Pedestrian View

Excuse me, your tortoise is out

2011-05-07T11:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Merlin and I were out for a morning stroll and I noticed a sign tacked to a tree that said:

"Found: Tortoise in North Park"

And immediately I think, oh my god, I think I know where that tortoise lives.

A few months back, on the way to the dog park, Merlin and I stopped to marvel at a tortoise casually grazing on someone's front lawn. Whose lawn, I haven't a clue, because there wasn't a person in sight to monitor the tortoise's whereabouts. I assumed this was because the risk of the creature making a mad dash for anywhere likely was fairly low--hindsight 20/20.

In any case, while Merlin cowered behind me, maintaining a safe distance from the snarling beast, I snapped a picture and we went on our way.

So I'm staring at this sign, wondering if I should take down the number as I'm calculating the odds that:

1) There is only one pet tortoise in the greater North Park/South Park area
2) That this one tortoise walked the roughly one mile from where I first saw him to the area where this sign was posted (and presumably where the beast was found meandering)

I wondered, is it possible that, on that very day several months ago, I witnessed the start of his long, slow pilgrimage to North Park?

In the end, because I have the attention span of a box of hair these days, I got distracted (likely by a dog with a fluffy tail or something equally as inane) and did not take down the number. Today I walked by that grazing lawn and thought about knocking on the door to verify that their tortoise was safe and sound. But then a fat squirrel ran by and I forgot all about it.

A walking trio

2010-12-12T10:06:00.000-08:00

I realized three things today.

1) There are lots of different faces of Santa. Some are sweet and comforting and make you want to run out and buy some kid a new bike. Others are less jolly, more creepy stranger whose red novelty trousers may or may not be hiding a monitoring anklet. Growing up, we had a giant Santa head that resembled the latter version, and the thought of his leering eyes following me across the room still scares the shit out of me.

2) I have an intense compulsion to read notes left on parked cars. I never actually give in, because I'm fully aware that the message clearly wasn't meant for me. But I enjoy guessing what they might say based on the type of car, parking job, or other cues that might reveal the note's contents. Was it a missed connection? Random act of kindess? Invitation to a nearby event? The most common scenario I settle on is something like, "Nice parking job, asshole."

3) There is nothing my dog won't eat. As we waited to cross at a light, I turned my attention toward what appeared to be a toys for tots type meetup for Vespa riders. And when I looked back, Merlin was gnawing on a discarded pizza crust laying in the gutter next to an old, ratty sock. Farther down the road, he pee'd on his own feet. He's disgusting.

Oh, and Pat was sleeping in a different window this time. It was good to see her trying new things.

Smash from the past

2010-12-04T10:56:00.000-08:00

Today I was so deeply contemplating my current state of affairs that I nearly walked right into the path of a car. This brush with a nasty glare and "what the F" gesture from a relieved yet angry driver took me back to a time when I didn't get off quite so easy.

The time to which I refer was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon several summers ago. I decided to bike over to a friend's house, an easy ride of about 6ish miles. I had never made this ride before, and after my friend verbally mapped my route for me, I asked her if it was safe. "Oh, yeah, definitely," she said.

So off I went, donning flip flops, Jackie O-sized sunglasses, and my favorite pair of jorts, my wire basket swaddling my stocked beach bag.

Everything was going swimmingly as I hit the midpoint of my ride, a sort of out-of-the way stretch that passed by a luxury hotel. I was pedalling at a comfortable pace as I approached the hotel's driveway, and I was perfectly comfortable as I indifferently noted a car approaching the standard-issue, entirely unobstructed stop sign that stands between the end of the hotel road and the one on which I was traveling.

Now, truth be told, for a split second I did casually ponder whether or not that car was planning on stopping at that sign. And yet, I pedalled on without slowing, well, because I was in clear view and there was a stop sign, afterall.

But as I rolled up onto the hood of that car and splattered to the ground on the other side, it occurred to me that engaging in a battle of principle with a moving vehicle probably is not wise, no matter who's right.

