That Song by Snow Patrol, Or, Playing in Traffic

I’m currently reading a book by William Least Heat-Moon (his best known work is “Blue Highways”) called “PrairyErth (A Deep Map).”  Without giving away the gripping tale too much (I’m joking, actually; unless you love history, Least Heat-Moon’s meandering way with words, or the States, you’ll hate this book.  I got lucky), this book is a recount of Bill’s study of Chase County, Kansas.  His study included some poring over of the written records, some quotes from historical figures, and a lot of walking the county on foot and speaking to people he met along the way.  One local provided him with this experience:

I was walking, and now and then a pickup rolled past, driver staring, rarely waving.  When I stopped once...a fellow pulled up and said, Trouble? by which he meant Are you trouble? and I said I was heading to Matfield, and to indict me he said, Ain’t many to walk this road, and that was something I knew:  walking  here is eccentric; even when the citizens take an outing in the hills they go by truck, and to walk along a road is to suggest poverty or peculiarity.

Thoreau would be proud, for I found Bill’s predicament, right here in my own backyard.

*****

Most tourists to Carlsbad or the San Diego area either rent a car or get accommodations along the sea.  I’ve all kinds of reactions to my critique of Carlsbad in its lack of sidewalks.  Yes, I too love its really cute downtown and ocean proximity, where you can walk around without walking in the street.  In outlying areas of Carlsbad, out by the lagoons and in the newly developed sprawl, there are no sidewalks.  Street parking is common, double-parking is allowed--all actions that would get you honked at in downtown Carlsbad or near the ocean.  If you have ever tried to walk around a double-parked car when there are no sidewalks in a drop-off gravel shoulder on a backroad with more traffic crawling around you than you think would be necessary, you understand why I raise an eyebrow.  Word has it they don’t want to destroy nature.  Ah, yes.  The “nature” of the suburban sprawl?  Or the “nature” of me wearing a track in someone’s lawn?

Surprisingly, the locals have not only adapted well to this, but don’t seem to mind putting the burden back on the drivers.  They go out running, oblivious with earbuds in, down the middle of the road, and maybe move over if the car doesn’t show signs of drifting in the other lane to go around them.  Stunning.  That’s a lot of trust in modern drivers who often break the law to pull through the few crosswalks that occur and to look up from their illegal cell phone usage to see a pedestrian.  When I lived in San Francisco I often walked the sidewalks comfortable in wearing my iPod (deters most of those tripping on drugs), with few exceptions.  When I walk here, I leave the iPod in my backpack, for fear I won’t hear the cars, as though I could stop them from hitting me.

I guess if they did hit me that would be one way to reward my brother for taking me in--a nice hefty lawsuit on my behalf of my passing.

*****

My commute, twice a week for the past two weeks, has been a two-mile hike from the Cove to the Carlsbad Library branch on Carlsbad Village Drive.  Beginning Monday I plan to up the detail to three days a week; I was keeping it to two days a week to give my sis-in-love a better exercise schedule (she doesn’t like to walk/workout alone), but I’m not getting any work done when I go twice a week.  This will hopefully put me in shape faster myself.  You may say, “Two miles isn’t bad; didn’t you used to do three and a half one way daily to the ocean?”  Yes, but this two miles goes uphill for the first mile.  After that my sidewalk disappears, but at least it’s flat.

Each trip I pack my laptop, writings, and a book (even though I never seem to have time to read it), as well as water and food (thanks again, Tina).  I set out around 10:30 am and make the hike back at 4:30 pm, or about the time the sis-in-love starts to ask via text if I’m alive.  The first time I did the commute was nerve-wracking and exhausting, but now I’m getting the hang of it to the point where the ocean is damn beautiful to look at stretched out on my western side, and I can admire some of the architecture.  (Not all; most of these homes look pre-fab.)  The trip takes me forty minutes at a good clip but longer coming home due to fatigue and increased traffic.  So far I’ve never done it in the rain.

