Category Archives: walking

On walking in the shade

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Summer, July, specifically, always reminds me of my eternal for shadow. The sun and I just don’t get along at all. Light snow and 27F and I’m happy. So today I’m out for my daily constitutional and it’s already pushing 90F really hard, there are no clouds in sight, and the early morning shade of the buildings is already in short supply. I move from tree to tree only the sidewalk, but the shade is quickly dwindling, and the white light of the sun beating down on the Castilian central mesa is brutal. At just around 2,030 feet of elevation, the air is just thin enough to let the sun fry you to a crisp if you let it. Since the average humidity is just under 30% on any given day in summer, the shade is a nice refuge from the sun–you feel warm, but you aren’t going to pass out from heat stroke either. You can even feel the breeze when you walk in the shade. The problem is, however, there isn’t enough shade to go around, and frequently the geometry between the angle of the sun and the orientation of the buildings is wrong, leaving you out in the sun. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no vampire, I can handle a little sun, but this is not the time of year to find out how much. Funny thing is that when you want a little heating from the sun–mid-January, let’s say–you can’t get it because of the low angle of the sun all day. The shade is the last refuge of the air-conditionally challenged. Sitting in the shade and drinking a nice, cold glass of lemonade is a fine thing do on a hot July day, but installing new sidewalk in the middle of the burning sunshine holds absolutely no interest for me. I saw lots of people working out in the sun this morning even before it was really hot, and none of them looked as if they were enjoying any of it. Things slow down in July precisely because there is not a enough shade to go around and everyone must share. The shade is lit by indirect light which means the bright whiteness of the day won’t hurt your eyes–colors are muted, shadows are deeper, a million shades of gray play off the multiple urban surfaces of the city. To sit in the shade on a hot summer day and do nothing but relax is a pleasure which must be experienced rather than narrated. When you have already been sweating, your mouth is dry, your head is hurting, you feel hot, and the shade is nowhere to be seen, summer seems incredibly cruel. I’ve been through cold, ice, and snow, biting winds, and bitter cold temperatures, but I’ve never felt worse than when I’ve had to work in the blazing sun with no respite in sight, sweat streaming down my face, running everywhere. There is something about the bright light, the heat, that hurts my soul, that makes me feel bad, that makes me want to stay inside, to forget my daily constitutional. Yet, walking outside is such an important part of good health, both mental and physical, that I must face my worst enemy and venture out into the sun, the light, the heat. Yes, I wear a hat, sunscreen, and that helps alleviate the heat, but it doesn’t make it go away. Only the earth, tilted on its axis, moving blindly around the sun, changing the angle of the sun, gives me any relief, but in the meantime, I will continue to walk in the shade.

On walking in the shade

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Summer, July, specifically, always reminds me of my eternal for shadow. The sun and I just don’t get along at all. Light snow and 27F and I’m happy. So today I’m out for my daily constitutional and it’s already pushing 90F really hard, there are no clouds in sight, and the early morning shade of the buildings is already in short supply. I move from tree to tree only the sidewalk, but the shade is quickly dwindling, and the white light of the sun beating down on the Castilian central mesa is brutal. At just around 2,030 feet of elevation, the air is just thin enough to let the sun fry you to a crisp if you let it. Since the average humidity is just under 30% on any given day in summer, the shade is a nice refuge from the sun–you feel warm, but you aren’t going to pass out from heat stroke either. You can even feel the breeze when you walk in the shade. The problem is, however, there isn’t enough shade to go around, and frequently the geometry between the angle of the sun and the orientation of the buildings is wrong, leaving you out in the sun. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no vampire, I can handle a little sun, but this is not the time of year to find out how much. Funny thing is that when you want a little heating from the sun–mid-January, let’s say–you can’t get it because of the low angle of the sun all day. The shade is the last refuge of the air-conditionally challenged. Sitting in the shade and drinking a nice, cold glass of lemonade is a fine thing do on a hot July day, but installing new sidewalk in the middle of the burning sunshine holds absolutely no interest for me. I saw lots of people working out in the sun this morning even before it was really hot, and none of them looked as if they were enjoying any of it. Things slow down in July precisely because there is not a enough shade to go around and everyone must share. The shade is lit by indirect light which means the bright whiteness of the day won’t hurt your eyes–colors are muted, shadows are deeper, a million shades of gray play off the multiple urban surfaces of the city. To sit in the shade on a hot summer day and do nothing but relax is a pleasure which must be experienced rather than narrated. When you have already been sweating, your mouth is dry, your head is hurting, you feel hot, and the shade is nowhere to be seen, summer seems incredibly cruel. I’ve been through cold, ice, and snow, biting winds, and bitter cold temperatures, but I’ve never felt worse than when I’ve had to work in the blazing sun with no respite in sight, sweat streaming down my face, running everywhere. There is something about the bright light, the heat, that hurts my soul, that makes me feel bad, that makes me want to stay inside, to forget my daily constitutional. Yet, walking outside is such an important part of good health, both mental and physical, that I must face my worst enemy and venture out into the sun, the light, the heat. Yes, I wear a hat, sunscreen, and that helps alleviate the heat, but it doesn’t make it go away. Only the earth, tilted on its axis, moving blindly around the sun, changing the angle of the sun, gives me any relief, but in the meantime, I will continue to walk in the shade.