It took the driver and his horrified passenger, both seemingly in their early twenties, about 10 seconds to do anything at all. Perhaps they were contemplating screeching off, then realized that my mangled bike was tangled in the undercarriage of their car. Nonetheless, they finally got out to assess the carnage of their vehicular negligence.

Although they offered to take me to the hospital multiple times, I just wanted them to go away so I could get on with my day. The clearly terrified driver handed me a scrap of paper with his information -- which could have been his grocery list, for all I knew at the time -- retrieved my pavement-chewed sunglasses, and drove off.

Now alone, I started to assess the damage. With shaking hands, I lifted my shirt to find an already darkened bruise about the size of a grapefruit on my hip -- the place of impact. I was bleeding from both knees and elbows, and my right ankle was starting to swell. Still, if my front tire wouldn't have been folded like a taco, I would have finished that ride. Cuz that's just how I roll.

Accepting that I was going to have to get help from someone, I retrieved my phone from the grassy knoll and called my friend. Here's how that went:

Her: "Hey, where are you?"
Me: "Um, I have a problem."
Her: "What's up?"
Me: "I just got hit by a car."
Her: "Oh my god! Are you ok?"
Me: "Yeah, but now I'm gonna need a ride to your place because my tire is bent."

She still laughs at the casual nature of my delivery. Given my tone, my problem just as easily could have been that I wanted to pick up beer on the way but forgot my ID.

As I stood there next to my crumpled bike waiting for her to collect me, the adrenaline slowly subsided and the reality of what just went down started to set in. And I started to cry.

It wasn't that I was scared or in terrible pain. It was just a delayed reaction to a very startling event. Nonetheless, tears just kept streaming down my face from behind my glasses. I just couldn't stop them.

In my peripherial vision, I noticed a guy approaching me, and I was filled with dread. Although I appreciate the instinct of a stranger to see if someone who looked as pathetic as I did at that moment needed a hand, I just wanted to be left alone.

"Excuse me," he said. And I turned, prepared to thank him for his concern but assure him that I was fine.

"Do you know how to get to Mission Beach?"

Of all the many, many people who were out and about that afternoon, this guy saw me, crying and bleeding next to my broken bike, and thought, hey, I bet she knows where to go.

We shared a moment of silence as I stared at him, expressionless. Then I said, "Go back in the direction you came and turn right."

He thanked me and went on his way. And even though that guy may never know how big of a tool he was that day, and my friends will always laugh at how bizarre it was that I actually gave him directions, it did get me to stop crying. So for that, I'm thankful.

Pat, revisited

2010-12-02T08:23:00.000-08:00

We saw Pat through the store window again this morning, this time in her jammies but alert and taking in the bustle of the morning from the safety and stillness of her store. When I looked at her, she smiled back.

Now my previous Pat sighting doesn't seem quite as outrageous. That section of the store, I believe, is Pat's living room. So seeing Pat all sacked out on Thanksgiving morning isn't unlike randomly catching a glance through parted curtains of someone napping in their favorite recliner.

I must admit, if that store didn't have a visible exit, I might wonder if it was some sort of biodome experiment, or perhaps a wormhole to another time. But it's just a store. Pat's home. Where she's surrounded by things she loves. We should all be so lucky.

Next time I'll be sure to wave and mouth an exaggerated "good morning," like a good neighbor should.

Happy Thanksgiving, Pat

2010-11-25T10:19:00.000-08:00

I was reminded of something very important this morning: never leave for a walk without the camera.

This morning we walked by this antique wonderland called Pat's. From floor to ceiling across the huge expanse of store, Pat's is packed with distressed treasures from another lifetime -- which you can have custom refurbished for a very reasonable price.

To find something specific -- say, a small vanity and cute little stool -- you'd have to spend hours, days maybe, navigating the mazes of stuff stacked upon stuff propped up by stuff that's covering stuff. Or you could just ask Pat. Because Pat know exactly what's in every inch of that place, inside and in the giant antique graveyard out back. She's like the rainman of cluttertown. And she's awesome.

