The only available outlet in the apartment that seemed to function was between the closet and the stove, loosely mounted to the wall above the counter. This is not a commentary on the accommodations, they were just as lovely as I had expected; the photos hadn’t lied. I’d left my laptop charging there in the kitchen overnight with the hope that I might get an hour or so of life out of it during the flight home. The new battery was only slightly more inclined to hold a charge than the original, which had become completely useless a couple of years ago. The computer was also my only link to the correct time; information that usually is of little concern to me but this morning would be somewhat critical.
Darkness still prevailed when I woke, although the glow of the city never really allowed it to take over completely. The orange of the streetlights reflecting off the dense cloud cover was no different than anything I’d experienced in any other major city. After my visit to the kitchen and a brief calculation, I decided that it was just after seven. The screen had read a little past one, the time difference being an even six hours. I thought I should really get moving. I lay back down on the fold out couch for a few minutes and thought about the irony of the sleeping arrangements as I stared out through the tall glass panes of the window that I had closed sometime during the night. I’d woken up briefly when a chilly wind had made its way into the room. A fold out couch that was very distant from here had been my bed for the past year since I’d left my family for the third and final time, although this one was decidedly more comfortable.
The screaming cats had woken me before dawn, the cats and what I imagine I perceived to be a hint of the sky changing from the grayish-yellow of the evening to the cool blue of a morning flirting with sunrise. I had hoped to be out on the street by dawn but I knew by the time I was ready that the moment had passed me by.
It wasn’t more than another five minutes or so before I was up and changed. I’d slept in my clothes as there were four of us sharing the flat and little privacy was to be had. Before making my way to the door I checked the map one last time. Rather than turn on a light that might disturb the others, I leaned out of the window and planned my route in the glow of anticipation; at least the first six or seven blocks that would take me to the rivers edge, the banks of the Fiume Tevere. After that I would let the city guide me.
I closed the door as quietly as I could until I heard the tongue snap into place and then descended the two flights of marble stairs that surrounded the tiny elevator, passed through the tall, yellow glass doors that led to the foyer, and made my way to the street.
I did a little stretching in the courtyard between the ivy covered, black iron gate and the massive exterior oak doors and then began my walk down the hill. Initially, it was the same route that the six of us had taken the night before in search of a recommended restaurant, but after a few blocks I took a right towards the river, rather than the left that would have taken me back into Trastevere.
Two blocks into my personal tour I broke into a jog and the spot just above my right knee began to burn, as it has been known to do from time to time. I ignored it. Nothing was going to interfere with this day. I would just have to work through the pain.
After crossing the main thoroughfare where the green, number eight trams seem to pass ceaselessly in both directions, I moved along a series of winding, cobblestone streets, settling in between the unused, partially paved over, tracks of former public transportation. The river was near, and as I approached it a flea market was in its inception in a small lot off to my right. Tiny cars were being unloaded onto tables that were sheltered by those all too familiar pop-up tents. It was a Sunday morning and most of the city still slept as the sun rose slowly and the rain slowed as the clouds began to thin. It hadn’t started until I’d reached the outer doors of the apartment building. I’d heard the leaves reacting to what I considered an obvious but unnecessarily violent assault by the tiny droplets that fell from the sky.
I took a left just beyond the market, crossed the foot of one of the many bridges and headed along the river. The sidewalk and the roadway were well above the water’s surface so I followed the fist ramp that would bring me closer to the lethargic, green soup, where black birds with gray wings circled and dove for prey.
After passing under the sculpted arches of the next bridge, I felt a little deprived as all of the antiquity lay out of sight beyond the tops of the ancient walls that corralled the current, although the colorful graffiti in another language did hold a modest amount of interest. A long flight of stairs just before the third would take me back to street level. A slight drizzle continued to fall but the sidewalk was dry, sheltered by the leaves of the sycamores that lined the avenue, similar in many ways to Riverside Park in Manhattan, although very different in feel. The foliage in general struck me as not being dramatically different from that of New York, with the exception of the thick, textured trunks and the feathery branches of the many palms that sprouted unexpectedly from Rome’s sidewalks and gardens.
I decided to continue along above the water until the fourth bridge, or Ponte, as they are known here, and then I would cross and find my way into the oldest part of the city. It wasn’t meant to be. The bridges were not all that far apart and from the foot of the fourth, the fifth was plainly visible. Until now they had been relatively unadorned outside of carved balustrades, mostly limestone, I think. This next one was obviously of great importance, decorated with elaborate sculptures of intertwined figures that had been eroded by the passing centuries, with the stone pitted and serrated.
From the fifth, the sixth caught my attention, not quite as elaborate but equally adorned. A row of stalls was set up along the wall between the next two crossings. Green, tambour topped display cases that supported shallow awnings above them lined the sidewalk. There were dozens, all identical, and all yet to be opened for business. A lone vendor swept the damp, fallen leaves from the path that remained. This had to be a major tourist destination, no different from Fifth Avenue south of the Metropolitan Museum where everything from watches to postcards can be had. I would not discover today what was peddled from these shallow trays.
A massive, obviously ancient, stone structure loomed to my left. Curved, marble stairs led to enormous statues on tall plinths. Carved relief was everywhere on the ornately rendered façade and a cornice protruded far enough from the roof to be considered cantilevered. I crossed the street to investigate further. In the center, letters were carved into the stone blocks above an arched doorway. The only ones that made any sense to me spelled out the word “Tribunali”. It was impossible for me to take in the whole of this building, the din of the sculpted mass being nearly deafening.
The seventh would be the bridge to cross. I thought Saint Peter’s was in sight but realized that the domes I was heading for were on the wrong side of the river, and there were two. I’d contemplated running through the Vatican’s plaza but decided that I would forgo the well-traveled landmarks in favor of the neighborhoods and the mundane which turned out to be anything but. We’d gotten a bit of a tour from the taxi driver who’d brought us from the train station, and anyway, I’d seen them once before. This run was not about those places; it was about the other Rome. I crossed that seventh bridge and lost myself in the maze of cobblestone streets and narrow alleys.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Seven Bridges; Part Two
The city was waking up. Miniature garbage trucks manned by men in fluorescent orange jackets roamed the streets. An occasional Carabinieri or Policia could be seen, usually standing motionless, holding their ground. I imagined that there must be crime here, but at the moment doubted anything outside of pure affection for ones fellow human beings existed.
People emerged from small doorways with dogs on leashes or rolling luggage or handbags. I thought for a moment that I might lose my way, and at the same time would have had no problem doing just that. I could always inquire as to the whereabouts of the river, everyone would certainly know, and I would glance down the wider streets from time to time in order to keep the mottled trunks of the sycamores in view.
Occasionally I would hesitate, peering down an alley that might allow two people to pass each other, as long as they were thin. I’d look for signs near the ends that would indicate an exit, not wanting to back track out of a dead end.
All of the low, stucco buildings were colored and weathered, painted by history in a way that no scenic artist could ever hope to duplicate. This is an organic and constantly changing landscape. Lines of calcium dripped from windowsills, white streaks against the ochers and rouges of the facades. One was painted in a rust color and showed yellow where large slabs of plaster had fallen away. The shadows, the dark umber shadows in the gaps in the crenellation on the corners looked as if it had been intentionally applied.
The stones in the streets weren’t just laid, they radiated in overlapping, concentric circles, mimicking way the river reacted to the diving birds. Every aspect of this place seemed to have been carefully considered, every color and every texture perfectly placed, and perfectly executed.
I came upon a cathedral where a glass railed, aluminum ramp allowed wheel chair access up the short flight of stairs. It was slick and treacherous and I held onto the railing as I moved delicately along the corrugated surface. Three arches of massive doors were left opened to reveal inner sets that were made of glass. I had no alternative but to interrupt my run to stare through the huge panes at the beauty and grandeur of the interior. It looked quiet inside and I would have entered but the few that were seated in the pews appeared to be praying and I didn’t want to disturb them. Off I went, down the other side of the stares, frightening off a small group of pigeons that had been battling over a few moldy and soggy rolls that had been tossed into the street.
A portion of a pristine, white structure appeared in the distance between the gaps in the stucco, probably one of the sights we had seen from the taxi, only this was the back and it was partially shrouded in scaffolding and netting. I thought I might head toward it but just then the river returned. It had found me.
I knew that a left would take me to the coliseum and the ancient part of the city, the birthplace of Rome, but it was getting late. The others would be waiting to go for breakfast and the limo was schedule to pick us up at eleven. I looked in its general direction and assured it that I would come back to finish this.
A group of homeless laid on blankets and towels under the overhang of a contemporary building. A young woman was injecting herself as I passed. I wondered if they were all waiting for some sort of clinic to open its doors for the day.
I was back along the water now, and I thought I might cross back over, not wanting to miss the flea market and the turn back toward the Via Phillipo Cassini. The first bridge I came to was chained off to both automobile and pedestrian traffic. I thought this was a little odd, but that perhaps it was unsafe, being as ancient as it was, although all of them seemed to be. The next was open and was the only one out of all that I had passed to employ iron balustrades. I didn’t recognize it, but soon realized that this was the one I had passed beneath when this journey was in its infancy. The café, so far below, with its stacked, white plastic chairs and rough wooden structure was a comforting sight. I would cross at the next opportunity and run along the upper path where I had taken the ramp down on the way out. This would prove to be the only unbroken surface that my feet would encounter this morning. All of the others up until now had been either cobblestone or a mix of deteriorating asphalt and concrete. The short stretch of smooth pavement was a bit of a relief.
