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| Within ten minutes I was at the beach and on the coastal bike path (bike route 95) running along the grandly named “Great highway.” Perhaps I am jaded or getting old but I didn’t feel the same joy and wonderment that I used to feel when I was on the bike path along the Pacific coast highway near LA. It seemed to me that the PCH and the bike path along it were more deserving of the title “Great.” In fact the PCH in Southern California was deserving even of the majestic name “El Camino Real” that is given to sections of it. Perhaps I am a bit biased towards Southern California because that was where I spent the first five years of my life in America.
I passed by the western edge of the Golden Gate park with its windmills and “beach chalet” (another pompous name). Nowadays when the average person thinks of San Francisco it is mostly liberal peace activists and gays and rice-a-roni (hey, I lived almost exclusively on rice-a-roni for sometime) that come to mind. (By the way, the co-founder of the rice-a roni company died recently). Not many “hippies” left, it looks like, at least not in San Francisco. I did pass by a “hippie festival” in Golden Gate Park on the way home once. There was one colorful van splashed with floral designs with the question “why did the movement die?” Why, indeed. Perhaps all that pot and casual sex had something to do with it? But as I was to discover there is so much more to San Francisco. Anyone who has spent even a little time there will tell you that. To begin with San Francisco was built by a bunch of swashbuckling, reckless and rebellious adventurers attracted by the gold rush. As such maybe it is the spirit of rebellion and adventure that drives the activism and iconoclastic movements that tend to sprout like mushrooms here. It takes courage to accept differences and imagine peace, to fight for things that most people shy away from. Perhaps it is the progeny of these adventurers that unleashed Silicon Valley and the Internet revolution on the world. I would have liked to be in the meeting when someone got up and proposed building a sprawling, verdant park on the sandy windswept land abutting Ocean beach that had almost no vegetation. What did people think at the time? Or perhaps when they proposed building a suspension bridge reaching to the clouds over the bay where winds gusted at over 60 miles an hour on a regular basis. Maybe in those days people were bolder, even though they had less technology to work with. What would be an equivalent project today, in terms of vision and audacity and technical challenge? It is a city that will make you tough if only you would take on its challenges. As I biked north along the coast the road climbed to the cliff house overlooking the Sutro baths, what must have been a flamboyant Roman style recreation center at its time. Now only the foundation remains, with little pools where the baths used to be. Here I took the bike path that goes along the edge of the cliff. The views would have been stunning had there been not so much fog. Then I meandered off the bike path a little bit, walking my bike on a hiking trail a bit and then walking through the municipal golf course. One guy was contemplating his shot over a few hillocks to the tiny green. Apparently he had been contemplating it for a bit too long. His playing partner sitting in the golf cart lost his patience and said “Take the damn shot, grandma.” Recently I had the pleasure of watching Tiger Woods, Vijay Singh, Phil Mickelson and others when they played in the AT&T Invitational in Bethesda. (To my environmentalist friends – that is my first and last live golf game. I know the damage these golf courses do). Golf looks a lot more impressive when you watch it from close quarters. From there I cut through the veteran’s hospital and passed by the Palace of the Legion of Honor. Then I went through the tony neighborhood of Seacliff that reminded me of Pasadena and San Marino, with their stucco walls, tiled roofs and exquisite gardens. After climbing a few more hills and flying down cliff-side roads with beautiful views of the bay I finally got onto the Golden Gate bridge. The enormous steel towers and the vertiginous view of the waters churning several hundred feet below were worth the trip. I saw several warning signs posted on the bridge pleading anyone contemplating suicide to think about it a little more. Apparently about 1200 people have died by jumping into the water in the 70 years of the bridge’s existence. I must say it looks tempting. But why anyone living in the bay area would want to commit suicide, I don’t understand. Perhaps if they allow pedestrians on the Chesapeake Bay bridge, a lot more people would commit suicide? (I need to get over this morbid obsession with statistics). Often I have wondered how nice it would be if one were able to walk or ride a bike over the Chesapeake Bay. Perhaps it is