On Lima, Peru

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I am so glad I’ve finally come to Lima. I arrived this morning on the red-eye from Miami, and took off to see a pre-Inca ruin called Huaca Pucllana in the middle of the Miraflores township of Lima, which rises almost two hundred feet above the surrounding buildings. A huge mound of hand-made adobe bricks, the bricks are stacked vertically with space between them to fight the earthquake problem so common in this coastal city. This “pyramid” was totally unknown thirty years ago and three pre-Incan peoples occupied this sacred space. The people of Lima had collectively forgotten what it was and thought it was just a large, dusty (or muddy) hill in Miraflores. On a short tour we got to experience first hand all of the plants, fruits, and vegetables that the local people had eaten or sacrificed on this spot. We also got to meet, first hand, the famous Peruvian Cuy, Llamas, and Alpacas–live and in the flesh. Later, we went down to the ocean front to check out the beautiful Pacific before going to the most excellent ceviche lunch you have ever had. We stopped in at a sidewalk terrace for some well-deserved espressos afterward. Since there is no rest for the wicked or the foolish, we then got onto our tour bus to head downtown to the Plaza Mayor and check out the center of Lima. We visited (or observed from a distance) the city hall, the president’s mansion, the archbishop’s house, the cathedral, a Franciscan monastery (which had an enormously interesting bone pile underneath it), and the largest private museum of native indigenous artifacts that exists in Peru. We finally got back to the hotel for a bite of dinner around 7:30 p.m. Big thanks to Millennium Travel of Texas who had us controlled and directed from airport to hotel to Plaza Mayor to museum to the hotel. I was amazed at how kind the people are, how clean and wonderful the city is for a city of nine million souls. It’s not perfect, and no city is, but my experience was wonderful, having coffee, touring an ancient ruin, having ceviche, having a beverage down at the bay, walking the streets of this strange Lima. I bought the Sunday paper, read about the mayor’s impending recall election, watched a black cat cross my path in a city park, went to the “Parque del amor” with a giant statue of a couple locked in a passionate kiss and embrace, rode in a taxi which made up its own rules of circulation, ate real authentic ceviche, found out the difference between a llama and an alpaca, looked a Cuy square in the eyes, climbed to the top of a pyramid built almost two thousand years ago. I rather doubt I could have done much more before toppling over in exhaustion considering how little sleep I got last night–none. So Lima is complicated; I don’t understand how cars figure out who has the right away in this city. I love the coffee, which is very flavorful, but not at all bitter. Ceviche has a million textures, tastes, sauces. The people of Lima do what all people around the world do on their day off–go out and have a good time. The local buses are a mystery to me, especially what seem to be the suburban buses who pick up people in the center and take them out of the city. Nine tenths of the cars appear to be taxis. Now, it’s time for bed–great hotel, hot shower, and time to catch up on the writing, although I’m dead sure the second I stop moving, I’ll be asleep. Postscript update: the mayor survived her recall election by garnering 52% of the vote.