I would find the same, serpentine, unutilized tracks where small groups now waited for buses. Back past the colorful flower stand that seemed too small for the arrays that cascaded from its tiers, back across the six-lane thoroughfare, dodging the cars and the trams and the buses. Back where the cafes were beginning to unlock their doors, finally arriving at the base of the street that would put me within a few blocks of my final destination. There I would slow to a walk, but not for long. After two blocks, a tall, marble staircase was laid out in front of me. It was six or seven flights, the width of the entire street and seemed to lead to a wooded area high above. I went after it with great enthusiasm and when I reached the top my thighs burned with gratitude and I found my breathing to be labored for the first time.
I stood at the summit for a minute or two and stared out over the terra cotta tiled roofs whose equal heights and arbitrary angles created an undulating sea of shallow, sienna colored waves. The pair of domes where I had turned to make my return voyage seemed to be so distant as they blended with the mist of the morning. I wondered for a second if it had been nothing more than a dream.
During my final walk up the last block, a slender, dark haired woman passed with her dog. She said something in Italian that I didn’t understand, but her gestures suggested it had something to do with the sweat that soaked my light gray shirt.
I made my way back up around the caged elevator and inserted the oversize key that I’d been carrying in the palm of my hand the entire time into the door. The two women who were my traveling companions each occupied one of the white sofas that were placed at right angles in the living room. They looked up at me, smiled, and asked if I’d had a good run, almost immediately admitting that my appearance spoke for itself.
I showered quickly, dressed, and we walked down the hill together to the nearby pasticceria where we bought postcards and stamps and cappuccinos and lattes and lemon glazed croissants. Rome would soon be behind us.
People emerged from small doorways with dogs on leashes or rolling luggage or handbags. I thought for a moment that I might lose my way, and at the same time would have had no problem doing just that. I could always inquire as to the whereabouts of the river, everyone would certainly know, and I would glance down the wider streets from time to time in order to keep the mottled trunks of the sycamores in view.
Occasionally I would hesitate, peering down an alley that might allow two people to pass each other, as long as they were thin. I’d look for signs near the ends that would indicate an exit, not wanting to back track out of a dead end.
All of the low, stucco buildings were colored and weathered, painted by history in a way that no scenic artist could ever hope to duplicate. This is an organic and constantly changing landscape. Lines of calcium dripped from windowsills, white streaks against the ochers and rouges of the facades. One was painted in a rust color and showed yellow where large slabs of plaster had fallen away. The shadows, the dark umber shadows in the gaps in the crenellation on the corners looked as if it had been intentionally applied.
The stones in the streets weren’t just laid, they radiated in overlapping, concentric circles, mimicking way the river reacted to the diving birds. Every aspect of this place seemed to have been carefully considered, every color and every texture perfectly placed, and perfectly executed.
I came upon a cathedral where a glass railed, aluminum ramp allowed wheel chair access up the short flight of stairs. It was slick and treacherous and I held onto the railing as I moved delicately along the corrugated surface. Three arches of massive doors were left opened to reveal inner sets that were made of glass. I had no alternative but to interrupt my run to stare through the huge panes at the beauty and grandeur of the interior. It looked quiet inside and I would have entered but the few that were seated in the pews appeared to be praying and I didn’t want to disturb them. Off I went, down the other side of the stares, frightening off a small group of pigeons that had been battling over a few moldy and soggy rolls that had been tossed into the street.
A portion of a pristine, white structure appeared in the distance between the gaps in the stucco, probably one of the sights we had seen from the taxi, only this was the back and it was partially shrouded in scaffolding and netting. I thought I might head toward it but just then the river returned. It had found me.
I knew that a left would take me to the coliseum and the ancient part of the city, the birthplace of Rome, but it was getting late. The others would be waiting to go for breakfast and the limo was schedule to pick us up at eleven. I looked in its general direction and assured it that I would come back to finish this.
A group of homeless laid on blankets and towels under the overhang of a contemporary building. A young woman was injecting herself as I passed. I wondered if they were all waiting for some sort of clinic to open its doors for the day.
I was back along the water now, and I thought I might cross back over, not wanting to miss the flea market and the turn back toward the Via Phillipo Cassini. The first bridge I came to was chained off to both automobile and pedestrian traffic. I thought this was a little odd, but that perhaps it was unsafe, being as ancient as it was, although all of them seemed to be. The next was open and was the only one out of all that I had passed to employ iron balustrades. I didn’t recognize it, but soon realized that this was the one I had passed beneath when this journey was in its infancy. The café, so far below, with its stacked, white plastic chairs and rough wooden structure was a comforting sight. I would cross at the next opportunity and run along the upper path where I had taken the ramp down on the way out. This would prove to be the only unbroken surface that my feet would encounter this morning. All of the others up until now had been either cobblestone or a mix of deteriorating asphalt and concrete. The short stretch of smooth pavement was a bit of a relief.
I would find the same, serpentine, unutilized tracks where small groups now waited for buses. Back past the colorful flower stand that seemed too small for the arrays that cascaded from its tiers, back across the six-lane thoroughfare, dodging the cars and the trams and the buses. Back where the cafes were beginning to unlock their doors, finally arriving at the base of the street that would put me within a few blocks of my final destination. There I would slow to a walk, but not for long. After two blocks, a tall, marble staircase was laid out in front of me. It was six or seven flights, the width of the entire street and seemed to lead to a wooded area high above. I went after it with great enthusiasm and when I reached the top my thighs burned with gratitude and I found my breathing to be labored for the first time.
I stood at the summit for a minute or two and stared out over the terra cotta tiled roofs whose equal heights and arbitrary angles created an undulating sea of shallow, sienna colored waves. The pair of domes where I had turned to make my return voyage seemed to be so distant as they blended with the mist of the morning. I wondered for a second if it had been nothing more than a dream.
During my final walk up the last block, a slender, dark haired woman passed with her dog. She said something in Italian that I didn’t understand, but her gestures suggested it had something to do with the sweat that soaked my light gray shirt.
I made my way back up around the caged elevator and inserted the oversize key that I’d been carrying in the palm of my hand the entire time into the door. The two women who were my traveling companions each occupied one of the white sofas that were placed at right angles in the living room. They looked up at me, smiled, and asked if I’d had a good run, almost immediately admitting that my appearance spoke for itself.
I showered quickly, dressed, and we walked down the hill together to the nearby pasticceria where we bought postcards and stamps and cappuccinos and lattes and lemon glazed croissants. Rome would soon be behind us.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Bellevue
I’d hoped to be up earlier but by the time we’d finished work, found the obscure hotel, and gotten dinner it had been nearly eleven. I felt tired when I woke, a feeling that has become common as the sixty hour work weeks consume me. I gave myself the standard no excuses speech and threw on my running clothes. The only appropriate stretching aid in the room was the tiny refrigerator by the door. It would have to do. Out by the trail my car’s rear bumper works well.
I thought that maybe the path along the bay would be nice; I’d walked it a short distance yesterday while I was waiting for the truck to arrive. The length was certainly there but so was the job, and I would see the large, white tents and the furniture as I passed. Maybe along the waterfront back in town, near the hotel, no, that would be inappropriate at only a few blocks and I’d have to continue on one of the narrow, cluttered streets, and anyway, San Francisco’s Embarcadero held far more appeal, at least in memory.
The mansions, it would have to be the mansions. We’d driven Bellevue Avenue in our search for the hotel, driven it in the wrong direction and then doubled back after a stranger in on the sidewalk responded to our inquiry. I’d been on this road once before, in the evening as well, but I’d never really seen the mansions.
It was an uphill climb to the start, both spiritually and topographically. I started off at a jog but soon realized that walking the six or seven steep blocks would be a better choice, and a chance to warm up. The streets were tiny and some were laid with cobblestones, the clapboard and shingle houses separated by little more than the breeze that blew off the bay.
After leveling off, the route began with the boutiques and shopping malls that lined the blocks preceding the wealth and privilege of the past. I was surprised at the condition of the sidewalk; coarse, uneven, weathered gravel. After a few minutes I decided that I would never make it on a surface that torqued my ankles constantly and so dropped off the curb to the street. There seemed to be ample room, and although not officially designated, the expansion joint a couple of feet from the edge seem to serve as a border to a bike lane. As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
I began to travel backwards in time. As I moved along the wide, straight, concrete avenue, the mansions grew larger and more palatial, staggering in their sheer size. Limestone columns that rivaled the Parthenon, curved, marble staircases and balustrades, wings that led to other wings, homes built to a scale that almost defies reality. Huge windows with the curtains tied back, straddling a ballroom or lavish dining room allowed the low sun to pour through from the ocean side.
Ancient oaks spilled over black, iron gates with gilded accents while transparent figures in proper Victorian attire strolled casually over immaculately maintained lawns. I could see them; I could see the white, lace gowns and the black suits and the pipes, the upper echelon of past generations chatting idly about their place in society.
