Last week I started writing for the Inside Belltown blog for the Seattle P-I. This is not that blog. Read that blog, not this one. I write for my employer's blog. Read that one too. This is a stealth blog. I keep it under the radar. It's not a neighborhood blog or a community service. It's not meant to be one of those widely read blogs by self-promoting knowledgeable people where every post gets hundreds of comments and starts long argumentative threads. This is not that. For one thing, I use Moveable Type to build this blog. I don't know how to use Moveable Type. I don't know how to make it easy to post comments. It's better that way. There's a saying, "Dance as if no one is watching". I don't dance. I write. On this blog I write whatever I want, as if no one is reading. It's better if I can believe no one is. I write my opinions. I'm a serious professional person, I'm not supposed to have opinions. Someone I might want to do business with might get offended. I need to be taken seriously. So please don't read this blog. I also get wonkish and long winded on some favorite obscure topics. No one wants to read wonkish navel-gazing. Sometimes I post pretty pictures. It's okay to admire the pretty pictures. But, seriously, don't read this blog. I'm telling you for your own good. Actually it's for my own good. Thank you for your consideration.
Recently in Strangers Category
As I've mentioned before, I was really happy when Bedlam opened. It's the kind of business that gives an all-day presence, encourages people to hang out and congregate, puts bodies and eyes on the street and helps to deter some of the worst of the activity that the corner of 2nd and Bell has been infamous for. The owners, Chris, Jesse and Ben, really seem to be interested in the community building, social function of a good Seattle coffee house. They furnished it with comfortable recycled furniture, including an overstuffed sofa, and the big picture window has a window seat with pillows. It's a living room, and comfort was the goal. There are board games to play, and some people bring their own. Others bring their laptops to do some work. I once got more work done there in 10 minutes than in several weekend hours spent at the office. There is a meeting room in back that can be reserved, for free. The decor is eclectic and wonderful and perfect for funky Belltown.
Bedlam also functions as a community center. It's a place for events, from Amy Courts live concerts on the sidewalk, to CreateLive artist performance and auction. There are changing art exhibits, and a large flat screen with CoCollage, a constantly morphing digital exhibit of photos and comments posted by customers and friends. Bedlam is where our local icon, the Belltown Needle resides while the guys try to get a more permanent post for it on the corner of 2nd and Bell. Bedlam is a wonderful coffee house, but is not a true community center, because it's not public. A coffee house is a for-profit business. Signs had to be put on the sidewalk tables to reserve them for customers, because they were too inviting for people passing by. I can afford to spend a few bucks frequently and take advantage of our neighborhood living room, but Belltown, the most densely populated neighborhood in the city, doesn't have a public community center. It might not be as cool and inviting as Bedlam, but one is needed here. You would still find me at Bedlam, though.
I'm behind on a deadline at work, and have been working late at night. Tonight I decided I needed a Mama's fix to rejuvenate me, so I walked over there around 8pm. One of our local eccentrics, to use a more polite term, was pacing in front of the Trib alley on Blanchard and had me in his sights. He let me know in no uncertain terms that I was in "his" house, that he lives in Seattle, and that I should go back to West Seattle where I came from. I nodded in agreement and kept going - to Mama's, not West Seattle. I can sort of get where he might be coming from, though. Belltown is popular and we get a lot of visitors in our neighborhood. Having all the people here is great, but I wish more of them could get here without driving and parking in the neighborhood. More people, good, more cars, bad. We don't need more cars in our house. That's why I say go ahead with the tunnel as AWV replacement, and wish for a way to get the streetcar on 1st Avenue sooner rather than later.
We have our share of "eccentrics" because we have more than our share of social service agencies and housing for people who need the services. I've never had a real problem with any of them, although I was once frightened by a drug dealer, and once by an addict. I'd rather have all the people here than worry about the chances of one actually being dangerous; sort of an open door policy, I guess. Anyway, Mama's was thoroughly rejuvenating, I discovered they had delicious Rogers pilsner from Georgetown Brewery, and was in a much better mood to return to work for some late night productivity. Stopped at Bedlam for a caffeine jolt first.