On Lima, Peru

Posted on by

I am so glad I’ve finally come to Lima. I arrived this morning on the red-eye from Miami, and took off to see a pre-Inca ruin called Huaca Pucllana in the middle of the Miraflores township of Lima, which rises almost two hundred feet above the surrounding buildings. A huge mound of hand-made adobe bricks, the bricks are stacked vertically with space between them to fight the earthquake problem so common in this coastal city. This “pyramid” was totally unknown thirty years ago and three pre-Incan peoples occupied this sacred space. The people of Lima had collectively forgotten what it was and thought it was just a large, dusty (or muddy) hill in Miraflores. On a short tour we got to experience first hand all of the plants, fruits, and vegetables that the local people had eaten or sacrificed on this spot. We also got to meet, first hand, the famous Peruvian Cuy, Llamas, and Alpacas–live and in the flesh. Later, we went down to the ocean front to check out the beautiful Pacific before going to the most excellent ceviche lunch you have ever had. We stopped in at a sidewalk terrace for some well-deserved espressos afterward. Since there is no rest for the wicked or the foolish, we then got onto our tour bus to head downtown to the Plaza Mayor and check out the center of Lima. We visited (or observed from a distance) the city hall, the president’s mansion, the archbishop’s house, the cathedral, a Franciscan monastery (which had an enormously interesting bone pile underneath it), and the largest private museum of native indigenous artifacts that exists in Peru. We finally got back to the hotel for a bite of dinner around 7:30 p.m. Big thanks to Millennium Travel of Texas who had us controlled and directed from airport to hotel to Plaza Mayor to museum to the hotel. I was amazed at how kind the people are, how clean and wonderful the city is for a city of nine million souls. It’s not perfect, and no city is, but my experience was wonderful, having coffee, touring an ancient ruin, having ceviche, having a beverage down at the bay, walking the streets of this strange Lima. I bought the Sunday paper, read about the mayor’s impending recall election, watched a black cat cross my path in a city park, went to the “Parque del amor” with a giant statue of a couple locked in a passionate kiss and embrace, rode in a taxi which made up its own rules of circulation, ate real authentic ceviche, found out the difference between a llama and an alpaca, looked a Cuy square in the eyes, climbed to the top of a pyramid built almost two thousand years ago. I rather doubt I could have done much more before toppling over in exhaustion considering how little sleep I got last night–none. So Lima is complicated; I don’t understand how cars figure out who has the right away in this city. I love the coffee, which is very flavorful, but not at all bitter. Ceviche has a million textures, tastes, sauces. The people of Lima do what all people around the world do on their day off–go out and have a good time. The local buses are a mystery to me, especially what seem to be the suburban buses who pick up people in the center and take them out of the city. Nine tenths of the cars appear to be taxis. Now, it’s time for bed–great hotel, hot shower, and time to catch up on the writing, although I’m dead sure the second I stop moving, I’ll be asleep. Postscript update: the mayor survived her recall election by garnering 52% of the vote.