Each property had a name either on the gate or on one of the many elaborate limestone walls that protected the massive structures from the less fortunate population, and most also had a plaque that designated it a member of the Newport Preservation Society. Only a few said “private” at the entrance. One was now a museum of illustration and daily guided tours were offered by at least two or three. I wouldn’t have the time to participate in one of those this time around, thinking that maybe I would come back when work was not a factor.
The road made a sharp right at the end of the run of mansions and then another half a mile or so farther on. This led to a left turn onto Ocean Drive, the newly paved, asphalt road that followed the coastline back into town, the long way around. The moon was in front of me, full, and a little higher in the sky then the sun that was now at my back. It appeared as transparent as the figures on the lawns but with features just as discernable.
I thought I’d left the majesty of Bellevue, and I suppose I had since the houses now were a bit more contemporary but equally as grand. The first, at the top of the hill to my right was a sprawling white stucco affair with no less than eight chimneys. This was obviously a year round residence, unlike the gaudier, more ostentatious manors that I remembered somewhere along the way were only summer homes, occupied maybe two months out of the year, then the furniture was draped and the doors locked. They had no chimneys, at least none that were plainly visible.
The urge to keep moving forward nearly took over but I knew I was getting to a point where I would have to turn around in order to get back in time for the workday to begin. Just a little farther, to the top, close to the level of the lower windows where I could get a sense of what the allure of living by the ocean might be. My father had a condo on the coast of California for quite a few years and I visited from time to time, but it was difficult to conceive of being there daily, the view only of water and sky.
As I made the turn I understood. The seemingly endless ocean spread out in front of me, there was a small cove with a gray, sandy beach, and seagulls gathered and squawked above the shallow water. Rocky cliffs, cattails and tall grass decorated the landscape. The scene was stunning, dwarfing the man made structures that could only admire the vastness and the mystery of nature from their tiny perches. I could easily imagine looking out over this every day as the light and the colors shift constantly, painting a new image with each passing season, each passing day, each passing hour.
As I made my way back past the grandeur of competitive opulence, one other unusual aspect of this particular run struck me; almost everyone that I had passed, whether jogging or biking or just walking, waved and said “good morning”, all but two I think. This was a first. There were smiles and plenty of eye contact, even from across the street. I was astounded and began to wonder what the cost of living might be and what I could do for work if I chose to dwell here for a time.
As always I deviated, needing to go just a little farther, down the hill and along the docks, with the clutter of too many sailboats in too little bay. I would approach the hotel from the other side, slow to a walk at the base of the street that leads to the front door, and spend ten minutes cooling down.
I got back to my room just in time to take a quick shower and meet the crew downstairs for breakfast, managing for the last hour and a half to have forgotten about the task at hand and experience a unique beauty that the others would never know.
I thought that maybe the path along the bay would be nice; I’d walked it a short distance yesterday while I was waiting for the truck to arrive. The length was certainly there but so was the job, and I would see the large, white tents and the furniture as I passed. Maybe along the waterfront back in town, near the hotel, no, that would be inappropriate at only a few blocks and I’d have to continue on one of the narrow, cluttered streets, and anyway, San Francisco’s Embarcadero held far more appeal, at least in memory.
The mansions, it would have to be the mansions. We’d driven Bellevue Avenue in our search for the hotel, driven it in the wrong direction and then doubled back after a stranger in on the sidewalk responded to our inquiry. I’d been on this road once before, in the evening as well, but I’d never really seen the mansions.
It was an uphill climb to the start, both spiritually and topographically. I started off at a jog but soon realized that walking the six or seven steep blocks would be a better choice, and a chance to warm up. The streets were tiny and some were laid with cobblestones, the clapboard and shingle houses separated by little more than the breeze that blew off the bay.
After leveling off, the route began with the boutiques and shopping malls that lined the blocks preceding the wealth and privilege of the past. I was surprised at the condition of the sidewalk; coarse, uneven, weathered gravel. After a few minutes I decided that I would never make it on a surface that torqued my ankles constantly and so dropped off the curb to the street. There seemed to be ample room, and although not officially designated, the expansion joint a couple of feet from the edge seem to serve as a border to a bike lane. As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
I began to travel backwards in time. As I moved along the wide, straight, concrete avenue, the mansions grew larger and more palatial, staggering in their sheer size. Limestone columns that rivaled the Parthenon, curved, marble staircases and balustrades, wings that led to other wings, homes built to a scale that almost defies reality. Huge windows with the curtains tied back, straddling a ballroom or lavish dining room allowed the low sun to pour through from the ocean side.
Ancient oaks spilled over black, iron gates with gilded accents while transparent figures in proper Victorian attire strolled casually over immaculately maintained lawns. I could see them; I could see the white, lace gowns and the black suits and the pipes, the upper echelon of past generations chatting idly about their place in society.
Each property had a name either on the gate or on one of the many elaborate limestone walls that protected the massive structures from the less fortunate population, and most also had a plaque that designated it a member of the Newport Preservation Society. Only a few said “private” at the entrance. One was now a museum of illustration and daily guided tours were offered by at least two or three. I wouldn’t have the time to participate in one of those this time around, thinking that maybe I would come back when work was not a factor.
The road made a sharp right at the end of the run of mansions and then another half a mile or so farther on. This led to a left turn onto Ocean Drive, the newly paved, asphalt road that followed the coastline back into town, the long way around. The moon was in front of me, full, and a little higher in the sky then the sun that was now at my back. It appeared as transparent as the figures on the lawns but with features just as discernable.
I thought I’d left the majesty of Bellevue, and I suppose I had since the houses now were a bit more contemporary but equally as grand. The first, at the top of the hill to my right was a sprawling white stucco affair with no less than eight chimneys. This was obviously a year round residence, unlike the gaudier, more ostentatious manors that I remembered somewhere along the way were only summer homes, occupied maybe two months out of the year, then the furniture was draped and the doors locked. They had no chimneys, at least none that were plainly visible.
The urge to keep moving forward nearly took over but I knew I was getting to a point where I would have to turn around in order to get back in time for the workday to begin. Just a little farther, to the top, close to the level of the lower windows where I could get a sense of what the allure of living by the ocean might be. My father had a condo on the coast of California for quite a few years and I visited from time to time, but it was difficult to conceive of being there daily, the view only of water and sky.
As I made the turn I understood. The seemingly endless ocean spread out in front of me, there was a small cove with a gray, sandy beach, and seagulls gathered and squawked above the shallow water. Rocky cliffs, cattails and tall grass decorated the landscape. The scene was stunning, dwarfing the man made structures that could only admire the vastness and the mystery of nature from their tiny perches. I could easily imagine looking out over this every day as the light and the colors shift constantly, painting a new image with each passing season, each passing day, each passing hour.
As I made my way back past the grandeur of competitive opulence, one other unusual aspect of this particular run struck me; almost everyone that I had passed, whether jogging or biking or just walking, waved and said “good morning”, all but two I think. This was a first. There were smiles and plenty of eye contact, even from across the street. I was astounded and began to wonder what the cost of living might be and what I could do for work if I chose to dwell here for a time.
As always I deviated, needing to go just a little farther, down the hill and along the docks, with the clutter of too many sailboats in too little bay. I would approach the hotel from the other side, slow to a walk at the base of the street that leads to the front door, and spend ten minutes cooling down.
I got back to my room just in time to take a quick shower and meet the crew downstairs for breakfast, managing for the last hour and a half to have forgotten about the task at hand and experience a unique beauty that the others would never know.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Botany
I was thinking as I passed the various carefully planted displays on my right, and the wild, untended arrays to my left, that I really should learn the names of these plants and flowers. I can certainly appreciate their beauty without this knowledge but I feel somehow ignorant and uneducated. I don’t like that feeling, always needing to be in command of the situation, or perhaps more likely, always required to be in command of the situation, something I’ve simply become accustomed to.
Another Sunday morning and I nearly didn’t run. I’d woken hungry and woozy long before dawn, regretting the decision not to cook the small piece of swordfish that I’d bought yesterday afternoon. After the long week of work I really just didn’t have the energy. This is becoming more and more common as the demands of the job increase, another meal planned and then abandoned. I don’t eat out anymore, not just because of the expense, but because I’ve grown tired of sitting at tables or bars alone, frequently the only one unaccompanied.
I went out despite the weakness, maybe just the short part of the trail, maybe just the four and a half miles that was the beginning. I never thought I’d hear those words, even in my own thoughts, just four and a half miles. I couldn’t help being amused. I’d start from the upper lot; it’s been a while since I’ve parked there.
As I started off I thought that I would never be able to do this today, anticipating ending up walking to my car in defeat, but reminded myself that it was only two weeks ago when I’d gotten out to fourteen. Certainly, even in my current state I could make it this relatively short distance.
Black eyed Susans, and of course the freshly planted maples, the only ones I could name as I trotted along the path, a feat that could probably be performed by any six year old in the area. My lack of knowledge continued to frustrate me. I decided that I would buy a book today, and would study the names and the next time I would be properly informed.
There are techniques to the running as well, ways to avoid injury and increase speed and endurance. I am as ignorant of these as I am of the species of plant life that surrounds me. I could use an education, maybe this is an appropriate time to begin. There is so much that I don’t know, so much mystery, so much to be learned. The thought of acquiring all of the knowledge I desire is overwhelming.