I can't say I know Pat all that well. She helped me find my vanity and cute little stool so many years ago, and that was our one and only interaction. But I remember her well. She's an older, no-nonsense, let's-get-down-to-business kind of lady. I like that. And she had this cat (there were many, but I remember this one, in particular) that laid on the counter, entirely uninterested in the world around it.

In any case, we were walking past Pat's, and I turned, as I have for the past few weeks, to look through one of the giant picture windows that surrounds the place to see if they still had the chair that I've been meaning to tell my friend Mary about. And there, sitting in that very chair, was Pat. Right there in the display window.

Now, when I say sitting, what I really mean is totally passed out, head draped over the back of the chair, mouth agape, wearing yesterday's clothes. And next to her, looking back at me, was that cat.

This was such a wonderously awesome sight that I actually looked around to see if there was anyone around who could maybe take the picture and send it to me. I don't mean this in any sort of condescending way. Even though I don't really know Pat, looking at her in that chair, all sprawled and uncaring, I thought, that's so Pat.

As I continued on my walk, I started thinking about Pat, and how it's a holiday, and that she was all alone (except for the cat) in her store. And I started to worry. I created a whole slew of "what if" scenarios as I hurried back that direction. To my delight, I found an empty chair when I passed by the second time. Pat's all good. Happy Thanksgiving, Pat.

On a side note, I also saw a round man wearing a sky blue velour suit with a green top hat pulling a roller bag behind him as he ran to catch the bus. I'd pay cash money to know what's in that bag. I also may or may not have seen Bono. It was a great walk.

Ruffin it

2010-11-24T21:52:00.000-08:00

It's been raining a lot here. But the dog still must be walked. And the car still must be retrieved from the night before, hopefully before the ticket has been cast (not this time).

So Merlin and I were out walking in the rain, totally commando style (in the rain sense), and on the other side of the street we saw some sort of schnauzer wearing a raincoat. And when I say raincoat, I don't mean some flimsy canine poncho. I mean an REI-style raincoat designed for the hardcore doggie outdoor enthusiast. It was so elaborate that I had to do a double take.

As we continued on our walk, both pretty soggy, I started thinking about this alternative doggie lifestyle. And I wondered if I was a bad dog owner for making my beloved pooch brave the elements without protection. When I was in San Francisco a few weeks ago, I saw several dogs wearing sneakers -- yes, sneakers (I'm very sad that I didn't get photos of that). I have absolutely no clue what the point of that is. And yet, I still wonder, is Merlin underprivileged?

Of course, I will never know the answer to this, since Merlin can't whine about not having what all the cool kids, like the schauzers, have. Nor will he ever refuse to go outside for a walk or trip to the park in the rain, even though I know he hates being wet. But still, I wonder. Perhaps next summer I'll buy him some doggles just to keep him current. But for now, we'll just continue to ruff it ... ah, I know. terrible.

Superman in daisy dukes

2010-11-06T10:27:00.000-07:00

This morning I was out walking the dog and I saw what I believe to be the oldest man in the world wearing what I'm certain are the shortest shorts I've ever seen on a man. His getaway sticks were long and the loose skin on them rippled in the breeze. And I looked away before I could confirm, but I think I may have caught a glimpse of the satchel ... ew.

At first I was horrified, but as I walked off I thought, good for him. If I make it to be that old and I want the ladies to peek out from beneath a totally inappropriately revealing blouse, then I hope I have the genuine F-it attitude required to just do it. If you're gonna do it, you better rock it.

That old guy in the daisy dukes stood with his fists on his hips, all superman style, chatting up his grand kids with all the confidence in the world. So I say, you go guy. You inspire me.

Coming Attractions

2009-08-05T10:52:00.000-07:00

Great news! After way too many hours of sorting through online consumer reviews (Andy, I'm sorry you had to watch the So You Think You Can Dance results show with the dogs), I finally got a new digital camera. While my previous camera is perfectly good for capturing moments happening 12-14 inches from my face, it provides only a fuzzy memory of everything else.