On pilgrims and pilgrimage

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As many have intimated or said outright, it is not necessarily the destination that makes the pilgrimage worthwhile, it is the journey the pilgrim makes. Both the words “pilgrimage” and “journey” also suggest metaphors of change and enlightenment, much as one sees in Augustine’s Confessions or the Chinese Buddhist legend of Monkey. In both cases we see individuals who are searching for meaning, and once they embark upon their respective pilgrimages, they begin to have new experiences and become open to change through the contemplative process that is stimulated by the journey. The journey is both literal and metaphorical as the pilgrim, through new experiences, experiences an epiphany of one sort or another. Once upon a time, all pilgrimages were made on foot, and the pilgrim walked to wherever they were going, so they could feel their journey with every step they took. Again, each step nudges at the human subconscious, imbuing meaning into both the journey and life. Perhaps today the idea of pilgrimage is anachronistic and worn out given the fast-paced nature of contemporary society. Cars, planes, trains and moving sidewalks have taken the sting out of the journey, shortened it, sanitized it, and demystified it. Baseball fans might go to Cooperstown. Fans of the Bard might go to Stratford on Avon. Beatles aficionados would go to Liverpool and so on. I went to Pare Lachaise cemetery in Paris to see the gravesite of Jim Morrison, and marvel at, if not recall, the nihilist drug culture decadence of the late sixties. Pilgrimage is, of course, a simulacrum of life—simulated on a micro-scale in a semi-controlled environment with a predictable outcome—a vicarious, but quasi-real experience with a predictable outcome, arrival at the pilgrimage site, which is the desired result. There is no mystery in making a journey, even going to the other side of the globe. I went on a pilgrimage to see Graceland, a journey that involved a plane, then a car, then a bus, but I finally did walk around Elvis’ house, and the experience was amazing, a pilgrimage into the dark side of American pop culture and savage unbridled capitalism, enormous white sofas, and carpeted ceilings. Every American should make at least one pilgrimage in their lifetime if for no other reason than to go and see and feel and breathe the air and have a new experience. Seeing Graceland was okay, but the getting to Graceland was priceless. The question of turning the pilgrim and their pilgrimage into a metaphor for life seems to touch on the fundamental anxiety of being human and giving life meaning. There is a fundamental human concerning the meaning of life, a sort of existential angst that haunts everyone as they go about their daily routines, looking for meaning in what they do and what happens to them. Choosing pilgrim/pilgrimage as a metaphor automatically imbues life with an external meaning, a journey to heaven, a journey to salvation. Pilgrimage seems to be an important human practice to which people turn to give meaning to their lives. I am talking about pilgrims who are making a journey, some going to Mecca, others going to Jerusalem or Santiago de Compostela, still others going to Canterbury. Pilgrimages come in many sizes and shapes, some short, others long, some sacred, many profane. Many Catholics go to a plethora of sites across the Middle East and Europe in search of a miracle, a mystical experience, a chance to be closer to God, all the while overlaying their own life and desires with a meta-narrative that reduces the chaotic, arbitrary nature of life. By accepting the socio-religious parameters of the pilgrimage–destination, route, penitence, effort, suffering, and contemplation–the pilgrim is guided by external rules, which impose both purpose and discipline. Once the pilgrimage has begun, the pilgrim does not necessarily have to make a lot of personal decisions, most of which have been pre-set by the rules of the pilgrimage. This activity turns into a metaphor when applied to the wider problem of any entire life. As John Dagenais suggests in his article “Medieval Pilgrimage to Compostela on the Information Highway,” “Berceo, the medieval poet from the monastery of San Millán used pilgrimage as a metaphor for human life in his Milagros de Nuestro Señora: we are all pilgrims on the road of life” (147) Readers, poets, philosophers all readily accept this metaphor for life because it reveals a profound truth about our own anxiety about the nature and meaning of life that is mysterious and puzzling. How does one imbue life with meaning? The practice of pilgrimage nudges at the human subconscious, giving meaning to the capricious and chaotic nature of daily life, which can often have a fractured, non-linear polymorphous appearance, inexplicable and without a clear meaning or objective. The beauty of the pilgrim/pilgrimage metaphor is that it comes pre-packaged with a pre-determined set of religious/ethical/moral meanings that are clearly recognizable to all. So if you want to tell a story about a fornicating or shipwrecked pilgrim, your audience will have no trouble locating that narrative within a certain set of ethical and religious narratives and give the narrative meaning. Does life or doesn’t it have meaning beyond the day-to-day quotidian happenstance of ordinary existence. A journey has form, and since it has form, it has meaning. Is this the point where supernatural mysticism becomes more meaningful than rational empiricism?