I think I’ll start small, maybe just with the flowers, and maybe just a few at a time. It’s August and they won’t last much longer. I should take that part on immediately; it’s been far too long since I’ve learned about a subject that I truly cared about.
I did visit the book store later in the day, and scanned the various botanical guides, but became frustrated as I flipped through the hundreds of illustrations without finding a single, familiar plant. So I opted instead to spend the money I had allotted on a small gift for some friends. My education would have to wait one more day.
Another Sunday morning and I nearly didn’t run. I’d woken hungry and woozy long before dawn, regretting the decision not to cook the small piece of swordfish that I’d bought yesterday afternoon. After the long week of work I really just didn’t have the energy. This is becoming more and more common as the demands of the job increase, another meal planned and then abandoned. I don’t eat out anymore, not just because of the expense, but because I’ve grown tired of sitting at tables or bars alone, frequently the only one unaccompanied.
I went out despite the weakness, maybe just the short part of the trail, maybe just the four and a half miles that was the beginning. I never thought I’d hear those words, even in my own thoughts, just four and a half miles. I couldn’t help being amused. I’d start from the upper lot; it’s been a while since I’ve parked there.
As I started off I thought that I would never be able to do this today, anticipating ending up walking to my car in defeat, but reminded myself that it was only two weeks ago when I’d gotten out to fourteen. Certainly, even in my current state I could make it this relatively short distance.
Black eyed Susans, and of course the freshly planted maples, the only ones I could name as I trotted along the path, a feat that could probably be performed by any six year old in the area. My lack of knowledge continued to frustrate me. I decided that I would buy a book today, and would study the names and the next time I would be properly informed.
There are techniques to the running as well, ways to avoid injury and increase speed and endurance. I am as ignorant of these as I am of the species of plant life that surrounds me. I could use an education, maybe this is an appropriate time to begin. There is so much that I don’t know, so much mystery, so much to be learned. The thought of acquiring all of the knowledge I desire is overwhelming.
I think I’ll start small, maybe just with the flowers, and maybe just a few at a time. It’s August and they won’t last much longer. I should take that part on immediately; it’s been far too long since I’ve learned about a subject that I truly cared about.
I did visit the book store later in the day, and scanned the various botanical guides, but became frustrated as I flipped through the hundreds of illustrations without finding a single, familiar plant. So I opted instead to spend the money I had allotted on a small gift for some friends. My education would have to wait one more day.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Breaking Through
I was thinking as I drove along about the race that was near the end of September, the half marathon that I’d been half training for and half not. I was headed for the trail, the one where all of this madness had begun only a short eighteen months ago, the four and a half mile stretch of asphalt that became so familiar during the summer and fall.
I’d decided earlier in the week that my Sunday run, usually the longest of the week, would take me in the opposite direction, through the wooded portion, a measured ten kilometer round trip. I hadn’t done that yet, not the ten K, I’ve run my share of those, but the trip through the woods. I’d been hesitant, wondering if there might not be obstacles; fallen trees perhaps, or rocky areas that could cause an injury. Today I would find out, and then decide afterwards whether or not I wanted to
continue on.
It was early when I arrived and only one other car occupied the lower parking area where one could take either course. A light fog still hung in the air as I started off along the path, and the noise of the traffic on the busy two lane highway evaporated almost instantly, giving way to the soft crunch of my sneakers on the fine gravel, my own breathing, and the sounds of the birds that seemed to be everywhere.
I had crossed the two, short wooden bridges and was passing the back of the house that had been the farthest I’d ventured, adding a little extra to the four and a half when I felt strong enough, when I spotted a narrow post with a .5 carved into it. I was disappointed, wanting the end to be a bit of a surprise. I hadn’t planned on ticking off the miles. I could do that on the treadmill anytime. Fortunately, they seemed to disappear after the one mile marker.
The forest began to drop off to my right, creating a valley while the hillside rose to my left. The path became a little more course and was laced with brown pine needles that had been arranged by the runoff from the recent storms. This trail was obviously well maintained by the town and I knew that there would be none of the obstructions that I’d feared.
A toad croaked and as I neared what looked to be a swamp I thought about the ponds in the rural area where I spent most of my teen years. The ponds where we fished with sticks and line and balled white bread skewered by a little barbed hook. We always tried for perch but the sunfish would attack in large numbers. It was nearly impossible not to catch one of those.
The water was stagnant and coated with a thin layer of algae. Leafless trees stood erect while others leaned, poised to fall and be consumed, and still others little more than rotted stumps. New life sprouted from the decaying carcasses, leafy vines and shrubs, and even a few flowering plants. The coating broke up, and then was gone, allowing the surface of the still water to mirror the scene as perfectly as any silvered piece of glass, the dark, almost black where the timber broke the surface, the grays of the weathered trunks, and the greens of the new growth. The only signs of movement were the tiny concentric rings that insects generated as they alit briefly and then moved on.
Now I had to wonder, were there fish here, and if there were how did they get here? Was it possible that evolution had taken place in this very spot and a form of pond life had developed from a single celled organism into one that was scaly and finned and nibbled on the insects that disturbed the peaceful water? I saw no evidence of this, but I had to accept that the possibility did exist.
It was all woods again now and I thought I must be getting close to the end of the trail. This was confirmed by the return of the mile markers, this one proclaiming three. Another tenth and I would be on my way back. The sun was moving higher into the sky, the fog had lifted completely, and the light penetrating the branches streaked the path and draped across the hills as delicately as a silk scarf tossed over the arm of a sofa.
I spotted a dollar bill on the ground as I circled to go back and picked it up. I had no place to put it, no pockets, so I held it between my thumb and index finger for the duration. This would not be my only reward today.
As I passed the reflections on the return trip I thought about the call from my sister the other night. My father had left me a message, sent me an email as well, asking why I hadn’t responded to his call. I didn’t respond to that either. He’d phoned her and had asked if she knew why he hadn’t heard from me. That was a strange thing to do, unless she’d informed him of our renewed contact. Up until April in San Francisco, we hadn’t spoken more than once every couple of years for as long as I can remember. I admitted to her that I had no desire to speak to him, and that he was probably just trying, once again, to get me involved in the project that I had expressed no interest in. I explained to her that the last time I worked with him it had put me out of business, that he’d personally driven the final nail, and had thought nothing of it, so no, I would not be returning his calls, not for now. She understood.
The scenes were familiar now and as I neared the end I became anxious, feeling strong and knowing I could go on. I thought I would run the paved part, add another four and a half to the six plus I was nearly done with, I wanted to be done with this part, I wanted to be on the asphalt.
Finally, the parking area and the water bottle that was waiting for me on the front seat. I grabbed it, took a few swigs and left it on the trunk to facilitate my next pass. I also put the ten K into my back pocket, convincing myself that I was just beginning. I was planning to go farther now, but just how far was unclear. The upper parking lot and the return would bring me to a little over ten and a half miles, if I made it, my longest to date being nine and a half, but I was determined.
I’d only seen one other person during the first part of my journey but now the trails were becoming busier, with walkers and other runners, cyclists, leashed dogs and strollers. As I reached the crossing that was halfway to the upper lot I thought to myself “you can do this, just keep moving”. There was no one here to cheer me on, no one to coach me or keep me motivated, and nothing waiting for me at the end.
This terrain was almost overly familiar, the labeled berms, the benches, the overpass and the new signs that had been placed in the spring. I made the turn, just a hair less than eight and a half miles in and I was moving well, now I was counting and calculating. I would be at ten point six when I got back to the gravel trail and the water bottle that I was becoming a bit desperate for. If I went on, perhaps to the mile marker and then back to the crossing I would end at around thirteen eight, farther than the half marathon that I aspired to complete, and then I could casually walk the mile and a quarter back to the car.
With the crossing behind me once again I was now approaching the nine and a half that was once my limit. As I moved through the invisible barrier I looked down and saw a shadow, one that was new, one that was in no way threatening, I smiled and pressed on, through the lot and then onward, back along the gravel, and a new calculation. I was weakening and would turn at the half mile marker and then return to the crossing... no the overpass, just a little beyond, that would guarantee I would be clear of fourteen miles when I passed the snow fence and the wooden uprights for the last time.
I was breathing heavier now and I tried to quiet myself, I’d come this far and I couldn’t back down, I had to find out, I had to know if I could do this. I was talking to myself, at times loud enough for others to hear, telling myself over and over that it was only a little farther, only two more miles. The bridge had looked to be a hundred miles away but I was heading back now, and after passing the farm for the fourth time I could see the guard rail that led to the finish. I could see it, I could smell the dampness of the woods, and I could taste the rusty metal on the edge of my tongue.
My calves were aching and the pain was beginning migrate north. Another half mile, then only a quarter more. Anyone along the trail could hear me now, audibly coaxing myself to go on, and then the fence and the uprights and the cramp in my stomach that hit just as I approached and then suddenly it all was behind me. I stopped and let out a yell that probably could have been heard at either end of the trail, possibly in the next town.
It was over.
As I drove away I thought about the shadow that I’d seen at nine and a half miles, it wasn’t gray and it wasn’t blurred, instead it was a lush, mottled green and the outline was crisp with every detail clearly visible. I’d recognized it immediately but just to be certain I’d held out both of my hands and splayed my fingers as widely as I could. The shadow did the same. It was true, I was alone, there were no others here, no ghosts, no one else pulling at me, no history, no battles and no baggage. It was pacing me, running alongside me, not as an adversary, not as an outside force imposing its will, but as a companion. I understood the moment I’d seen it that the past was just that, it too was over, it too was behind me, and my real journey could finally begin.