for the good that it is not possible. After paying my respects to the usual tourist sights (Crissy field, Fisherman’s wharf, large container ships, Fort Mason –where I once spent a couple days at the youth hostel) I rounded the peninsula on the Embarcadero and started heading south, back towards the sunset neighborhood where Chris’ house was. Looks like this bike route is popular. Shortly I was joined by a nice looking woman who seemed to be on a long ride as well. We kept passing each other for a while, exchanging smiles and greetings, but given my state of mind I didn’t feel like starting a conversation. We passed through the South of Market area that is a bit grungy and industrial (but apparently enjoying some kind of a revival now) and then she went in a different direction as I turned towards the Mission district. The boulevards and old Spanish buildings of the Mission district reminded me of Southern California. I liked it so much that I would return later in the week. I particularly enjoyed looking at the mission church building, perhaps the oldest mission church in California. Across the street is a Lutheran church, still providing service in German! I sat down on the grass on Mission Dolores park. It was somewhat warm and sunny now, (as opposed to when I was on the Golden Gate bridge), and a lot of people were enjoying the sunshine and an afternoon off. I must have biked only about 15 or 20 miles but it felt like a whole lot more. But it was late afternoon now and I already was looking forward to getting back home. I wanted to be home by sunset and spend a little time just sitting and staring emptily out the window along with Margo. So I abandoned my original plan to go further south and finish the loop by going around Fort Funston along the beach. I decided to cut through by going on Clipper Road and Portola Ave around the twin peaks to the Sunset neighborhood. From the park I went through the Castro neighborhood, supposed to be the gay Mecca of San Francisco. But it looked like any other neighborhood to me. Perhaps it has gentrified, perhaps the gay population here was so much part of the mainstream that they have become like everybody else. Clipper Road was a punishing climb, followed by a steep, winding descent. It made one grateful for the gear system and I was also glad that my mind was calmer now. Portola Ave wound along the side of Twin Peaks and offered great views of the surrounding neighborhood. This is when it felt like I was in California. Until then, it hadn’t really felt part of California. Again, perhaps I really wanted to be in Southern California. I cannot put a finger on it but there are some things about California that are very dear to me, most of them impressions from my life in Pasadena, that bring up good feelings and memories. I don’t think it is mere nostalgia. The houses, the vegetation, the wide avenues, but most of all, the sunshine. As I rolled down Vicente Ave towards the beach the sunlit street and rooftops filled my eyes with California happiness. It brings feelings of limitless possibilities, openness, peace, that mysterious thing called fun, and just a general air of contentment and relaxation. I can’t explain why. Maybe it was because in those first few years in the US my mind was fresh and everything looked fresh and exciting. I went on my usual sunset walk on the beach and stopped by at the Java Beach café. I remembered that only in June, about two months ago, I had been at a café also called Java Beach café in Ocean City on the Atlantic coast. Hope it is not a chain like Starbucks. At the beach and elsewhere in San Francisco one couldn’t miss all the pretty East Asian women. Now, in San Francisco they are a bit different from what I have seen before. The long history of the East Asian community in California and their diversity is reflected in the multifariously exotic beauty of the women. Like a garden blooming with thousands of never before seen flowers. Among the many things that make America unique and fresh are the various combinations and permutations of phenotypes resulting from the cross-pollination of people from all over the planet. As I crossed the “Great” highway from the beach to Judah Street I was invariably attacked by the suffocating stench of urine emanating from the public restroom at that corner. Now, this is where liberal utopia collides with the harsh realities of city life. I am not a Volvo liberal by any means. In fact, I would much rather we all live a life of Spartan austerity and simplicity, taking as little as possible from the earth, disturbing nature as little as possible. If you want proof come to my house and check out all the spider webs that thrive undisturbed in the nooks and corners of my house, especially during these days of round the clock hecticness. (There is a method to this madness – I have learned from my friend Alvin to let the spiders be because they keep the rest of the insect population