The first thing I see as the escaltor to the street at the 24th St. BART station lifts me to the outside are huge cement tiles imprinted with modern designs, set on a lined cement wall. Immediately my body relaxes, like I've found something I didn't know I was searching for, like I had been unconsciously holding my breath and now I can exhale and breath in something fresh and new.
Salsa music is playing as I step out into The Mission. Could it be live music? Oh yes! a five-piece band playing in the light winter sunshine. At least fifty people are watching, but one man, one lone man, is dancing. I settle into the edge of the crowd; I know this is going to be good.
He is brown, with thick short-cut black hair that is mostly silver and white on top. His trousers, collared shirt and zipper jacket are pressed cotten; his shoes leather with thin soles, the best kind for dancing. He has been doing this for decades I can tell. He dances that way I do when I am in my kitchen and I've just made coffee and the morning sun is shining and the right rythym hits just so.
Everything is in his feet. His body, his hips and arms, they follow, but his feet are tapping to the music, step step step cuff, step step step cuff, that is the touchstone, he never misses it. He dances on the beat, and then, oh yes, taken by the sun and the sound he dances in between the beats, on top of the beat, to the side of the beat. He finds the pauses and the waterfalls surrounding the beat and he rides them in a cascade to the bottom, then hits ground again, unerring - step step step cuff, step step step cuff, right there like he never left it. His arms swing wide, he approaches the beat like a new lover: anything can happen; ecstasy in his eyes.
I want to stay and watch him for as long as he dances, I want to throw my bag and coat on the sidewalk and find freedom in the sunshine in the middle of the beat. I know that place.
But in the ten minutes that I have been watching, three men have already approached me - two asking me to dance, the third chatting away about his recovery. I like him the best. He is not trying to take something from me, so I can bear his presence a bit more. He tells me the band is Cubano; he tells me he is one year in recovery and his sponsor tells him to do random acts of kindness now and then. He presses a pair of Native American beaded earrings in my hand as a gift; they are made by his friend Lily, for whom he now sells jewelry. The other week he made five hundred dollars for Lily, and when he went to see her she was eating bologna. He said "Lily I just made you $500, why are you eating bologna?" and Lily said, "Because I like bologna." He makes me laugh, but what I want most is to be free like the man in the leather shoes and the music and the light. I cannot dance there like no one is watching me, and I cannot continue watching this man in peace as I would like. But I am free to move; so I step into the sunshine and breath, and walk.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
pigs ears and a kitchen with a view
If I tell you one thing about the kitchen of the home I am in, you will understand the suspended state of bliss
I find myself in here. On the windowsill over the long white granite countertop, sits a heavy stained wooden box with four compartments, each one filled with a different kind of salt. Black salt, pink salt, white salt, and a kind of brownish salt that I am sure is really green in sunlight. Add to that the speckled salt I bought, and that makes five. Bliss.On the counter below the salt box sit the four different kinds of vinegar I have bought since arriving seven days ago - champagne vinegar, port balsamic vinegar, sherry vinegar, and plum vinegar. We go well together, this kitchen and I.
The walls are painted my favorite spring green, with my favorite combination of turquoise (the tile backsplash to the stainless teel stovetop). Three cherry red lights hang over the charcoal granite center island in perfect warm counterpoint. The multiple drawers and cupboards are stocked with every kind of kitchen utensil I could possibly desire; three shelves in the fridge hold dozens of sauces and pickles in glass jars to which I am invited to help myself, and the pantry is stocked. So you may understand why, when I somewhat carelessly reached into the unlit pantry, I almost fed a smoked pig's ear to the dogs for a treat, intstead of the dehydrated chicken breast.
When I sit at the long mahogany Scandinavian table, I am looking through a wall of glass at steep hillsides dotted with million dollar homes, tumbling into an expansive view of The Bay. A half block down the street, the view opens up completely; on a jewel clear day like today, I see downtown Oakland, the Bay Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, tankers on the water, the San Francisco skyline, Alcatraz, and the Pacific. It is all laid before me, and I do catch my breath.