I’d decided earlier in the week that my Sunday run, usually the longest of the week, would take me in the opposite direction, through the wooded portion, a measured ten kilometer round trip. I hadn’t done that yet, not the ten K, I’ve run my share of those, but the trip through the woods. I’d been hesitant, wondering if there might not be obstacles; fallen trees perhaps, or rocky areas that could cause an injury. Today I would find out, and then decide afterwards whether or not I wanted to
continue on.
It was early when I arrived and only one other car occupied the lower parking area where one could take either course. A light fog still hung in the air as I started off along the path, and the noise of the traffic on the busy two lane highway evaporated almost instantly, giving way to the soft crunch of my sneakers on the fine gravel, my own breathing, and the sounds of the birds that seemed to be everywhere.
I had crossed the two, short wooden bridges and was passing the back of the house that had been the farthest I’d ventured, adding a little extra to the four and a half when I felt strong enough, when I spotted a narrow post with a .5 carved into it. I was disappointed, wanting the end to be a bit of a surprise. I hadn’t planned on ticking off the miles. I could do that on the treadmill anytime. Fortunately, they seemed to disappear after the one mile marker.
The forest began to drop off to my right, creating a valley while the hillside rose to my left. The path became a little more course and was laced with brown pine needles that had been arranged by the runoff from the recent storms. This trail was obviously well maintained by the town and I knew that there would be none of the obstructions that I’d feared.
A toad croaked and as I neared what looked to be a swamp I thought about the ponds in the rural area where I spent most of my teen years. The ponds where we fished with sticks and line and balled white bread skewered by a little barbed hook. We always tried for perch but the sunfish would attack in large numbers. It was nearly impossible not to catch one of those.
The water was stagnant and coated with a thin layer of algae. Leafless trees stood erect while others leaned, poised to fall and be consumed, and still others little more than rotted stumps. New life sprouted from the decaying carcasses, leafy vines and shrubs, and even a few flowering plants. The coating broke up, and then was gone, allowing the surface of the still water to mirror the scene as perfectly as any silvered piece of glass, the dark, almost black where the timber broke the surface, the grays of the weathered trunks, and the greens of the new growth. The only signs of movement were the tiny concentric rings that insects generated as they alit briefly and then moved on.
Now I had to wonder, were there fish here, and if there were how did they get here? Was it possible that evolution had taken place in this very spot and a form of pond life had developed from a single celled organism into one that was scaly and finned and nibbled on the insects that disturbed the peaceful water? I saw no evidence of this, but I had to accept that the possibility did exist.
It was all woods again now and I thought I must be getting close to the end of the trail. This was confirmed by the return of the mile markers, this one proclaiming three. Another tenth and I would be on my way back. The sun was moving higher into the sky, the fog had lifted completely, and the light penetrating the branches streaked the path and draped across the hills as delicately as a silk scarf tossed over the arm of a sofa.
I spotted a dollar bill on the ground as I circled to go back and picked it up. I had no place to put it, no pockets, so I held it between my thumb and index finger for the duration. This would not be my only reward today.
As I passed the reflections on the return trip I thought about the call from my sister the other night. My father had left me a message, sent me an email as well, asking why I hadn’t responded to his call. I didn’t respond to that either. He’d phoned her and had asked if she knew why he hadn’t heard from me. That was a strange thing to do, unless she’d informed him of our renewed contact. Up until April in San Francisco, we hadn’t spoken more than once every couple of years for as long as I can remember. I admitted to her that I had no desire to speak to him, and that he was probably just trying, once again, to get me involved in the project that I had expressed no interest in. I explained to her that the last time I worked with him it had put me out of business, that he’d personally driven the final nail, and had thought nothing of it, so no, I would not be returning his calls, not for now. She understood.
The scenes were familiar now and as I neared the end I became anxious, feeling strong and knowing I could go on. I thought I would run the paved part, add another four and a half to the six plus I was nearly done with, I wanted to be done with this part, I wanted to be on the asphalt.
Finally, the parking area and the water bottle that was waiting for me on the front seat. I grabbed it, took a few swigs and left it on the trunk to facilitate my next pass. I also put the ten K into my back pocket, convincing myself that I was just beginning. I was planning to go farther now, but just how far was unclear. The upper parking lot and the return would bring me to a little over ten and a half miles, if I made it, my longest to date being nine and a half, but I was determined.
I’d only seen one other person during the first part of my journey but now the trails were becoming busier, with walkers and other runners, cyclists, leashed dogs and strollers. As I reached the crossing that was halfway to the upper lot I thought to myself “you can do this, just keep moving”. There was no one here to cheer me on, no one to coach me or keep me motivated, and nothing waiting for me at the end.
This terrain was almost overly familiar, the labeled berms, the benches, the overpass and the new signs that had been placed in the spring. I made the turn, just a hair less than eight and a half miles in and I was moving well, now I was counting and calculating. I would be at ten point six when I got back to the gravel trail and the water bottle that I was becoming a bit desperate for. If I went on, perhaps to the mile marker and then back to the crossing I would end at around thirteen eight, farther than the half marathon that I aspired to complete, and then I could casually walk the mile and a quarter back to the car.
With the crossing behind me once again I was now approaching the nine and a half that was once my limit. As I moved through the invisible barrier I looked down and saw a shadow, one that was new, one that was in no way threatening, I smiled and pressed on, through the lot and then onward, back along the gravel, and a new calculation. I was weakening and would turn at the half mile marker and then return to the crossing... no the overpass, just a little beyond, that would guarantee I would be clear of fourteen miles when I passed the snow fence and the wooden uprights for the last time.
I was breathing heavier now and I tried to quiet myself, I’d come this far and I couldn’t back down, I had to find out, I had to know if I could do this. I was talking to myself, at times loud enough for others to hear, telling myself over and over that it was only a little farther, only two more miles. The bridge had looked to be a hundred miles away but I was heading back now, and after passing the farm for the fourth time I could see the guard rail that led to the finish. I could see it, I could smell the dampness of the woods, and I could taste the rusty metal on the edge of my tongue.
My calves were aching and the pain was beginning migrate north. Another half mile, then only a quarter more. Anyone along the trail could hear me now, audibly coaxing myself to go on, and then the fence and the uprights and the cramp in my stomach that hit just as I approached and then suddenly it all was behind me. I stopped and let out a yell that probably could have been heard at either end of the trail, possibly in the next town.
It was over.
As I drove away I thought about the shadow that I’d seen at nine and a half miles, it wasn’t gray and it wasn’t blurred, instead it was a lush, mottled green and the outline was crisp with every detail clearly visible. I’d recognized it immediately but just to be certain I’d held out both of my hands and splayed my fingers as widely as I could. The shadow did the same. It was true, I was alone, there were no others here, no ghosts, no one else pulling at me, no history, no battles and no baggage. It was pacing me, running alongside me, not as an adversary, not as an outside force imposing its will, but as a companion. I understood the moment I’d seen it that the past was just that, it too was over, it too was behind me, and my real journey could finally begin.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
The Fountain
I knew today wasn’t an option, the flight had arrived late last night and the tall, slender, dark skinned gentleman at the hotel desk, whose hair looked more like a coating of gloss black paint than anything natural, and who was effeminate to the point of being comical, informed me that they were over booked and he was sending me elsewhere, and that he, personally, would be orchestrating the event.
After the complimentary dinner at the lobby bar, It took nearly half an hour for the cab to transport me to the alternative hotel, which I discovered the next morning to be only nine blocks away, with all of the streets apparently being one way, and all in the wrong direction. It had been after eleven when I finally inserted the plastic card into the door, saw the flashing green light and heard the distinctive snap of the electronic lock.
I got a bad feeling when I arrived at the booth space the next morning and found it empty. A visit to the ehxibitor service desk only confirmed my fears. There was no record of the shipment even being in town. I calmly sent the local labor home, knowing I had three days until the show opened, and spent the next two hours on the phone, walking back and forth between the desk and the space (not a short distance by any means) until I was satisfied that the freight would be arriving that afternoon, four days after the promised delivery date.
With my work day thwarted I decided to explore the city, my only two other visits here being twenty nine hour days between flights, but first I had to figure out what to do with my luggage. The second hotel had not been a permanent move, only available for the one night, and I’d checked out and was dragging my rolling suitcase around with me. It really wasn’t an unusual sight in this part of town, being so close to exhibit halls, but it was a bit annoying. I decided to wander over to my original accommodations, knowing it was far too early to check in, but wanting some reassurance that I had a place to sleep for the remainder of my stay, and hoping they had somewhere I could leave my bag.
The aquarium was only a few blocks away so that would be first. I could make amends for missing out in San Francisco at the whim of the seven year old dictator. I walked over, passed through the weapons screening (apparently the confiscation rate is high), paid my twenty four dollars and went in. It was worth every cent, the place was spectacular. I spent a couple of hours wandering through past the sea horses, sharks, whales and otters until I was satisfied that I’d missed nothing and then exited into the heat of the day through the gift shop, the only way out, thinking very briefly about picking something up for the girls as I passed the stuffed seals and dolphins, but abandoning the idea as quickly as it had come. It would be meaningless since they weren’t here with me.