On pilgrims and pilgrimage

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As many have intimated or said outright, it is not necessarily the destination that makes the pilgrimage worthwhile, it is the journey the pilgrim makes. Both the words “pilgrimage” and “journey” also suggest metaphors of change and enlightenment, much as one sees in Augustine’s Confessions or the Chinese Buddhist legend of Monkey. In both cases we see individuals who are searching for meaning, and once they embark upon their respective pilgrimages, they begin to have new experiences and become open to change through the contemplative process that is stimulated by the journey. The journey is both literal and metaphorical as the pilgrim, through new experiences, experiences an epiphany of one sort or another. Once upon a time, all pilgrimages were made on foot, and the pilgrim walked to wherever they were going, so they could feel their journey with every step they took. Again, each step nudges at the human subconscious, imbuing meaning into both the journey and life. Perhaps today the idea of pilgrimage is anachronistic and worn out given the fast-paced nature of contemporary society. Cars, planes, trains and moving sidewalks have taken the sting out of the journey, shortened it, sanitized it, and demystified it. Baseball fans might go to Cooperstown. Fans of the Bard might go to Stratford on Avon. Beatles aficionados would go to Liverpool and so on. I went to Pare Lachaise cemetery in Paris to see the gravesite of Jim Morrison, and marvel at, if not recall, the nihilist drug culture decadence of the late sixties. Pilgrimage is, of course, a simulacrum of life—simulated on a micro-scale in a semi-controlled environment with a predictable outcome—a vicarious, but quasi-real experience with a predictable outcome, arrival at the pilgrimage site, which is the desired result. There is no mystery in making a journey, even going to the other side of the globe. I went on a pilgrimage to see Graceland, a journey that involved a plane, then a car, then a bus, but I finally did walk around Elvis’ house, and the experience was amazing, a pilgrimage into the dark side of American pop culture and savage unbridled capitalism, enormous white sofas, and carpeted ceilings. Every American should make at least one pilgrimage in their lifetime if for no other reason than to go and see and feel and breathe the air and have a new experience. Seeing Graceland was okay, but the getting to Graceland was priceless. The question of turning the pilgrim and their pilgrimage into a metaphor for life seems to touch on the fundamental anxiety of being human and giving life meaning. There is a fundamental human concerning the meaning of life, a sort of existential angst that haunts everyone as they go about their daily routines, looking for meaning in what they do and what happens to them. Choosing pilgrim/pilgrimage as a metaphor automatically imbues life with an external meaning, a journey to heaven, a journey to salvation. Pilgrimage seems to be an important human practice to which people turn to give meaning to their lives. I am talking about pilgrims who are making a journey, some going to Mecca, others going to Jerusalem or Santiago de Compostela, still others going to Canterbury. Pilgrimages come in many sizes and shapes, some short, others long, some sacred, many profane. Many Catholics go to a plethora of sites across the Middle East and Europe in search of a miracle, a mystical experience, a chance to be closer to God, all the while overlaying their own life and desires with a meta-narrative that reduces the chaotic, arbitrary nature of life. By accepting the socio-religious parameters of the pilgrimage–destination, route, penitence, effort, suffering, and contemplation–the pilgrim is guided by external rules, which impose both purpose and discipline. Once the pilgrimage has begun, the pilgrim does not necessarily have to make a lot of personal decisions, most of which have been pre-set by the rules of the pilgrimage. This activity turns into a metaphor when applied to the wider problem of any entire life. As John Dagenais suggests in his article “Medieval Pilgrimage to Compostela on the Information Highway,” “Berceo, the medieval poet from the monastery of San Millán used pilgrimage as a metaphor for human life in his Milagros de Nuestro Señora: we are all pilgrims on the road of life” (147) Readers, poets, philosophers all readily accept this metaphor for life because it reveals a profound truth about our own anxiety about the nature and meaning of life that is mysterious and puzzling. How does one imbue life with meaning? The practice of pilgrimage nudges at the human subconscious, giving meaning to the capricious and chaotic nature of daily life, which can often have a fractured, non-linear polymorphous appearance, inexplicable and without a clear meaning or objective. The beauty of the pilgrim/pilgrimage metaphor is that it comes pre-packaged with a pre-determined set of religious/ethical/moral meanings that are clearly recognizable to all. So if you want to tell a story about a fornicating or shipwrecked pilgrim, your audience will have no trouble locating that narrative within a certain set of ethical and religious narratives and give the narrative meaning. Does life or doesn’t it have meaning beyond the day-to-day quotidian happenstance of ordinary existence. A journey has form, and since it has form, it has meaning. Is this the point where supernatural mysticism becomes more meaningful than rational empiricism?