Just so you don't feel bad that I am here and you are not, I will tell you one more thing; part of this gig is taking care of two absolutely adorable dogs...and I must pick up their poop. I have never done this in my life, and it is the sole reason that despite my great affection for canines, I will not own a dog in a place where they must be walked on leashes and I must pick up their poop as we go. I will tell you one more thing today, a deep dark secret: when the hapless neighbors innocently leave their trashcans on the curbside, I throw the bags of poop in them, so I do not have to feel the laden sacks rustling against my hands. Am I a naughty dog-walker?
Freed for a moment from poop, I gaze out onto the possibiliy of all that lays before me.
I find myself in here. On the windowsill over the long white granite countertop, sits a heavy stained wooden box with four compartments, each one filled with a different kind of salt. Black salt, pink salt, white salt, and a kind of brownish salt that I am sure is really green in sunlight. Add to that the speckled salt I bought, and that makes five. Bliss.On the counter below the salt box sit the four different kinds of vinegar I have bought since arriving seven days ago - champagne vinegar, port balsamic vinegar, sherry vinegar, and plum vinegar. We go well together, this kitchen and I.
The walls are painted my favorite spring green, with my favorite combination of turquoise (the tile backsplash to the stainless teel stovetop). Three cherry red lights hang over the charcoal granite center island in perfect warm counterpoint. The multiple drawers and cupboards are stocked with every kind of kitchen utensil I could possibly desire; three shelves in the fridge hold dozens of sauces and pickles in glass jars to which I am invited to help myself, and the pantry is stocked. So you may understand why, when I somewhat carelessly reached into the unlit pantry, I almost fed a smoked pig's ear to the dogs for a treat, intstead of the dehydrated chicken breast.
When I sit at the long mahogany Scandinavian table, I am looking through a wall of glass at steep hillsides dotted with million dollar homes, tumbling into an expansive view of The Bay. A half block down the street, the view opens up completely; on a jewel clear day like today, I see downtown Oakland, the Bay Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, tankers on the water, the San Francisco skyline, Alcatraz, and the Pacific. It is all laid before me, and I do catch my breath.
Just so you don't feel bad that I am here and you are not, I will tell you one more thing; part of this gig is taking care of two absolutely adorable dogs...and I must pick up their poop. I have never done this in my life, and it is the sole reason that despite my great affection for canines, I will not own a dog in a place where they must be walked on leashes and I must pick up their poop as we go. I will tell you one more thing today, a deep dark secret: when the hapless neighbors innocently leave their trashcans on the curbside, I throw the bags of poop in them, so I do not have to feel the laden sacks rustling against my hands. Am I a naughty dog-walker?
Freed for a moment from poop, I gaze out onto the possibiliy of all that lays before me.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Tale of Two Trips
I have been to San Francisco twice now since arriving here. The first time I went I was sent on a mission to get specialty make up for a final project my daughter is doing (she is a student at California College of the Arts). The BART system, the metro system for The Bay area, is ridiculously easy to use, so I did not get lost but it seemed to me that the store was closed up when I got there. And then I could feel my blood sugar dropping, so I decided I had better get something to eat and then deal with the makeup store.
I started wandering. This was on 13th St., on the edge of The Mission, and a rather sad part of town. Also apparently an area where no one eats I decided as I walked block after block with no sign of food in sight. I headed for an enormous golden dome that was visible behind some high rises, and within a few blocks came upon a gorgeous building with a sweeping promenade. Seeming as large as the building itself was the most enormous brass sculpture of some kind of Hindi deity with eight arms in the center of the plaza. Incredible! What was this doing in front of what I now know to be the City Hall of San Fancisco? More on that later. Back to my rapidly dropping blood sugar, as there is a good travel tip hidden in this story.
I looked around a bit desperately at the imposing buildings, seeing not one scrap of food. It seems civil servants no longer are allowed to eat lunch. And then I saw the sign for the Asian Art Museum - aha! Travel Tip: if you find yourself in a museum or financial district, look for the largetst museum, and ask if they have a cafe...usually they do. This one did!! Ahhh, that saved me.