I still had three hours before I could check in so I walked the streets of Atlanta, investigating the surrounding neighborhoods, looking for what might be real, for what might give this city its character, moving away from the downtown area where roving bands of teenagers wearing pink t shirts with Jesus emblazoned on them try to convert passers by.
I didn’t find much and at three as I nearly considered taking the CNN tour, the front desk called and I would be allowed upstairs. I only stayed long enough to retrieve my luggage and then went back over to the hall to make sure that I would, in fact, have something to work with the next morning. It was nearly six when I finally locked the door and climbed into the recliner by the pseudo bay window.
The next morning I woke with with aching shins and calves and it took me a little while to realize that I’d walked around town for nearly ten and a half hours the day before. The soreness shouldn’t have been surprising. There would be no running today, and probably not tomorrow either. This wasn’t good, and the problem was compounded later in the day when I offered to assist a couple of women across the aisle who appeared to be struggling and managed to do something unpleasant to my left hip in the process. Now I was a wreck, hunched over and limping. That night at dinner I had serious doubts that the Atlanta run that I had planned was even possible.
Thursday brought more pain and a workday that went well past eight. Most of my body parts were complaining now and the hotel bed wasn’t helping either, with the overly soft mattress contributing lower back pain to the mix.
The view from my fourteenth floor window offered the pristine Centennial Park and the fountain that had been built for the infamous ninety six Olympics. It consisted of a series of evenly spaced water jets at regular intervals in the form of the five rings that comprised the symbol of the games. The jets and the drainage grating that made up the actual circles were flush with the paving stones and were now utilized by the local population as a public sprinkler. During the day screeching children ran in and out of the programmed sequences, none of which sent the water spouts more than six feet into the air.
Three times daily, familiar concertos and pop tunes were pumped through nearby speakers and the water would dance to the music. The public was asked to stay out of the spray during these performances. I’d witnessed a portion of one of these as I passed one evening, promising myself that in a final tribute to this city I would dash through the fountain at the end of my run.
Friday morning had arrived, this was my last day here, and my last opportunity. The show opens at nine so there would be no calls from the client and my flight wasn’t until after six that evening. I stood at the window and stared out at the gradually brightening sky, the park and the cranes, wavering, wondering, still feeling the pain in my calves and my hip.
If I was going to do this I would have to get out there soon, before full sun and the rising temperature, maybe just a lap around the park, maybe half an hour, maybe three miles, I could manage that under the worst of circumstances.
I made my decision, brushed my teeth, threw on a pair of shorts and a t shirt, made my way down to the lobby and pushed through the revolving door to the sidewalk, walked the block that took me to the first path, turned left into the park, and I was off. The pain in my legs and my hip seemed to evaporate almost immediately… I knew I could do this.
The edge of the manicured lawns and pathways ended quickly and I exited, crossed the street and continued behind the aquarium where one of those pervasive, poured concrete buildings was under construction, there were many here. I thought I might circle back at the end of the attraction, but felt all right now and continued on, into the neighborhoods where the sidewalks were cracked and broken and graffiti strewn retaining walls rimmed empty parking lots.
I had no idea Atlanta was so contoured, these were not the gentle rolling hills of Central Park, they were steep and long and unforgiving. I tried to Rook my way along, take part of a hill and then turn, moving along a flat or a down slope.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, relaxing, this has become a symbol of the two mile mark, always occurring at the same distance, without fail and without deliberate thought.
I didn’t know the streets, coming upon dead ends and more construction, and there was traffic, and there were people on the sidewalks, and I had no idea where I was, but I kept going. My hotel was at the CNN center, if I could see the letters I could navigate back, and it would be a few more blocks of climbing before I spotted them. Now it was a matter of finding the next overpass to cross the highway and make my way back to the far end of the park. It would be down hill all the way to the edge of the grass where five flights of stairs would bring me back to the paths and the last part of the journey where the fountain was anxiously awaiting my arrival.
I was moving uphill again as I got closer. I’d been concerned when I’d begun that the fountain might not be operating so early in the morning, and it wasn’t when I’d left, but now I could see the spouts, and the ever changing landscape. I passed it by this time in favor of the upper tier and the stage where last nights revival meeting made itself known through the sealed, thermal panes of my room’s exterior. I passed it again on the way down, one more lap around the lower field and then I would make that last dash through the rings that would bring closure.
The first series of jets dropped as I entered, then jumped up as I got to the next, obviously controlled by sensors below the grating. There was just enough room to squeeze in between, and I was in the fifth circle when one of them caught me up the left side, giving me a good soaking. I walked away... and then back, slowly, into the center of the third ring, and stood still as the mist from the much tinier, perimeter jets enveloped me, the only person here, blocking any view of my surroundings and shrouding me from anyone that might be passing by.
After a short walk to cool down I went back to the lobby, sweaty and chlorinated, but content, and wearing a smile that probably would have appeared a little bit odd to anyone who might have noticed. I could leave here now, I was done.
After the complimentary dinner at the lobby bar, It took nearly half an hour for the cab to transport me to the alternative hotel, which I discovered the next morning to be only nine blocks away, with all of the streets apparently being one way, and all in the wrong direction. It had been after eleven when I finally inserted the plastic card into the door, saw the flashing green light and heard the distinctive snap of the electronic lock.
I got a bad feeling when I arrived at the booth space the next morning and found it empty. A visit to the ehxibitor service desk only confirmed my fears. There was no record of the shipment even being in town. I calmly sent the local labor home, knowing I had three days until the show opened, and spent the next two hours on the phone, walking back and forth between the desk and the space (not a short distance by any means) until I was satisfied that the freight would be arriving that afternoon, four days after the promised delivery date.
With my work day thwarted I decided to explore the city, my only two other visits here being twenty nine hour days between flights, but first I had to figure out what to do with my luggage. The second hotel had not been a permanent move, only available for the one night, and I’d checked out and was dragging my rolling suitcase around with me. It really wasn’t an unusual sight in this part of town, being so close to exhibit halls, but it was a bit annoying. I decided to wander over to my original accommodations, knowing it was far too early to check in, but wanting some reassurance that I had a place to sleep for the remainder of my stay, and hoping they had somewhere I could leave my bag.
The aquarium was only a few blocks away so that would be first. I could make amends for missing out in San Francisco at the whim of the seven year old dictator. I walked over, passed through the weapons screening (apparently the confiscation rate is high), paid my twenty four dollars and went in. It was worth every cent, the place was spectacular. I spent a couple of hours wandering through past the sea horses, sharks, whales and otters until I was satisfied that I’d missed nothing and then exited into the heat of the day through the gift shop, the only way out, thinking very briefly about picking something up for the girls as I passed the stuffed seals and dolphins, but abandoning the idea as quickly as it had come. It would be meaningless since they weren’t here with me.
I still had three hours before I could check in so I walked the streets of Atlanta, investigating the surrounding neighborhoods, looking for what might be real, for what might give this city its character, moving away from the downtown area where roving bands of teenagers wearing pink t shirts with Jesus emblazoned on them try to convert passers by.
I didn’t find much and at three as I nearly considered taking the CNN tour, the front desk called and I would be allowed upstairs. I only stayed long enough to retrieve my luggage and then went back over to the hall to make sure that I would, in fact, have something to work with the next morning. It was nearly six when I finally locked the door and climbed into the recliner by the pseudo bay window.
The next morning I woke with with aching shins and calves and it took me a little while to realize that I’d walked around town for nearly ten and a half hours the day before. The soreness shouldn’t have been surprising. There would be no running today, and probably not tomorrow either. This wasn’t good, and the problem was compounded later in the day when I offered to assist a couple of women across the aisle who appeared to be struggling and managed to do something unpleasant to my left hip in the process. Now I was a wreck, hunched over and limping. That night at dinner I had serious doubts that the Atlanta run that I had planned was even possible.
Thursday brought more pain and a workday that went well past eight. Most of my body parts were complaining now and the hotel bed wasn’t helping either, with the overly soft mattress contributing lower back pain to the mix.
The view from my fourteenth floor window offered the pristine Centennial Park and the fountain that had been built for the infamous ninety six Olympics. It consisted of a series of evenly spaced water jets at regular intervals in the form of the five rings that comprised the symbol of the games. The jets and the drainage grating that made up the actual circles were flush with the paving stones and were now utilized by the local population as a public sprinkler. During the day screeching children ran in and out of the programmed sequences, none of which sent the water spouts more than six feet into the air.
Three times daily, familiar concertos and pop tunes were pumped through nearby speakers and the water would dance to the music. The public was asked to stay out of the spray during these performances. I’d witnessed a portion of one of these as I passed one evening, promising myself that in a final tribute to this city I would dash through the fountain at the end of my run.
Friday morning had arrived, this was my last day here, and my last opportunity. The show opens at nine so there would be no calls from the client and my flight wasn’t until after six that evening. I stood at the window and stared out at the gradually brightening sky, the park and the cranes, wavering, wondering, still feeling the pain in my calves and my hip.
If I was going to do this I would have to get out there soon, before full sun and the rising temperature, maybe just a lap around the park, maybe half an hour, maybe three miles, I could manage that under the worst of circumstances.