in check). But if there is one thing I cannot stand it is the defiling of public spaces with refuse of all kinds, offending the visual and olfactory sensibilities of everyone. It is the one thing I most dislike about life in an inner city neighborhood, as well as life in India, though in the latter case it is tempered by the knowledge that many people simply do not have access to restrooms and garbage pickup. It has such a negative effect on the psyche. The city has done a great job in our neighborhood since I moved here, but often I cannot wait for the city to clean it up and try to dispose of even the most disgusting things myself if I find them anywhere on my street. Besides, I don’t see why anyone needs to put up with people behaving like bums especially when it affects the sanitation and hygiene of everyone. One certainly needs to show kindness to the homeless and the poor, but not for bums I think. They need love of a different kind. Coming back to the utopia aspect of San Francisco, as I said before it is really an experiment in what is possible in human society. I was impressed by the various public services they offer. In addition to the aforementioned restrooms I loved how they have designed a good many public green spaces and playgrounds, much more than one finds in DC at least. I especially loved how much effort has been put into making the city environmentally friendly. Apart from the biker and pedestrian friendly design they have a lot more transportation options, such as street cars, buses, and not to mention subway. Many of the buses even run on electricity drawn from power lines on the streets. They even pick up compostable organic material (kitchen waste, etc.,) along with trash and recyclables! I noticed a rather trifling but annoying flaw, though. The numbers of the houses are not compatible with the street numbers. The 48th avenue might be at the start of the 4500 block, for example. This is probably the only aspect of urban design in which DC has done better. On the way home I checked out the mosaic staircase near Chris’ home. If you ever visit San Francisco you should check out the many staircases. Chris even had a book about them. They offer shortcuts between streets, and are often over hundred feet in elevation. Near Chris’ house they had decorated the front sides of the steps of one staircase with a mosaic of tiles that from a distance become a stunning mural depicting a large whirling spiral. I also walked around the edge of Grand View Park which was at the peak of the hill on which Chris’ house was. With the wind blowing unpredictably it was a bit intimidating to walk on the narrow trail at first, but the feeling of shame from not doing it overcame my fear for doing it and it turned out to be not so bad. Most of the time it is our fear of what is to come that is worse than the fear during the action itself. Finally I reached the home just after sunset. Margo was again at the door, and she looked happy. At least she didn’t look unhappy. It was great to simply sink into a couch and relax, watch the light fade into the night. I felt a little tired from the trip. Physically it was not a strenuous bike ride but mentally I felt a bit worn out. I guess the world was too much with me. I decided to not go out so much for the next two days. So wednesday and thursday I ended up staying home mostly except for trips to the beach. And on those two days I began to enjoy Margo’s company more and more. Perhaps she was there to remind me that I still have some things to take care of. I had been focusing too much on work and spirituality and volunteering etc., and at the same time getting all agitated with the unsatisfactory nature of my relationships or lack thereof, while neglecting the needs of the body and mind. It was good to stand back from all that and simply rest. And it was nice to watch Margo lounging through most of the day. Maybe I was learning how to relax by watching her, without even realizing it. Looking back now, I am really grateful to have had her company. It made me feel a whole lot better about people keeping pets. They have become part of our society. Maybe they are the last link we have to our wild nature, reminding us of the common bond between all living beings. I realized that I don’t need to feel sorry for pets. It is humans who ought to be grateful for what these animals give them, which is nothing less than unconditional love. They teach us to trust our instincts and trust each other. After dinner it became my custom to sit down and read about the places I had visited in the many pamphlets and books Chris had collected. I find it more interesting to read about them after visiting than visiting them after a lot of reading and planning. I learned that San Francisco was the birthplace of the jeans and the burrito, my favorite dish. Apparently the most authentic burritos were to be had in the mission district. I made a mental note to visit