Not much more to tell from this story other than what I saw when I caught the commuter bus back to my ridiculously wonderful house sit. Revelation: people in San Francisco line up to catch their buses...in single file! Almost too much to fathom for this traveler who has been pummeled in bus and train lines around the world. Oh, and according to my artist daughter, the brass sculpture is from Sri Lanka, a gift from the Sister City there.
My next trip to SF was more purposeful. I went to find the hub of independent bookstores that cluster on Valencia St., in the heart of the Mission District. From the minute I stepped out of the BART station, I felt the difference: latino music was playing, lots of Spanish spoken, vivid and fresh murals on the walls. A man had his garage door up, and his entire garage was filled with original artwork.
I wandered in bliss up Valencia St. There seemed to be a coffee shop on every corner, and in Borderlands bookstore, I spent an hour perusing Edward Gorey books to my hearts content. The shopkeeper informed me that they did not have any author events through the holidays, because "here in San Francisco people love to do their shopping in independently owned stores", and it was about to get busy with holiday shoppers.
I floated out the door and meandered up the sidewalk, pausing by a shop that seemed so mysterious I almost didn't enter. The walls were forest green, the ceiling deep blue, and one entire wall was old rough lumber that looked like barge board. I have heard that ships used to sail around the Southern tip of Latin America, picking up cargo and passengers seeking riches during the Gold Rush, and ending in San Francisco. The boats were abandoned in the harbor, and broken down to make into houses.
However those rough boards came to cover the 15 ft. high wall, what drew me in was that I really hate to feel intimidated by anything. All I could see in the shop were some men, and a bunch of rusted artifacts. Was this a store? I felt like maybe I shouldn't go in there, like maybe it was a club and I wouldn't know the right hand signals. So of course I went in.
There were old steam radiators made into a table; rusted metal tools; old chairs..honestly I have no idea what they sell in there. But I couldn't care less, because as I stepped in, I heard rambunctious piano music from the back. Sure enough they had a live musician merrily tapping out ragtime, then flowing into some melodious wonder. I sank into a large bamboo throne at the back of the room, and blessed the store that seemed more like a bar without alcohol or cover charges. If you should feel so inclined, go to their website at www.viracochasf.com. And if you figure out what it is they sell, please drop me a line.
I started wandering. This was on 13th St., on the edge of The Mission, and a rather sad part of town. Also apparently an area where no one eats I decided as I walked block after block with no sign of food in sight. I headed for an enormous golden dome that was visible behind some high rises, and within a few blocks came upon a gorgeous building with a sweeping promenade. Seeming as large as the building itself was the most enormous brass sculpture of some kind of Hindi deity with eight arms in the center of the plaza. Incredible! What was this doing in front of what I now know to be the City Hall of San Fancisco? More on that later. Back to my rapidly dropping blood sugar, as there is a good travel tip hidden in this story.
I looked around a bit desperately at the imposing buildings, seeing not one scrap of food. It seems civil servants no longer are allowed to eat lunch. And then I saw the sign for the Asian Art Museum - aha! Travel Tip: if you find yourself in a museum or financial district, look for the largetst museum, and ask if they have a cafe...usually they do. This one did!! Ahhh, that saved me.
Not much more to tell from this story other than what I saw when I caught the commuter bus back to my ridiculously wonderful house sit. Revelation: people in San Francisco line up to catch their buses...in single file! Almost too much to fathom for this traveler who has been pummeled in bus and train lines around the world. Oh, and according to my artist daughter, the brass sculpture is from Sri Lanka, a gift from the Sister City there.
My next trip to SF was more purposeful. I went to find the hub of independent bookstores that cluster on Valencia St., in the heart of the Mission District. From the minute I stepped out of the BART station, I felt the difference: latino music was playing, lots of Spanish spoken, vivid and fresh murals on the walls. A man had his garage door up, and his entire garage was filled with original artwork.
I wandered in bliss up Valencia St. There seemed to be a coffee shop on every corner, and in Borderlands bookstore, I spent an hour perusing Edward Gorey books to my hearts content. The shopkeeper informed me that they did not have any author events through the holidays, because "here in San Francisco people love to do their shopping in independently owned stores", and it was about to get busy with holiday shoppers.