I made my decision, brushed my teeth, threw on a pair of shorts and a t shirt, made my way down to the lobby and pushed through the revolving door to the sidewalk, walked the block that took me to the first path, turned left into the park, and I was off. The pain in my legs and my hip seemed to evaporate almost immediately… I knew I could do this.
The edge of the manicured lawns and pathways ended quickly and I exited, crossed the street and continued behind the aquarium where one of those pervasive, poured concrete buildings was under construction, there were many here. I thought I might circle back at the end of the attraction, but felt all right now and continued on, into the neighborhoods where the sidewalks were cracked and broken and graffiti strewn retaining walls rimmed empty parking lots.
I had no idea Atlanta was so contoured, these were not the gentle rolling hills of Central Park, they were steep and long and unforgiving. I tried to Rook my way along, take part of a hill and then turn, moving along a flat or a down slope.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, relaxing, this has become a symbol of the two mile mark, always occurring at the same distance, without fail and without deliberate thought.
I didn’t know the streets, coming upon dead ends and more construction, and there was traffic, and there were people on the sidewalks, and I had no idea where I was, but I kept going. My hotel was at the CNN center, if I could see the letters I could navigate back, and it would be a few more blocks of climbing before I spotted them. Now it was a matter of finding the next overpass to cross the highway and make my way back to the far end of the park. It would be down hill all the way to the edge of the grass where five flights of stairs would bring me back to the paths and the last part of the journey where the fountain was anxiously awaiting my arrival.
I was moving uphill again as I got closer. I’d been concerned when I’d begun that the fountain might not be operating so early in the morning, and it wasn’t when I’d left, but now I could see the spouts, and the ever changing landscape. I passed it by this time in favor of the upper tier and the stage where last nights revival meeting made itself known through the sealed, thermal panes of my room’s exterior. I passed it again on the way down, one more lap around the lower field and then I would make that last dash through the rings that would bring closure.
The first series of jets dropped as I entered, then jumped up as I got to the next, obviously controlled by sensors below the grating. There was just enough room to squeeze in between, and I was in the fifth circle when one of them caught me up the left side, giving me a good soaking. I walked away... and then back, slowly, into the center of the third ring, and stood still as the mist from the much tinier, perimeter jets enveloped me, the only person here, blocking any view of my surroundings and shrouding me from anyone that might be passing by.
After a short walk to cool down I went back to the lobby, sweaty and chlorinated, but content, and wearing a smile that probably would have appeared a little bit odd to anyone who might have noticed. I could leave here now, I was done.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
A Day in the Park
My eyes opened a little later than I’d hoped for, six thirty the second time, three thirty was the first, but that would have been silly. I’d gotten the bug weeks ago while setting up an event in the observation deck at Rockefeller Center, or “The Top of the Rock”, as it’s commonly known. I’d never been up there before, never even known it existed. I’d stood outside, pressed against the one inch thick sheet of glass that was the only barrier between me and the crowded street fifty or sixty stories below where tourists teemed and the plaza was hosting a netted golf driving challenge featuring men who’d had one or both legs amputated.
The day was clear and the views were spectacular, with every inch of the city visible, from the Verrazano Bridge and Staten Island to the far edge of the Bronx, and just a few blocks north of where I stood, Central Park was laid out as a perfectly contained rectangle, lush and green and as flat and neat and tidy as if it just been freshly planted, a manicured, miniature landscape.
A couple of weeks later I found myself sitting on a rock in that same park with a couple of friends, killing some time before a reading. It was a Saturday afternoon and the place was busy, filled with couples sunning themselves, children on swings and families with their dogs. We watched a variety of birds battling over small crusts of bread, and a squirrel, perched on the tiny knurl of an oak, the entertainment and the activity seemed endless.
The roadway was open only to foot and bicycle traffic and was filled with both. I knew I had to come back here and participate, rather than just watch the others move past, I needed to be a part of this.
I was out the door by seven fifteen, grabbing a quick breakfast at the diner, heading south on the highway by eight. There wouldn’t be any traffic on the weekend so I had a chance of hitting the park by nine thirty, maybe a quarter to ten, that would be all right, I could spend some time there and still get back to the office at a reasonable hour to do the little bit of work that was required of me.
The bridge was clear and the west side highway was moving quickly. As I drove along I saw joggers and riders and thought about maybe running along the river instead, then no, maybe next time, I had a specific goal today. I exited at the seventy ninth street boat basin and cut through the park on eighty first, casually looking for street parking along the way but knowing that fifth avenue on the east side would be wide open at this time on a Sunday morning, and it was. A right turn, one block south and I left the car behind.
I crossed the street and walked along the stone barrier for another block until a gap afforded access, now I was inside, wondering briefly if driving an hour and forty five minutes from my rural area at the foot of the Catskills to run in a city park was an odd thing to do, deciding almost immediately that it was a perfectly reasonable endeavor. The journey has become commonplace for a fifteen minute meeting or just to drop something off that couldn’t wait; certainly this was a far more rational excuse for making the trip.
The sounds of the traffic on the avenue faded quickly as I started off south, moving at a comfortable pace inward along one of the narrow paths, not really having any clue regarding distance or direction, hoping to come upon the main artery that circled the perimeter, understanding that it would be impossible not to. When I eventually did I continued south, going against the general flow of traffic. If I’d been the only one I might have turned around, feeling as if I’d broken some sort of unspoken etiquette, but there were a handful of others so I continued, wanting to get to the southernmost edge, fifty ninth street, which I would consider to be the beginning. I’d entered at seventy sixth so it wasn’t long before The Plaza and the other upscale residences loomed above the tree line and the pungent aroma of horse manure permeated the air as the Hansom Cabs ferried tourists into the park. I can’t say that I ever found this somewhat malodorous form of transportation appealing in any way.
I made my turn, keeping an eye on the ground in this particular spot, not wishing to inadvertently drag any of the equine feces along on my little excursion. Now I was moving with the masses, slower than most but passing others from time to time. I tend to keep my pace down when distance is a mystery, and anyway, I certainly was in no hurry to be done with this one. The sounds now were of bird calls, the gentle slapping of sneakers on the asphalt, and the occasional and distinctive whir of bicycle wheels and roller blades passing quickly to my right.
The crowd was relatively dense, reminding me of the last 10k towards the end, when we were spread out along the course but always had another nearby. It thinned as I traveled north, able to see the signs along the avenue when the road took me close, ninety fifth, one hundred and sixth, mansion row now behind me, and then the curves that would take me along one hundred and tenth and then south, but first circling a pool, a massive swimming pool that was called a rink on the sign preceding it, iced over during the winter months. I thought of it frozen, with the blue painted concrete diffused by the thickness of the ice. It wasn’t open for the day yet, but if it had been I might have been compelled to dive in, then no, I had to keep moving, moving towards a goal that had never existed before today, a goal that I never would have imagined existed for me at all.
I saw things in the park that I knew were here but had never seen, the Boat House, the children’s, Zoo, Tavern on the Green, and one playground after another where young girls and boys swung and giggled noisily. Lakes and ponds, a marionette theater, the entire oasis a world within itself, and there were hills, hills that I never would have guessed were here when I stood so high above and looked down from my vantage point in the sky.
I was heading south now, along the west side, where the majority of the visible buildings seemed older than those on the east side. A man called to me, “do you know the cross street?” he asked, I looked around, just coming off the turn, and said; somewhere around a hundred and seventh, uncertain but somewhat confident in my assessment, suddenly feeling as though I really did know where I was, and of course I did, after living here on and off for years and my six month stint driving a fleet cab in the city we were intimate, the blocks, the park drive, the fur clad women who became indignant at the mere thought of a wrong turn or a missed address.
It had been a while now and there were no volunteers along the street handing out little paper cups filled with water as they do during organized races. The next available fountain would be a very brief but necessary stop, not wanting to break stride, but with dehydration imminent. Others walked along wearing elaborate belts over their designer sportswear that housed small bottles of various colored liquids in elastic compartments. The next turn brought relief and I was on my way, fifty or sixty blocks to go. I was the one to pass now, while others slowed and walked, keeping ahead of the few that had been along on the northern tier, they were fading as I picked up the pace. I knew that my goal was achievable, careful not too get too carried away as I still didn’t quite know the distance.
The back of the boat house and another small lake, I wanted to go down the path and circle the water, but again, next time, I’ll do this again. The crowd was thickening again and the din of the conversations, birds, and the nearby avenue was growing, the quiet of the hundred and tenth street s curves a memory.
I could see the buildings again now, the ones along the south side of fifty ninth street and I looked over the trees to try and spot the observation deck that had started all of this, maybe a reflection off of the glass, or the cell towers that projected from the roof, the ones that made reception impossible upstairs due to their proximity. It wasn’t readily visible but I wasn’t disappointed, it was really just curiosity.
Arriving back at the south side of the park was suddenly unfulfilling so seventy sixth, where I’d entered, would be my new end, but that wasn’t it either and I turned back west, through a wide gravel path lined with bronze statues, iron benches, and a woman in a blue chiffon dress and white pumps singing to tunes that sprang from a karaoke box on the bench behind her.