* I just remembered that this is the one year anniversary of the citywalker blog! There are 77 posts to date.
I went walking through the neighborhood Saturday with the Mayor, business owners, other interested residents and several police officers. I'm always out walking in the neighborhood anyway, and I was interested in hearing what people had to say. The business owners in particular are becoming desperate over the activity associated with the drug trade. It's been getting much worse lately and having a negative effect on business, even beyond the down economy, which is bad enough.
The tour ended at a local restaurant, where everyone gathered at a table by the window facing the street, and each gave their horror stories of what occurs around their businesses every day, at all hours. They were talking about their interactions with the drug dealers when one person pointed out the window to say "and there's the worst of them, right there". I turned and looked, with everyone else, and he was looking right back, fully aware that something was going on that concerned him. One woman with a store on that corner said she's talked to him, asked him why he's out there, and he's told her straight out that there's a lot of money to be made and he's not going away.
The business owners see it all the time, but I'm out there walking through it all the time. One of the officers asked me what I thought about all of it, as someone who lives here. I replied that I don't antagonize the drug dealers, for safety's sake. I'm always there, they accept me as a fixture of the neighborhood and we pretty much mind our separate business. I may have lost my protective neutral status, unfortunately.
The next night, Sunday, I was wandering through the area trying to decide where to eat. I could hear someone keeping in step several paces behind me, with the shuffling sound of denim scraping the pavement. This continued on around the corner and down the block, while I went on with business as usual, looking at a neon sign I wanted a photo of, although I didn't care to take my camera out just then. Before reaching the end of the block I stepped over to the curb and paused as if to consider the restaurants across the street, actually to let the follower pass. Then I fell in behind him, and he turned to see what I was doing, the same person who had been identified as the "worst" on Saturday. I was deliberately not looking straight at him.
He turned the corner, sticking to the territory of his block, and I crossed to the next block to go to a taco place, which had just closed and locked the door. I retraced my steps, took the photo I wanted, and went back through the heart of this territory to go to my favorite Mexican restaurant. The mood on the streets was very militant, with groups of men in hooded sweatshirts walking together, animated, loud, swinging fisted arms for emphasis - not at all like the normal business of a night, when they space themselves out along the sidewalks as sentries and to direct buyers.
The only other time I've come close to having a problem on the streets, it was not with a dealer, but an addict. He was on the streets for a long time and I had unpleasant encounters with him daily, sometimes several times a day. He was a young man, toothless, hair lank and dirty, overall filthy, aggressively approaching with the same whining plaint each time, asking for money for food, for hygiene, obviously desperate, but it was also obvious that he was more desperate for drugs than for anything else. He would never remember that he had already been in my face once, twice or three times that day, ten times that week, and I finally lost tolerance for him. One night fire flashed from my eyes and I didn't bother with any of the usual courtesies, just walked on. I guess that made him angry in turn, because he followed me. I wasn't worried and wouldn't have gone anywhere where there weren't people about, but some other street habitue, someone who knew him, saw what was afoot and stopped him to talk, defusing whatever the situation might have been. The addicted young man disappeared from the streets for a while but then I saw him again last year, all cleaned up. He still didn't remember me and politely asked for a bible donation or something like that. I haven't seen him since and think maybe he finally got off the streets for good.
That was an addict, but the dealers are something else entirely. That wasn't a brain addled addict following me the other night, it was someone with a large financial interest at stake, someone who remembered me from one glance through a window. I prefer being invisible, a neutral, non-threatening presence, and although I'm usually pretty good at it I certainly went into the spotlight this time. It seems certain there will be a war on my streets. There will be increased police activity, which normally hopscotches from one area to the next, moving the drug activity about and giving the current neighborhood, and businesses, a breather for a time - but this time may be different. The economy of the drug trade is shaken up along with everything else, the drug cartels are at war with each other, and that violence is spreading. I fear that this neighborhood is where the dealers will hold their ground; they consider it "their" neighborhood and the rest of us as newcomers, upstarts. For now, I maintain an uneasy neutrality and cross the borders at will, but wonder if I will have to choose sides and find a barricade in the near future.