So now I have the Canon PoweShot A2100IS. This is good news for Pedestrian View because while I strive to provide you with vivid verbal portraits of my observations, pictures just make everything better. And now I won't have to invade anyone's personal space or trespass to get them. Hooray for zoom!

Stay tuned for better, brighter posts!

Don't look up!

2009-07-29T22:10:00.000-07:00

On Sunday I spent five hours and 33 minutes walking something like 21 miles, my third time doing such high mileage. Each time I've chosen a beer-serving destination as my dangling carrot. (Beer and pizza never tastes as good as when you burn it off BEFORE you shovel it into your face.) And each time, when we get to our destination--sunburned, soggy, and limping--we look for any opportunity to announce how we got there. Aside from training for my walk, that's really my main motivation for spending my afternoons wearing a fanny pack, a stop watch, and capris that leave nothing to the imagination. And everyone we tell seems to have the exact same response: "Why?"

Not "wow" or "good for you" or even "holy shit!" Just "why?" punctuated with a baffled expression that borders on disgust. I don't want to dwell on this, but I do want to offer this bit of advice: If someone tells you they walked 20 miles to get where they're standing right then, this is the preferred response: "Wow, holy shit! Good for you!"

Anyway, about 13 miles into Sunday's walk, we stopped to ponder a capped pipe sticking out of the ground that was labeled "Latin America." Of the many, many explanations we both offered, my favorite was that it was a vacuum tube like the ones used at bank drivethroughs (in the olden days) to suck in your deposit and spit out a dum dum lollipop. You can imagine where our theories went from there.

I was positively giddy about having such great blog fodder, until I looked up and saw that the dorm building to our right was called "China." And the next was "Europe." And so on. Sadly, the mystery quickly unraveled. It wasn't that we actually thought the pipe lead out of the country. But logical explanations can really kill a mood.

Shortly after that, everything below my waist started to ache from the miles, and not even the constant threat of careless cyclists careening at us at 70 mph seemed noteworthy.

No pee zone. Thank you.

2009-07-20T17:42:00.000-07:00

On Saturday we walked up to the catch the gay pride parade. I must say that compared to the one other time I've gone, it was quite a let down. What I remembered were extravagant floats with thumping sound systems and boisterous, half-naked people of all preferences schooling the crowd on how to properly kick off an afternoon. What I saw were trucks barely covered with scribbled-on, hastily attached cardboard and people with megaphones shouting garbled chants. Of course, we didn't stay for the whole thing; perhaps the good floats had already passed. But from what I saw, I'd give it a C+ on level of entertainment.

What I did find entertaining was a little white sign with black lettering placed neatly on the manicured lawn of an art-deco apartment building. It said: "No pee zone. Thank you."

On a normal day, I would have assumed this was directed at dog owners. On that day, I wasn't totally sure. Regardless, I was struck by the politeness of the sign. I've seen other signs meant to protect precious green grass from death by urination, but they took a much different approach:

"Keep the pee in the park."
"My lawn is not your dog's toilet."
"Pick up your dog crap. I'm watching from the house." (Seriously!)

By comparison, I was struck by this delightfully pleasant declaration. There was just one problem: the text was only on one side. Walking away, we passed by a hairy retriever, and on a hunch, I turned around in time to see him taking a leak just inches from the blank white sign.

Next time, zone wisely.

An old lady and an ugly wedding dress - at sunrise

2009-07-17T12:55:00.000-07:00

I come from a long line of hard-working blue-collar people who think getting up at 6:00 a.m. is sleeping in. I remember more than one instance as a teenager when my dad or grandpa woke me up to ask if I "planned to sleep all day." It was 6:45 a.m. As an adult, I moved three time zones west, which made matters dramatically worse - six years later I still get calls at 7:00 a.m. and they sound surprised that I'm irritated. For better or worse, this is why I'm able to drag myself out of bed for sunrise walks, as I did today.