it again just to get a burrito. San Francisco was also where Mark Twain spent some time in the 1860’s. While I was sitting at the dinner table reading Margo would make her visit, walking around the table, sometimes sitting on it, sometimes settling on a rocking chair nearby. It was amazing how she could walk on the table that might have a thousand small things on it and yet disturb absolutely nothing. She seemed to have such an awareness of her body and the surroundings. I guess that is what they call feline grace. If she felt peaceful she would close her eyes gently, as if she were smiling. If she was especially pleased with me she would walk up to me and nuzzle her nose against mine. It was almost the same way we would play with children. I would have never believed you if you had told me cats were capable of such affection. Or perhaps it is just a facet of feline social behavior, maybe that is how cats get to know each other. But it felt more affectionate than the random licking of dogs. I am glad she didn’t try to lick me, though. Over Wednesday and Thursday I started feeling a lot better. The frazzled connections in the mind started healing. My sleep was still full of tense dreams but I could feel the mind slowing down, becoming more peaceful. I was feeling calmer, and not worrying about things that I didn’t need to worry about. It was as if the storm had passed, the winds were dying out, and the waves were slowly fading away. Remember this when you sit down to meditate or just to relax. The mind may be full of a million thoughts, your emotions may be getting buffeted every which way but if you just wait and watch without trying to control anything it will slowly calm down just like the waves in the ocean. But you have to sit down for at least half an hour, more if you are an especially busy person. Because underneath these superficial waves of turbulence lies the deep, calm and limitless expanse of our spirit. The most relaxing and pleasant times were at dawn and at sunset. In the morning I would lounge on the easy chair and Margo would nestle on my lap on top of the blanket. I guess for her it was like a heated leather chair. If I were home by sunset we would both spend some time sitting and watching out the window. There was plenty to watch from Chris’ window, especially when it was not foggy. Luckily after Wednesday it was mostly sunny and the fog cleared quickly in the morning. Even if it were not foggy it was great to sit in the knowledge that the sun was shining somewhere, in the bay where the yachts were sailing or over Mount Tamalpais or the Golden Gate Bridge. It was great to live in a city where you don’t have to be a billionaire to enjoy such views, though at other times one wondered what kind of crazy people would build a city over a bunch of hills. Especially when you start sweating and panting just hauling a bag of groceries for a few blocks and don’t want to set it down on the sidewalk for fear that the apples and cans and other rounded objects would go tumbling down the hill. During the daytime I enjoyed cooking and washing and watering the plants in the small garden and doing all the small things that Margo needed. I was highly impressed by all the environmentally friendly devices and practices that Chris and Rachel had installed in their house. It made me realize how far I had to go to make my own life less of a burden on the environment and the resources of the world. They really seemed to practice the three R’s – reducing, reusing and recycling. Starting from the plastic bags they took to the grocery store to bag grains and nuts and such (apart from the reusable grocery bags) to the small towels used instead of napkins and the kill-a-watt machine to identify power-wasting devices, I learned a lot of good practices just living in their house for a week (though I am not running to the store anytime soon to buy that kill-a-watt thingammy, even assuming such a thing is available in DC). It was very stimulating to have all these little chores during the day, and it helped me to be fully aware of the surroundings and on what I was doing. It also helped to slow down the mind, to learn not to force anything. Of course it was great to have the luxury of not having anything pressing to do, at least for a few days. I could just do things at my own pace, and learned to be alert to those moments when I would get into the bad habit of forcing the body and mind to do things even when they were tired or needed a break. On Wednesday just before sunset I went for a walk along the beach with my camera. I enjoyed watching the wind-surfers and the joggers and the dog walkers. I also spent some time trying to capture some of the shore birds on film. Especially the willets and sanderlings. It was hard to catch them because they run so fast. After a while I realized that the best strategy was to notice where they were going and just wait and let them come to you. As I was filming