The tour ended at a local restaurant, where everyone gathered at a table by the window facing the street, and each gave their horror stories of what occurs around their businesses every day, at all hours. They were talking about their interactions with the drug dealers when one person pointed out the window to say "and there's the worst of them, right there". I turned and looked, with everyone else, and he was looking right back, fully aware that something was going on that concerned him. One woman with a store on that corner said she's talked to him, asked him why he's out there, and he's told her straight out that there's a lot of money to be made and he's not going away.
The business owners see it all the time, but I'm out there walking through it all the time. One of the officers asked me what I thought about all of it, as someone who lives here. I replied that I don't antagonize the drug dealers, for safety's sake. I'm always there, they accept me as a fixture of the neighborhood and we pretty much mind our separate business. I may have lost my protective neutral status, unfortunately.
The next night, Sunday, I was wandering through the area trying to decide where to eat. I could hear someone keeping in step several paces behind me, with the shuffling sound of denim scraping the pavement. This continued on around the corner and down the block, while I went on with business as usual, looking at a neon sign I wanted a photo of, although I didn't care to take my camera out just then. Before reaching the end of the block I stepped over to the curb and paused as if to consider the restaurants across the street, actually to let the follower pass. Then I fell in behind him, and he turned to see what I was doing, the same person who had been identified as the "worst" on Saturday. I was deliberately not looking straight at him.
He turned the corner, sticking to the territory of his block, and I crossed to the next block to go to a taco place, which had just closed and locked the door. I retraced my steps, took the photo I wanted, and went back through the heart of this territory to go to my favorite Mexican restaurant. The mood on the streets was very militant, with groups of men in hooded sweatshirts walking together, animated, loud, swinging fisted arms for emphasis - not at all like the normal business of a night, when they space themselves out along the sidewalks as sentries and to direct buyers.
The only other time I've come close to having a problem on the streets, it was not with a dealer, but an addict. He was on the streets for a long time and I had unpleasant encounters with him daily, sometimes several times a day. He was a young man, toothless, hair lank and dirty, overall filthy, aggressively approaching with the same whining plaint each time, asking for money for food, for hygiene, obviously desperate, but it was also obvious that he was more desperate for drugs than for anything else. He would never remember that he had already been in my face once, twice or three times that day, ten times that week, and I finally lost tolerance for him. One night fire flashed from my eyes and I didn't bother with any of the usual courtesies, just walked on. I guess that made him angry in turn, because he followed me. I wasn't worried and wouldn't have gone anywhere where there weren't people about, but some other street habitue, someone who knew him, saw what was afoot and stopped him to talk, defusing whatever the situation might have been. The addicted young man disappeared from the streets for a while but then I saw him again last year, all cleaned up. He still didn't remember me and politely asked for a bible donation or something like that. I haven't seen him since and think maybe he finally got off the streets for good.
That was an addict, but the dealers are something else entirely. That wasn't a brain addled addict following me the other night, it was someone with a large financial interest at stake, someone who remembered me from one glance through a window. I prefer being invisible, a neutral, non-threatening presence, and although I'm usually pretty good at it I certainly went into the spotlight this time. It seems certain there will be a war on my streets. There will be increased police activity, which normally hopscotches from one area to the next, moving the drug activity about and giving the current neighborhood, and businesses, a breather for a time - but this time may be different. The economy of the drug trade is shaken up along with everything else, the drug cartels are at war with each other, and that violence is spreading. I fear that this neighborhood is where the dealers will hold their ground; they consider it "their" neighborhood and the rest of us as newcomers, upstarts. For now, I maintain an uneasy neutrality and cross the borders at will, but wonder if I will have to choose sides and find a barricade in the near future.
This condo tower is across from the YWCA facility that provides services and shelter for homeless women. There is a greater need for shelter than there are spaces available through the Y, and sometimes women are lined up around the block. Some are well dressed with roller bags; others are more obviously down and out, and many have their belongings in large quantities of plastic grocery bags. There are no more rooms, but they can get meals, showers, and do laundry so they just sort of hang out around the building.