Last Thursday’s trip was slightly different--I stopped at Rite Aid for something medical.  The clerk behind the counter saw the dark patches of sweat on my shirt under my backpack straps and said, “Hot out there, huh?”  

I shrugged.  “It’s not too bad.  I’m on foot, so...”

Her jaw dropped.  “You don’t have a CAR???”

“No.”  I looked up from fishing for change and met her gaze.

“I don’t get it.”

They won’t.  I counted out nickels and dimes to pay for my purchase, and thought of Least Heat-Moon, hiking.  I must look like poverty in a car culture such as this.  

I wish I could have made that clerk feel better, and cared about her estimation of me.  But here I am.  Trouble.

Onward, dear reader. 

P.S. - The inspiration of today’s post of Life For Rent can be found here.  We’ll do it all, everything, on our own...just forget the world... 

That Song by Enya, or, The Neighborhood

Come to think of it, I've never written of where I live.  I rarely think about where I live in relation to the City I love.

I tend to think of my home in terms of the entire City, and not necessarily its parts.  To draw generalizations about San Francisco (or any city--I just learned yesterday that Denver has a neighborhood called LoDo, for Lower Downtown, and the baseball announcers were trying to sew that place up neatly, and probably failing to any local listening) is to invite criticism from someone who lives there, used to live there, had a sainted uncle living there, etc.  I don't like to grant generalizations either...the practice assumes the door's closed.  I am simply thrilled to suddenly be made aware of my neighborhood in terms of description from my perspective, which is through the eyes of an amateur writer.

Why that perspective?  Well, I find it a great starting point, since branching out our writing group to this neighborhood has opened my eyes to the fact that this neighborhood--in fact, the whole western half of the City--is crawling with closeted creatives.

Why would I say such a thing?  What makes them closeted?  What puts them all out here in the Avenues, desperate for the creative acknowledgment that it's acceptable to be a writer?

Some points to consider:

• The Inner Sunset is, for the most part, NOT a tourist destination in San Francisco.  Tourists pass through here on their way to the ocean, to the Park, or to the museums;
• The Inner Sunset is mostly residential.  We don't have THE bar the hipster crowd is chasing.  We don't have THE best of any one ethnic cuisine (although there are some eclectic delights here).  There are a lot of family places.  It's very much like living in a suburb;
• Graffiti, if found here, is usually tagging, not art;
• It's cold and dark, mostly (ask Garrison Keillor and Natalie Goldberg about differences in writers from cold climates to warmer climates);
• By assumption, more writers are seen working in cafes in North Beach, the Mission, the Haight, or the Castro.  If you look over someone's shoulder in a cafe in the Inner Sunset you're more likely to find a medical case study (UCSF is up the hill) or a spreadsheet;
• Residents here live here to get away from the "weird" San Francisco.

So we're all closeted weird, I suppose.  I know that's why I love it here...it seems sane compared to the rest of the City.  MaryAnn of "Tales" would have thought she went back to Ohio--until the fog started. But in that sane comfort, there's a compromise--lack of creativity.  So when I announce a writing group in this area and the relief floods out like a swarm, it's, "Thank you SO much for putting this together!"  You're welcome, but...are you afraid of coming out in the light on your own?

No matter.  I was too, in my own small way, and had to head to a tourist trap to write in the past.  No more.

Onward, dear reader.

(By the way, I was writing at the beach this morning, longhand, and a woman walking her dog drew up short next to me on the bench.  "My goodness," she gasped, "look at your handwriting.  It's like graphic art."  I smiled and thanked her, patted her dog, and they continued in the sun.  The waves of my up- and downstrokes lapped the page edges, and I was grateful to be standing alone, tagging a blank page like a gangsta from the Haight.)

P.S. - This song is the inspiration for the title of this post of Life For Rent.  Waves waving...Ruskin's rolling in his grave.