a nice East Asian woman stopped by to ask if I got a good shot. We had a short and sweet conversation. Maybe I should have tried to prolong the conversation and asked her to go for a walk. It was the beach, after all, and would have made a cute romantic story. But such brilliant ideas always seem to pop up just a few seconds too late. At least it was nice that she stopped by. Such waiting strategy doesn’t seem to work very well in DC, though. Maybe San Francisco is where I need to live… When I got home Margo was again at the door but this time she walked away turning her face to the other side as if she were upset with me. But later as I was sitting in meditation she stopped by. She seemed to consider climbing on to my lap but then must have thought the better of it. So maybe she wasn’t upset after all. The meditation was getting better and better. It was energizing and refreshing. I felt a wave of contentment and peace, feeling good about everything, feeling interconnected with people and other living beings. If you think about it the world isn’t as bad as we sometimes make it out to be. All you need to do is to stand back a little bit and just observe things for what they are and you will only feel love for everything. The trick is to learn to just observe, without the ego getting in the way. Margo continued to be most active late at night and early in the morning. Sometimes she would stand by the bathroom door as I was brushing my teeth or just after a shower. Perhaps she liked the extra warmth and humidity in the bathroom. She was strong enough to force the door open if it was not closed properly. I was also surprised by the lightning speed with which she could run. She had a game that I never quite understood, where she would come up to me and then run at full speed to the living room and sit in one of the cardboard boxes there waiting for me to do something. She continued to sleep on top of my blanket at night and dutifully wake me up between 5 and 6 o’clock in the morning. But by now it had become part of my routine. She did seem to sleep more and more as the week wore on. Perhaps she was starting to miss Chris and Rachel more. On Thursday afternoon I felt really good and went for a long run along the beach. I ran for about seven miles, from near Judah street to Fort Funston and back, keeping a good pace. Apart from sitting back and watching pretty women in bikinis, running is my favorite activity on the beach. With the soft wet sand cushioning your feet, the wind caressing your face and the sun shining down on your spirit you simply forget that you are running, and your feet seem to be hardly touching the ground. You feel like you could run all day long. The beach was mostly deserted at that time. Around Fort Funston I saw several people walking their dogs on the treacherous trails running along the coast on the edge of a cliff. There were signs everywhere warning of the wind. It seems many people had died after being blown away from the cliff. I didn’t see any hang gliders, though. This was supposed to be a good spot for them. Perhaps the winds were not favorable for them today. I didn’t even feel the sweat because of the wind. As I neared the end of the run I tried to just let my mind be completely absorbed in the sound of the waves and the wind. I wanted to fill my ears and my whole body with the feeling of the beach air so that it will always stay with me. After the run it felt really good, not just because of the exercise but also because it had been a while since I had run so well. It always feel good when you put yourself through a difficult task and complete it satisfactorily, as long as it is something you enjoy. Friday morning as I was sitting down to breakfast Margo was acting very playful. There are times when she does that, just jumping around or rolling on the ground. The sun was shining bright, the ocean was looking magnificent and the food tasted great especially because I was hungry. I said thanks to God for such a good experience. As I was finishing breakfast Margo was sitting and just staring at me. Lord knows what was going through her mind. This was the last day of my visit and I was due to leave Saturday morning. So the plan was to try and do some fun things, besides just sitting home or meditating (not that meditating is not fun :-)). I decided that the highlight of my trip was going to be a trip to the mission district to get an authentic burrito from El Farelito’s, which came highly recommended by the guide book. So after breakfast I said goodbye to Margo and took the train to the Mission district. I found El Farelito’s without much difficulty. The place had the nondescript décor and a matter of fact busy-ness reminding one of Seinfeld’s soup nazi kitchen. A kinder, gentler version, perhaps. It worked like an assembly line, people ordering quickly, paying and moving before the next hungry customer took their turn. I managed to come up with my