The condo tower and office building across the street have all these very serious signs, security cameras, and speakers blaring annoyingly loud music to discourage anyone from trying to sleep there. I don't know if it's to keep the women away, or if they had some more serious problem before they put these precautions in place.
I find this private park space to be particularly galling. I think it was the code at the time, that they had to trade open space for more floors on their office building (it's called the Darth Vader building, locally). I suppose code didn't require that it be open to the public.
This is the only woman allowed here, and something seems very wrong about her, even humiliating.
Moving into the third month, I suddenly realized that this is a decade year. I turn fifty at the end of the year and so far all of my adult decade years have marked major life changes. For instance, when I turned forty, I left my job of 10 years and traveled for a year before going to graduate school and starting a new career (I have a book in my head called Crossing the Millennium, although that title has already been used). I had actually been on the path to that place for 20 years, though. Now everything is different, and I'm not sure what I'll do.
Sometime in my fourth decade (meaning 30-something) I was in a Toastmasters meeting, where the Table Topic was something about "What you want to be when you grow up". I said that I wanted to be a post-menopausal woman, which drew a laugh, until I made clear that I wasn't just talking about the cessation of menses, but about certain freedoms I associated with age, freedom from certain expectations placed upon young women in their fertile years. My inspiration was Ann Richards, then governor of Texas (before the Bush disaster), that silver-haired, silver-tongued conqueror of biting one-line colloquialisms.
I'm much closer to that goal now, thinking more than ever about what it really means. One of the things I think I can see now is that the powerful sense of freedom I admired in female role models is more likely if you've reached a position of power before achieving crone status. That means using the power of the fertile young woman, power usually acquired from men in a world that is largely still run by men, although that is changing. I was always too fiercely, stubbornly independent to be content with that, and have as a result not gotten very far.
So I stand on the threshold of a change of life, and can't see clearly to the other side. I sometimes think I have an aspiration to be homeless. That is not meant lightly; I in no way mean to make light of people caught in the vicissitudes of life against their will. Nor am I seriously considering giving up my comfortable life, although that choice could be made for me, as it is for so many. Yet I wish for those freedoms I once imagined, and more. I wish to be freed from all societal expectations, freed from my puritan work ethic, where everything I do, even in my "free" time, has to be towards some purpose, some productive end. I long for the freedom of the leisured class of another era, the 19th century flaneur (there was no such thing as "flaneuse") who was free to be a detached observer. I wish freedom from possessions of which I have accumulated so many, which then need to be sheltered and stored. I even wish to be free of the need for shelter for myself.
Sometimes a hint of these thoughts comes out in conversations with my son. He tells me not to worry, that he and his wife wouldn't leave me on the street. It's kind of him, but he misses my meaning. I don't wish to become dependent; I wish to be completely independent, or as nearly so as possible. There are some homeless people I see almost every day, and I find that I have a certain admiration for them, almost envy. One person, who I think is a woman but am not sure, has occupied tiny McGraw park for months, sleeping outside by choice every night of the winter, in every sort of weather. I don't know this persons story, but have never seen this person ask for anything, or exhibit other than a calm sense of fortitude. Then there is the elderly man whose face always looks pink, fresh scrubbed and shaven, who sleeps in the same doorway almost every night, even when it is bitter cold and the emergency shelters are open. I also think of the young woman I met in Norway who had run short of travel funds. She thought she could share with me the rental of a rorbu, a fisherman's dorm, for one price, but when the owner wanted to charge by person she decided to stay outdoors, even though the nights were quite cold. I saw her again a few days later after she had risen from her bed of moss, looking free, confident, and empowered.
I think of these things and of how thoroughly I have entrapped myself, what it would take to break free, and what is my willingness to do so. I go to work, participate in community involvements, prepare for family visits, and consider a trip my mother wants me to take with her, either to Australia or the Mediterranean. I don't know what this year will bring, but the closest I come to making an extreme leap on my own is to wonder where I would recharge my camera and laptop. I fear that this time the transition, which will certainly arrive in some form, may be much more extreme than that.
