Yesterday, Saturday, was one of those city days that had a little bit of everything: a touch of crazy, a lot of beauty, a little whimsy, and a mix of weather.
The day started out gray and cool. I had my waffles, wrote a little, then caught a mid-morning bus to the Haight. Also getting on the bus at my stop was a short, unkempt, and fidgety dude. He was the type of guy one would describe as sketchy, and maybe high on something. Within a minute or two of getting on the bus he was shouting, “Hey! Hey! What’s the last stop?” As the bus driver answered him, the recorded voice on the bus started playing one of it’s messages. It felt chaotic. A stop or two later he got up and said let me off here. After the bus lurched to a stop he decided no – it wasn’t where he needed to get off. He switched seats and came to the back of the bus where he opened up a laptop. I’m pretty sure it was broken and that he was not actually using the laptop. He closed it and switched seats again. The other passengers avoided making eye contact with him. Looking around, I realized I was the youngest and probably fittest person on the bus and would be the one everyone would expect to jump in if a problem arose. I figured he was harmless, but I made sure I was aware of his presence – he seemed to keep his distance from me. At one point while sitting next to an older gentlemen who I think was faking being on the phone so as to avoid talking to this guy, he took one shoe and sock off, and changed his shirt revealing an out of shape torso with a half-dozen or more tattoos. He changed his floppy brimmed hats almost as often as he changed seats. At another point, two young women got on and sat across from him. After a few minutes he came to the back of the bus where I was sitting and covered himself up in a hoodie. I kept thinking, good lord, I hope he’s not masturbating under that thing. He changed seats one more time and the family he sat next to got up and moved to the back of the bus. He exited one stop before I did and disappeared on to Haight Street where he totally fit in.
In the Haight, I checked in on the food pantry and chatted with some of the volunteers. Many of the volunteers are also clients. Quite a few of them have very limited means. One volunteer, who might be homeless wanted my opinion about making sew-on patches of the pantry logo. I said it wasn’t a bad idea. Another volunteer, who we also pay a small fee for janitorial work, was telling me that things are rough. His wife is in poor health. His brother needs care and the facility he’s in might be shutting down. I try to be supportive and kind in these moments – I don’t have much else that I can offer. Nearly every time I ask him how he’s doing and how his wife is, his eyes well up. Today he talked to me about wanting to be grateful but then he hears some of the clients complaining and he begins to think they’re ungrateful. The entire time, I can see the worry in his eyes. A food pantry is a place where you can see some joy but also a lot of worry.
On my walk home, I stopped at an intersection as one of the double-decker tourist busses turned on to Haight Street. The woman at the colorful clothing shop on the corner shouted from the open door to the passengers on the bus: “Welcome to San Francisco! We hope you have a great time and love it here. Drink plenty of water and make sure you wear sunscreen.” As I crossed the street, I thought, “this is a genuinely joyful and welcoming city.” Many of the people who live and work are eager to share it’s magic with others.
As I continued my walk, the sun came out. Because I wasn’t listening to music and was instead focusing on being present, I found myself mentally naming/chronicling the things I saw: woman on the sidewalk painting, tiny scraggly dog, man sleeping in a van, sparkly shirt in a window. I stopped for lunch at a BBQ joint where I had a brisket sandwich and some spicy fries. I ate too much and felt it for the rest of my walk – though I was glad to walk the meal off.
Whenever I walk to or from the Haight, I make it a point to walk through a Kimball park, a small park that’s along the way. Most of the park is ball fields (currently being renovated), but there’s a section that’s full of flowers and seems perpetually in bloom. At the one entrance, there are a few shrubs where finches and wrens flit about and chirp. Even when I am listening to music, I turn it off to hear the birds. Today, the park smelled like honeysuckle and a group of kids at a birthday party were running around shooting each other with water guns.
What I love about walking home, from just about anywhere in the city, first and foremost, is that I am able to. I’m thankful that I’m in good enough health to walk as much as I do, but I’m also grateful for the weather and the access that exists in a walkable city. Where I used to live in Bucks County was 3 and a half miles from the nearest grocery store and not walkable. By contrast, my grocery store is a ten minute walk from my apartment. But beyond the ease of logistics, I love the diversity and beauty of the city. I love that when I walk home, I almost always crest a hill, usually Fillmore Street, where I can see the bridge, and I get a sweeping view of my neighborhood below, the Bay beyond that, and the hills beyond the Bay. The air feels cleaner when I’m looking at the blue sky and water. Sometimes at night, the lights twinkle in the dark. During the day I see the sailboats and ships and the occasional shadow play of sun and clouds on the Bay. I love my walk home because there’s a physical reaction to the stunning beauty in front of me. It’s a form of awe that almost always elicits grateful sigh. I may not have a grand house or even an impressive apartment, but it’s this view of the Bay that always makes me say, “I can’t believe this is where I live.”