order before I got to the counter, and did so smoothly without any confusion. Large veggie burrito with black beans and a drink. The guy gave me a number and I waited for my turn as the cook called out the numbers in Spanish and then in English. After some waiting he called my number and I promptly picked it up and got out. I took the bus and train back to Ocean Beach. Traveling on the bus in any city one comes across the “real” people, the so called working class, people without too much ego to carry around and in touch with their humanity, people of all kinds and shades and looks. After about a three hour trip I finally reached the beach and sat down triumphantly on the sand, burrito in hand. It seemed to be mostly rice. Bit of a disappointment, but maybe that is how the authentic burritos were. I preferred my burritos with rice and beans in equal amounts. But then I started tasting something that didn’t feel like beans or cheese. Disconcerted, I looked closely at the bits of unidentified white stuff. After some smelling and tasting it became clear to me that what I had was probably a chicken burrito. How did this happen? “Setenta nueve” he had called out, and then “seventy nine.” Seventy nine was the number the cashier had given me. So I knew I had picked up the right order. And I had enunciated my order in such flawless, crystal clear fashion. But my perfect sunny last day in the San Francisco beach was not going to be spoilt by this bungled burrito. I walked up Judah street to the “Beach burrito” that I had spurned in favor of the supposedly more authentic El Farelito’s. The place was completely empty, and the waiters were eating their lunch. The place looked cavernous and had murals of beaches on the walls. Having gotten a bit tired from all the running around, I had my beach burrito in the company of the waiters. It was pretty much the same as the other burrito – lots of rice and just a smidgeon of beans. I wondered what made El Farelito’s so special. If only Taco Bell would put more rice into their bean burritos it will make the perfect meal for me, and cost much less too. Having filled the stomach (which is why I am grateful to God for burritos) I went on my sunset walk on the beach. It was warm and sunny, and even a few women sporting bikinis. I walked for about an hour, saying goodbye to the sun slipping behind the waves and the beach. The beach truly makes you forget all your worries. But it will be back to DC tomorrow, back to the problems and politics of all kinds – mathematical, metaphysical, personal, familial, domiciliary, culinary, locomotional, sartorial… I got home a bit late, and it was dark by that time. Margo was at the door as usual, and she didn’t look particularly happy. I tried all the little things that I knew she liked, and none of that seemed to move her. I guess Margo was not easy to cheer up when she was down. She was less like my nephews and more like the complicated women that I always seem to fall for, in spite of getting burnt again and again. I simply could not understand what had gone wrong. Perhaps she was beginning to miss Chris and Rachel more intensely. She spent the whole evening moping, not showing any interest in anything. Since I had to leave the next day I was very busy doing laundry, cooking, cleaning up, etc., After dinner and at bed-time I went back to check on her and she was still her sullen self. Finally I lay down on the bed, exhausted and ready to go to sleep. All I could do was to send some good thoughts her way. In this little life of ours that is over in the blink of an eye we run around restlessly, trying to be happy and trying to make others happy. Sometimes we succeed, other times we fail miserably. Mistrust clouds our relationships, leaving us struggling to reach out to others, groping through the fog of misunderstanding. We know that the moment our true natures shine through, everything will become clear in an instant. Yet we spend so much of our lives in unnecessary conflicts. But remember Margo, the sun is always shining somewhere. Tomorrow your dear friends will be here, and everything will be allright because they know exactly what you want. Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny. After feeding her I sat down on the easy chair with the blanket over me, and outside the window the San Francisco skies were spotlessly clear. Mount Tamalpais was glowing in the sunlight, and a single white boat that was just a small speck from here moved calmly on the blue waters of the Bay. Margo sat down on my lap but only for a few minutes. She then sat down on the windowsill facing me, staring at nothing in particular. Nothing stirred on the streets. Everything was absolutely still. I knew that this view, this moment, this silence would always be in my memory. For when the music winds down and all the dancing slowly comes to a stop only the silence will remain. 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