On Friday I went to the talk on bicycling and sustainability given by Niels Tørsløv, Director of the Traffic Department in the Technical and Environmental Administration for Copenhagen. While it was a remarkable presentation in many aspects, I was struck by one in particular: It was delivered in perfect English. We sometimes take that for granted here, that people from other parts of the world are willing to speak to us in our own language.
Only about 20% of our citizens are passport holders, and perhaps twice that number think it would be useful to learn another language. Most of those probably live in border regions. I lived near the Mexican border as a child and was taught Spanish in grade school; living near the Canadian border I sometimes encounter or even work with French speakers, whose language is far different from that of my Cajun grandmother. My global illiteracy affects my travel choices as I tend to go only to countries that use the roman alphabet, where I can reasonably expect to at least decipher the signage. Language in a different script, or god help me, a syllabary, is completely beyond me.
I've been fortunate in my travels to be afforded the kindness of strangers who are happy to speak to me in wonderful varieties of accented English. One should keep in mind that this is a very special privilege. I have gotten a reminder of that, on occasion. In Dublin, Ireland, I had a conversation with a man from Cork, who was trying to pick me up and seemed assured that it was a done deal, as he began to say rude things about Americans, such as how stupid we are because we only speak English. To prove his point, he spoke to me in five languages in rapid succession. I could recognize the languages - besides English there were French, German, Italian and Gaelic phrases - but not what he was saying. To be fair, he thought I was an Irish expat, as I have the look of the Black Celt and we shared a certain familial resemblance. My ancestry actually represents many different lineages, but when I told him that my father believes we're Scots, he literally growled at me. I left him with a scowl on his face, thinking to myself that, yes, I'm a stupid American, and you need help with your technique. By the way, I'm a completely nerdy researcher, only interested in information, for which I never offer the hint or promise of any reward, of any kind. If someone chooses to believe otherwise, I can't help that.
Although men, for certain reasons, are often more willing to talk to a strange woman, I sometimes have the opportunity to speak with other women as well. While traveling in Germany I ended up sharing a train compartment with a woman from Frankfurt, by accident. I went to the car and compartment number on my ticket, which she was already occupying, and which she insisted was a privately reserved compartment. I was so obviously at a complete loss as to where to go from there that she relented, and said I could stay. The trains were so frightfully efficient there, coming every two or three minutes, it seemed, and I am so bad with schedules, that it was quite likely that I was on the wrong train. She talked to me about how important it was that the trains be on time, on schedule, and how the word was similar in English and in Deutsch, "punctual" and "punktlich" (which I have probably misspelled), and how many other words sound similar. Yet words do not a language make; I get lost in syntax and grammar, the contextual environments of the individual words. Translation is seldom simple or straightforward; much meaning and intent gets lost. There is so much literature I would like to read in the original language - but, alas, I'm an American, lacking in an important area of education.
I sat through this remarkable presentation, in a packed room, and wondered how many people realized how privileged they were. Most were bicycle advocates, as the event was hosted by Cascade Bicycle Club, and the information presented was fully engrossing, without worrying about what language it was presented in. Presenting in English was not just a courtesy; there are issues of commerce and trade, as Seattle has been providing business to the Danish architecture firm of Jan Gehl, to the rue of some local firms - but how many of us are prepared to go to Copenhagen and give a presentation in Dansk?
Only about 20% of our citizens are passport holders, and perhaps twice that number think it would be useful to learn another language. Most of those probably live in border regions. I lived near the Mexican border as a child and was taught Spanish in grade school; living near the Canadian border I sometimes encounter or even work with French speakers, whose language is far different from that of my Cajun grandmother. My global illiteracy affects my travel choices as I tend to go only to countries that use the roman alphabet, where I can reasonably expect to at least decipher the signage. Language in a different script, or god help me, a syllabary, is completely beyond me.