The next water fountain would really be the end, I was spent and as it turned out it was a little south, on a side trail, just before the stairs that led down to a shelter with a newly renovated tile ceiling and a couple playing violin and guitar in the shade of the entrance, another new discovery whose other end spilled out onto a plaza where three cellos and a bongo played to the constant applause of the water that cascaded from the second tier of a three tiered fountain, splashing convincingly into the reservoir below. I walked to the edge of the terra cotta colored paving stones where stairs led directly into a pond where row boats were steered around in an almost comically congested array, nearly colliding in the small body of water.
I decided it was time to go now, there were other things I wanted to do today, and I went back past the fountain where the breeze pushed the falling liquid awkwardly to the left, stopping briefly to listen to the cellos, and then up the stairs and the woman in the blue dress and another guitar and then a saxophone, and finally back to fifth avenue, six blocks south of where I’d entered, feeling like I had a little more life left in me, breaking into a trot along the scaffolding shrouded sidewalk on the opposite side of the street from the stone park surround, stopping only when I reached my car.
I got in, took my sneakers off, changed my shirt in the front seat and then pulled my jeans back on over my shorts, sat for just a minute and then walked the four blocks north to the Metropolitan Museum and the newly reopened Greek and Roman galleries.
Judging by the length of time I’d been out, eight or nine miles of pavement had passed beneath me, I couldn’t be sure and it didn’t really matter anyway, I had once again done what I had set out to do. This is a new way of life for me, this setting of achievable goals, rather than the impossibly lofty ones that were set for me in my youth. I will come back here, maybe along the river, maybe across the bridge, wherever the next one begins I know how it will end, I know I’ll finish and that is one thing she can never take from me.
The day was clear and the views were spectacular, with every inch of the city visible, from the Verrazano Bridge and Staten Island to the far edge of the Bronx, and just a few blocks north of where I stood, Central Park was laid out as a perfectly contained rectangle, lush and green and as flat and neat and tidy as if it just been freshly planted, a manicured, miniature landscape.
A couple of weeks later I found myself sitting on a rock in that same park with a couple of friends, killing some time before a reading. It was a Saturday afternoon and the place was busy, filled with couples sunning themselves, children on swings and families with their dogs. We watched a variety of birds battling over small crusts of bread, and a squirrel, perched on the tiny knurl of an oak, the entertainment and the activity seemed endless.
The roadway was open only to foot and bicycle traffic and was filled with both. I knew I had to come back here and participate, rather than just watch the others move past, I needed to be a part of this.
I was out the door by seven fifteen, grabbing a quick breakfast at the diner, heading south on the highway by eight. There wouldn’t be any traffic on the weekend so I had a chance of hitting the park by nine thirty, maybe a quarter to ten, that would be all right, I could spend some time there and still get back to the office at a reasonable hour to do the little bit of work that was required of me.
The bridge was clear and the west side highway was moving quickly. As I drove along I saw joggers and riders and thought about maybe running along the river instead, then no, maybe next time, I had a specific goal today. I exited at the seventy ninth street boat basin and cut through the park on eighty first, casually looking for street parking along the way but knowing that fifth avenue on the east side would be wide open at this time on a Sunday morning, and it was. A right turn, one block south and I left the car behind.
I crossed the street and walked along the stone barrier for another block until a gap afforded access, now I was inside, wondering briefly if driving an hour and forty five minutes from my rural area at the foot of the Catskills to run in a city park was an odd thing to do, deciding almost immediately that it was a perfectly reasonable endeavor. The journey has become commonplace for a fifteen minute meeting or just to drop something off that couldn’t wait; certainly this was a far more rational excuse for making the trip.
The sounds of the traffic on the avenue faded quickly as I started off south, moving at a comfortable pace inward along one of the narrow paths, not really having any clue regarding distance or direction, hoping to come upon the main artery that circled the perimeter, understanding that it would be impossible not to. When I eventually did I continued south, going against the general flow of traffic. If I’d been the only one I might have turned around, feeling as if I’d broken some sort of unspoken etiquette, but there were a handful of others so I continued, wanting to get to the southernmost edge, fifty ninth street, which I would consider to be the beginning. I’d entered at seventy sixth so it wasn’t long before The Plaza and the other upscale residences loomed above the tree line and the pungent aroma of horse manure permeated the air as the Hansom Cabs ferried tourists into the park. I can’t say that I ever found this somewhat malodorous form of transportation appealing in any way.
I made my turn, keeping an eye on the ground in this particular spot, not wishing to inadvertently drag any of the equine feces along on my little excursion. Now I was moving with the masses, slower than most but passing others from time to time. I tend to keep my pace down when distance is a mystery, and anyway, I certainly was in no hurry to be done with this one. The sounds now were of bird calls, the gentle slapping of sneakers on the asphalt, and the occasional and distinctive whir of bicycle wheels and roller blades passing quickly to my right.
The crowd was relatively dense, reminding me of the last 10k towards the end, when we were spread out along the course but always had another nearby. It thinned as I traveled north, able to see the signs along the avenue when the road took me close, ninety fifth, one hundred and sixth, mansion row now behind me, and then the curves that would take me along one hundred and tenth and then south, but first circling a pool, a massive swimming pool that was called a rink on the sign preceding it, iced over during the winter months. I thought of it frozen, with the blue painted concrete diffused by the thickness of the ice. It wasn’t open for the day yet, but if it had been I might have been compelled to dive in, then no, I had to keep moving, moving towards a goal that had never existed before today, a goal that I never would have imagined existed for me at all.
I saw things in the park that I knew were here but had never seen, the Boat House, the children’s, Zoo, Tavern on the Green, and one playground after another where young girls and boys swung and giggled noisily. Lakes and ponds, a marionette theater, the entire oasis a world within itself, and there were hills, hills that I never would have guessed were here when I stood so high above and looked down from my vantage point in the sky.
I was heading south now, along the west side, where the majority of the visible buildings seemed older than those on the east side. A man called to me, “do you know the cross street?” he asked, I looked around, just coming off the turn, and said; somewhere around a hundred and seventh, uncertain but somewhat confident in my assessment, suddenly feeling as though I really did know where I was, and of course I did, after living here on and off for years and my six month stint driving a fleet cab in the city we were intimate, the blocks, the park drive, the fur clad women who became indignant at the mere thought of a wrong turn or a missed address.
It had been a while now and there were no volunteers along the street handing out little paper cups filled with water as they do during organized races. The next available fountain would be a very brief but necessary stop, not wanting to break stride, but with dehydration imminent. Others walked along wearing elaborate belts over their designer sportswear that housed small bottles of various colored liquids in elastic compartments. The next turn brought relief and I was on my way, fifty or sixty blocks to go. I was the one to pass now, while others slowed and walked, keeping ahead of the few that had been along on the northern tier, they were fading as I picked up the pace. I knew that my goal was achievable, careful not too get too carried away as I still didn’t quite know the distance.
The back of the boat house and another small lake, I wanted to go down the path and circle the water, but again, next time, I’ll do this again. The crowd was thickening again and the din of the conversations, birds, and the nearby avenue was growing, the quiet of the hundred and tenth street s curves a memory.
I could see the buildings again now, the ones along the south side of fifty ninth street and I looked over the trees to try and spot the observation deck that had started all of this, maybe a reflection off of the glass, or the cell towers that projected from the roof, the ones that made reception impossible upstairs due to their proximity. It wasn’t readily visible but I wasn’t disappointed, it was really just curiosity.
Arriving back at the south side of the park was suddenly unfulfilling so seventy sixth, where I’d entered, would be my new end, but that wasn’t it either and I turned back west, through a wide gravel path lined with bronze statues, iron benches, and a woman in a blue chiffon dress and white pumps singing to tunes that sprang from a karaoke box on the bench behind her.
The next water fountain would really be the end, I was spent and as it turned out it was a little south, on a side trail, just before the stairs that led down to a shelter with a newly renovated tile ceiling and a couple playing violin and guitar in the shade of the entrance, another new discovery whose other end spilled out onto a plaza where three cellos and a bongo played to the constant applause of the water that cascaded from the second tier of a three tiered fountain, splashing convincingly into the reservoir below. I walked to the edge of the terra cotta colored paving stones where stairs led directly into a pond where row boats were steered around in an almost comically congested array, nearly colliding in the small body of water.
I decided it was time to go now, there were other things I wanted to do today, and I went back past the fountain where the breeze pushed the falling liquid awkwardly to the left, stopping briefly to listen to the cellos, and then up the stairs and the woman in the blue dress and another guitar and then a saxophone, and finally back to fifth avenue, six blocks south of where I’d entered, feeling like I had a little more life left in me, breaking into a trot along the scaffolding shrouded sidewalk on the opposite side of the street from the stone park surround, stopping only when I reached my car.
I got in, took my sneakers off, changed my shirt in the front seat and then pulled my jeans back on over my shorts, sat for just a minute and then walked the four blocks north to the Metropolitan Museum and the newly reopened Greek and Roman galleries.
Judging by the length of time I’d been out, eight or nine miles of pavement had passed beneath me, I couldn’t be sure and it didn’t really matter anyway, I had once again done what I had set out to do. This is a new way of life for me, this setting of achievable goals, rather than the impossibly lofty ones that were set for me in my youth. I will come back here, maybe along the river, maybe across the bridge, wherever the next one begins I know how it will end, I know I’ll finish and that is one thing she can never take from me.
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