On standing up (erect)

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Some things are better done while sitting, but others can only be done while standing up. It is easier to write on a computer screen if you are sitting down, while it is easier to wash dishing while standing. Playing the French Horn can be done while sitting or standing. Sometimes I stand and eat, but tonight I sat while eating. Riding on a train is a fine thing to do while sitting, but riding a bike is a sort of sitting/standing proposition. I don’t like to stand to watch television, but when I’m having a beverage with friends standing up is just fine. Reading lends itself to many positions–lying on a bed, sitting in a chair, standing. Standing up is required for many fun activities such as baseball, grocery shopping, and dancing. You cannot change your oil while sitting, although you may need to lie on the ground to get the plug out. Activities with other people may depend on whether you personally can stand up or not–sometimes people take medicine so that they can stand up whenever they want to. A marathon requires standing, for example. One might see farther while standing up. One cannot sleep and stand at the same time. I think that horses have mastered the technique, but they have four legs and an edge in balance. I can, however, sit in a chair and sleep like a baby–that is, wake up every hour or so and cry. If you have to stand too long, your back might start to hurt, as well as feet, knees, hips and muscles. I watched a very young child take their first steps today, standing up. One might have an intense personal experience while standing up. Of course, fainting is bad if you are standing up because that means the floor is farther away, and gravity is very unforgiving. Standing up is about going against gravity. If someone helps you stand up, you should thank them in some significant way. Falling down is the not opposite of standing erect. Standing up is a sybollic act of respect in many circles–a standing ovation when someone excels on the stage, for example. We stand to pray, to sing, to walk away when necessary. One stands up to be counted. Standing up in the morning becomes a more interesting experience as one gets older. Just being able to stand up is always a sign of hope, of power, of success, of love, of strength. Nevertheless, the secret to standing up is always having a good motivation to do so.

On standing up (erect)

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Some things are better done while sitting, but others can only be done while standing up. It is easier to write on a computer screen if you are sitting down, while it is easier to wash dishing while standing. Playing the French Horn can be done while sitting or standing. Sometimes I stand and eat, but tonight I sat while eating. Riding on a train is a fine thing to do while sitting, but riding a bike is a sort of sitting/standing proposition. I don’t like to stand to watch television, but when I’m having a beverage with friends standing up is just fine. Reading lends itself to many positions–lying on a bed, sitting in a chair, standing. Standing up is required for many fun activities such as baseball, grocery shopping, and dancing. You cannot change your oil while sitting, although you may need to lie on the ground to get the plug out. Activities with other people may depend on whether you personally can stand up or not–sometimes people take medicine so that they can stand up whenever they want to. A marathon requires standing, for example. One might see farther while standing up. One cannot sleep and stand at the same time. I think that horses have mastered the technique, but they have four legs and an edge in balance. I can, however, sit in a chair and sleep like a baby–that is, wake up every hour or so and cry. If you have to stand too long, your back might start to hurt, as well as feet, knees, hips and muscles. I watched a very young child take their first steps today, standing up. One might have an intense personal experience while standing up. Of course, fainting is bad if you are standing up because that means the floor is farther away, and gravity is very unforgiving. Standing up is about going against gravity. If someone helps you stand up, you should thank them in some significant way. Falling down is the not opposite of standing erect. Standing up is a sybollic act of respect in many circles–a standing ovation when someone excels on the stage, for example. We stand to pray, to sing, to walk away when necessary. One stands up to be counted. Standing up in the morning becomes a more interesting experience as one gets older. Just being able to stand up is always a sign of hope, of power, of success, of love, of strength. Nevertheless, the secret to standing up is always having a good motivation to do so.