I've been fortunate in my travels to be afforded the kindness of strangers who are happy to speak to me in wonderful varieties of accented English. One should keep in mind that this is a very special privilege. I have gotten a reminder of that, on occasion. In Dublin, Ireland, I had a conversation with a man from Cork, who was trying to pick me up and seemed assured that it was a done deal, as he began to say rude things about Americans, such as how stupid we are because we only speak English. To prove his point, he spoke to me in five languages in rapid succession. I could recognize the languages - besides English there were French, German, Italian and Gaelic phrases - but not what he was saying. To be fair, he thought I was an Irish expat, as I have the look of the Black Celt and we shared a certain familial resemblance. My ancestry actually represents many different lineages, but when I told him that my father believes we're Scots, he literally growled at me. I left him with a scowl on his face, thinking to myself that, yes, I'm a stupid American, and you need help with your technique. By the way, I'm a completely nerdy researcher, only interested in information, for which I never offer the hint or promise of any reward, of any kind. If someone chooses to believe otherwise, I can't help that.
Although men, for certain reasons, are often more willing to talk to a strange woman, I sometimes have the opportunity to speak with other women as well. While traveling in Germany I ended up sharing a train compartment with a woman from Frankfurt, by accident. I went to the car and compartment number on my ticket, which she was already occupying, and which she insisted was a privately reserved compartment. I was so obviously at a complete loss as to where to go from there that she relented, and said I could stay. The trains were so frightfully efficient there, coming every two or three minutes, it seemed, and I am so bad with schedules, that it was quite likely that I was on the wrong train. She talked to me about how important it was that the trains be on time, on schedule, and how the word was similar in English and in Deutsch, "punctual" and "punktlich" (which I have probably misspelled), and how many other words sound similar. Yet words do not a language make; I get lost in syntax and grammar, the contextual environments of the individual words. Translation is seldom simple or straightforward; much meaning and intent gets lost. There is so much literature I would like to read in the original language - but, alas, I'm an American, lacking in an important area of education.
I sat through this remarkable presentation, in a packed room, and wondered how many people realized how privileged they were. Most were bicycle advocates, as the event was hosted by Cascade Bicycle Club, and the information presented was fully engrossing, without worrying about what language it was presented in. Presenting in English was not just a courtesy; there are issues of commerce and trade, as Seattle has been providing business to the Danish architecture firm of Jan Gehl, to the rue of some local firms - but how many of us are prepared to go to Copenhagen and give a presentation in Dansk?
I stopped at Ciao's [my spelling; it's more likely Chou, but it's all about the pronunciation, anyway] restaurant, Bayou on 1st, shortly before closing time one night. She had the door blocked with chairs so I called in to make sure she was open. She was just mopping, so I came in to eat. She kept watching the door, nervous. A young man looked in the window, then came in, grabbed a menu, set it at the bar and continued on to the restroom, which Ciao usually keeps locked, but had the mop bucket in the doorway at this time. She rushed back, shut the door and told him it was closed for cleaning. He made a fuss and then left. She explained to me that he is one of the habitual addicts who frequent the neighborhood, supporting the local plague of drug dealers. He's been in before, and at neighboring shops, leaving without paying or grabbing something and running. He is befuddled enough to forget that she knows who he is. She was still nervous and called her husband Haji, who came in to stay until closing time.
Small business owners like Ciao are a very important part of a true urban neighborhood, meaning compact and dense enough to support neighborhood retail uses. Those people who come from a culture of neighborhood shopkeepers, such as we have in our market, are key figures in building and maintaining a sense of community. The neighborhood shopkeeper is something almost lost in our own culture so our shopkeepers are often from elsewhere. There are exceptions, though. Jack Levy at Three Girls Bakery, who figures significantly in the functioning of the neighborhood, is one of those who grew up in the tradition of the market, working at a family stand, then coming back later to buy his own business. The continuous functioning of the market for over one-hundred years has kept many traditions of local culture alive.