I floated out the door and meandered up the sidewalk, pausing by a shop that seemed so mysterious I almost didn't enter. The walls were forest green, the ceiling deep blue, and one entire wall was old rough lumber that looked like barge board. I have heard that ships used to sail around the Southern tip of Latin America, picking up cargo and passengers seeking riches during the Gold Rush, and ending in San Francisco. The boats were abandoned in the harbor, and broken down to make into houses.
However those rough boards came to cover the 15 ft. high wall, what drew me in was that I really hate to feel intimidated by anything. All I could see in the shop were some men, and a bunch of rusted artifacts. Was this a store? I felt like maybe I shouldn't go in there, like maybe it was a club and I wouldn't know the right hand signals. So of course I went in.
There were old steam radiators made into a table; rusted metal tools; old chairs..honestly I have no idea what they sell in there. But I couldn't care less, because as I stepped in, I heard rambunctious piano music from the back. Sure enough they had a live musician merrily tapping out ragtime, then flowing into some melodious wonder. I sank into a large bamboo throne at the back of the room, and blessed the store that seemed more like a bar without alcohol or cover charges. If you should feel so inclined, go to their website at www.viracochasf.com. And if you figure out what it is they sell, please drop me a line.
Friday, December 10, 2010
I am here. now what?
A few years ago I switched careers and became a Realtor. Besides loving architecture and giving advice, I wanted to be able to leave in the winter for a month, and travel. Seven years later, I have begun.
Two days ago I left my home on a cliffside in the Fingerlakes of NY, and am now on a cliffside in Oakland Califonia, in a 5000 sq. ft. contemporary overlooking the bay. What does that even mean? It means that instead of waking up in my proportioned Arts and Crafts home with warm woodwork and colors on every wall, I now wake up to space and white. Instead of oncoming winter bitter cold, I am greeted with fog when I awake, in a fog of my own. I am a traveller but still there are those moments at the beginning of a long trip by myself when I wonder "why am I doing this again?"I am disoriented and displaced by my own hand.
I wander out of bed and through the cavernous living and dining rooms with windows for walls, and gaze upon murmurs of cypress and dim outlines of houses hinting that there is life in that blanket of mist. I love the Spanish word for fog - "neblina". It sounds like the name of a lover, maybe one that left or one to come; pretty, just around the corner or behind some veil of memory. "Neblina"; it is a word to whisper, to add your whispers to the thousands that swirl within its sound.
I gaze out the window and decide I need to ground myself, find my rythm for this month. I do not have the ease of knowing who I am because of my surroundings - work , home, duties. I must find myself in a completely new context; know who I am from an inner base, no matter what surrounds me. Ahhh yes, now I remember why I came here. I finish breakfast and sip my coffee, contemplating what I will make of this day.
Two days ago I left my home on a cliffside in the Fingerlakes of NY, and am now on a cliffside in Oakland Califonia, in a 5000 sq. ft. contemporary overlooking the bay. What does that even mean? It means that instead of waking up in my proportioned Arts and Crafts home with warm woodwork and colors on every wall, I now wake up to space and white. Instead of oncoming winter bitter cold, I am greeted with fog when I awake, in a fog of my own. I am a traveller but still there are those moments at the beginning of a long trip by myself when I wonder "why am I doing this again?"I am disoriented and displaced by my own hand.
I wander out of bed and through the cavernous living and dining rooms with windows for walls, and gaze upon murmurs of cypress and dim outlines of houses hinting that there is life in that blanket of mist. I love the Spanish word for fog - "neblina". It sounds like the name of a lover, maybe one that left or one to come; pretty, just around the corner or behind some veil of memory. "Neblina"; it is a word to whisper, to add your whispers to the thousands that swirl within its sound.
I gaze out the window and decide I need to ground myself, find my rythm for this month. I do not have the ease of knowing who I am because of my surroundings - work , home, duties. I must find myself in a completely new context; know who I am from an inner base, no matter what surrounds me. Ahhh yes, now I remember why I came here. I finish breakfast and sip my coffee, contemplating what I will make of this day.
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