There are only a handful of reasons why people in my neighborhood are out and about that early in the day:

They're going to or coming from some job I'm glad I don't have

They're exercising themselves and/or their pets

They're homeless and bored, crazy, or scavenging

They're doing the walk of shame*

But for the most part, things are pretty quiet at this time. Today it reminded me why getting up that early is kind of appealing. But it also left something to be desired in the area of interesting encounters. Luckily, I was able to make a few observations:

1. I'm getting old. I know this because I no longer pretend like I'm not power walking when I pass a hot guy. Also, I don't bother to brush my hair or even wash my face before I leave.

2. Dry cleaners always showcase hideous clothes in their front windows. Why? I passed by one place that had a big sign that said: "We tailor wedding dresses." And it had the oldest, ugliest dress-rag I've ever seen, proudly displayed in the window. It probably wouldn't stop me from getting my pants hemmed there. But it stands to reason that their business could significantly improve if they exercised some good taste. Just a thought.

*For those who aren't familiar with this concept, the walk of shame is when you drink too much the night before, usually on a week night, and shack up with someone (who probably isn't exactly a prize). Early in the morning, you sneak out, looking a fright (possibly minus a sock, shoe, or some other hastily abandoned possession), and head for home. My favorite variety is the day-after-Halloween walk of shame, where you're forced to search for your car or, god forbid, wait for a cab while dressed as a now very haggard-looking sexy Sarah Palin or whatever costume you'd worn out.

Big wheels keep on turnin'

2009-07-15T13:52:00.000-07:00

I set my alarm this morning for a time when no one should be awake so I could walk before work. Didn't happen. So I used my time in the shower to remember something interesting that I saw on a recent walk through Balboa Park.

As I was crossing over the bridge into the park, a man on a bicycle was riding on the opposite sidewalk. But he wasn't riding just any bicycle. It was one of those late-1800s-type deals, with a front wheel that's considerable larger than the back wheel. Only it was too new to be an antique, and the man was too normal looking to be a circus performer, so I was left perplexed.

The rider was a smaller man, and the juxtaposition of his short little legs pedaling furiously to turn the giant front wheel made me sad that no one was around for me to point it out to. Adding to it all, he was dressed as if going to a tea party in the rose garden that's at the end of the park. All things considered, it was pretty spectacular for me.

He passed by me two more times, each time headed in a different direction. I could only surmise that he'd forgotten where he'd stashed his time machine.

Welcome to Pedestrian View

2009-07-14T18:57:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, I started running. At first, I could barely go for five minutes without stopping to heave out a lung. Just a few months later, I was running six miles a day. And a few months after that, I was one of those psycho runners who gets up to run at dawn every single day regardless of how miserable the weather is or what shenanigans transpired the night before. But then I hurt my knee, had surgery on it, and - several false starts later - finally accepted that my psycho running days were behind me.

Moving on

It took a while for me to believe people's wild tales of walking for exercise. I mean, come on, I thought. It's walking. But over time I not only realized the physical benefits of walking, but I also came to really enjoy it. No, it doesn't offer the same high as running. But it does give you the chance to slow down and see the world around you from a different perspective. It's almost a blessing that walking can get a little boring (let's be honest - it does drag on a little at times) because it forces you to look around and notice things that you normally might miss.

The "Unique Bed & Breakfast" down the street from the "Unique Nail Shop" and just around the corner from the "Unique Pawn Shop." (I mean, I get why bail bonds places always start with "A," but this I just don't understand.)

The man in the vintage motorcycle waiting to make a left as his bulldog - wearing doggles, a helmet, and a red scarf - looks on.

The woman in the short dress crossing the street. Wait, no, she's a he.

And for someone like me, someone who thrives on discovering the unfamiliar (particularly when the unfamiliar is spectacularly strange), walking leads to opportunity. Each trip creates new and endless opportunities to witness the ridiculous, the bizarre, the amusing, the ironic, and even, on occasion - but admittedly not as often as the bizarre - the uplifting.

A new perspective

And that's what this blog is all about. Sharing my discoveries as I rack up the mileage. It's life - from the pedestrian's view.