or GPS (no joke, again), but I can be in a different city entirely and give you directions and transit routes in San Francisco. I can also find my way to any location in the Bay Area by transit or by car, with a little map help. Yes, I do drive. I don't enjoy it in particular when I drive, but I have that talent. Or, lack of fear of driving, if you will.

The only part of driving that keeps me from doing it all of the time is parking. I loathe and despise parking. Even in places where there is a parking lot, I'm putting my faith in the universe not hitting my car or towing it by some un-posted or poorly-posted law. I hate leaving a good share of me out on the asphalt to trust that it won't be tampered with. But I drive if the need arises, or if the love of adventure dictates it.

This past week I was in Carlsbad, California, visiting family. Carlsbad is a lot like Santa Cruz--mellow beach town. In Southern California, to which Carlsbad belongs, the culture is one of driving. EVERYWHERE. This is a little bit limiting for those of us who rely on the power of our own legs for groceries, work commute, health care, sightseeing, etc. But during the week I had that power--I could take off on my own. I was given an apartment key and, though the insistence was to drop me off where I wanted to go, I had a tendency to wander. I had a backpack with water, snacks, and writing supplies, and I would hop from cafe to library to beach to boutique. My sister-in-law thought I was nuts (she was partially right--they were having a heat wave down there, but hey, I brought water). I just thought it was a wonderful way to really adopt the pace of the city, to get to know the people, to see the nuance. I was right. Carlsbad residents (in fact, the San Diego area in general) are some of the friendliest and most down-to-earth people I have ever met (beating out even Southern and Midwest towns), and I probably would have missed them if I had a car and crammed in a whirlwind tour of the sights. Librarians greeted me as a new regular. Small children taught me how to check out books, operate drinking fountains, and which desserts are the best, by friendly force on their part, if necessary. Wait staff asked me for book reviews and leadership tips. I wouldn't call these people nosy--I would call them refreshingly curious. You knew they were going to take that experience somewhere else and do something with it, just by the nature of the way they asked. You knew they were traveling, too.

Here in the Bay Area, the feel is a little different. I have more friends than not who are outside of my beloved City (although, with the writing groups, that is changing), and from time to time I get asked about the best way to navigate it. I'm wary. Most people who live in the Bay Area but don't live in San Francisco abhor visiting San Francisco--mass transit takes too long, Muni is unreliable, there are too many "weird" people here on the streets, there's no parking, parking is too expensive, what's with all the one-way streets (that last one is the most amusing to me--there are no one-way sidewalks), the tolls are too high to come in, etc. I know. I don't understand, because my adventure threshold is higher, but I know. It's a pain. I just have a higher pain threshold. And I've met others of my kind. A few weeks back I met a traveler from England who journeyed from Fisherman's Wharf to the middle of the Mission via the City's mass transit for a writing group meeting only hours after getting off the plane. THAT'S adventure. I'm not sure even I could do that, jet-lagged and all.

I do have my moments of shame. This past Sunday Mike and Serena wanted to fly kites at the ocean. I was carrying one of my favorite handbags (I'm an art supply/handbag whore, I hasten to admit), and my brother decided, halfway through the journey, to take us on a back-path to the ocean that required cliff descent. Now, I should know better, because my brother loves this crap and does this to me every trip, somehow. But I lashed out. "I wouldn't have packed this handbag if I knew you were going to do this." I'm ashamed to say I sounded like a spoiled-brat city girl. Lesson to remember for Sarah:

1. Visiting brother/loved one?
2. Carry small, athletic, cross-body necessities, and...
3. Open yourself to the opportunity of falling on your ass.

Which, when I think about it, isn't a bad approach to traveling anywhere. Well, for me, anyway.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This (and this) is the inspiration for today's title of Life For Rent. Yeah, I love my Scots, too.