I am often unable to go visit family at the traditional holiday times. Ciao cooks the food that I grew up eating at family meals, and I frequently go there. She is Vietnamese, Haji is from the Middle East, and they serve the best Cajun food as required by market historical rules. I went there for a Thanksgiving day gumbo. Ciao's niece Vi was working, and Vi's husband and small daughter Katy came in to visit. Some of Ciao's other regular customers were there and we all had a great visit with her family, with children dancing around the floor. Ciao usually offers me some unusual fruit I haven't had before. Recently she gave me a fresh pickle of carrot, daikon and lotus root, which she said is a tradition for the lunar New Year. I was very pleased, as I had missed my own traditional New Year meal of blackeyed peas and cabbage and the pickle was delicious. I felt that my luck for the year was restored. From very different backgrounds we manage to produce a lot of commonality. The Latin for "together" is the root for commerce and for community.
I wrote previously that native Seattleites are cautious. This article puts it on stronger terms: the "Seattle Freeze". It describes Seattleites as cold, distant, and not trusting. I had an interesting conversation recently with a man from Rome who I encountered on the sidewalk. He complained that people he meets here haven't been friendly. We remarked on our different accents, and on the fact that the natives don't have any accent. I used the explanation for unfriendliness as a caution in a place where the majority of people are strangers. I doubt that I really understand, though, not being a native.
I am a very reserved person, but am open to speaking to strangers that I meet. Its good practice for an urbanist and researcher, and for life in general (keeping caution in mind, of course), as it is possible to learn so much from our fellow travelers. Early one morning in Dublin, Ireland, I was unsuccessfully searching for a laundromat when I encountered a roguish pair sitting on the steps of a building at Trinity College, eating takeout for breakfast. They hailed me, and I came over and sat with them for a while, which they were slightly surprised by. One asked me if I made a habit of speaking to strangers and I replied that yes, as a matter of fact I do.
Another time I was doing research in Hampstead, outside of London, and found myself locked out of a community I wished to explore. I stood by the gate looking lost, and a resident not only let me in and gave me a tour, he then drove me around all of Hampstead as my guide, pointing out everything of interest.
I've done extensive backpack travel, and have sometimes been taken for a rough wanderer. I went to Skagen, Denmark, once, not realizing that it is a favorite vacation spot for the Danes and that accommodations would be hard to come by. I asked a man in the yard of a house if he had any vacant guest rooms. He at first had the impression that I was offering service in trade; an easily corrected misunderstanding. He was then a very informative host, telling me all the must-sees in Skagen. The next morning he gave me breakfast and we had a long talk about art, architecture, cities and travel. I regretted only staying one day but Skagen was expensive.
Another time I got caught in Norway by the seasonal change of the ferry schedule coming back to Bodo from the Lofoten Islands. I got in too late for the hostel and spent the rest of the night freezing outside the door. A man was walking back and forth trying to keep warm. At first I startled and looked up every time he came by; then got used to him and judged him harmless. We were both waiting for the train station to open. He spoke no English and I don't speak Norske but he showed me how to order breakfast, and then helped me fit my pack in a smaller, less expensive locker then the one I had chosen, as the train didn't leave for some hours. Just another fellow traveler, a stranger.
I am a very reserved person, but am open to speaking to strangers that I meet. Its good practice for an urbanist and researcher, and for life in general (keeping caution in mind, of course), as it is possible to learn so much from our fellow travelers. Early one morning in Dublin, Ireland, I was unsuccessfully searching for a laundromat when I encountered a roguish pair sitting on the steps of a building at Trinity College, eating takeout for breakfast. They hailed me, and I came over and sat with them for a while, which they were slightly surprised by. One asked me if I made a habit of speaking to strangers and I replied that yes, as a matter of fact I do.
Another time I was doing research in Hampstead, outside of London, and found myself locked out of a community I wished to explore. I stood by the gate looking lost, and a resident not only let me in and gave me a tour, he then drove me around all of Hampstead as my guide, pointing out everything of interest.
I've done extensive backpack travel, and have sometimes been taken for a rough wanderer. I went to Skagen, Denmark, once, not realizing that it is a favorite vacation spot for the Danes and that accommodations would be hard to come by. I asked a man in the yard of a house if he had any vacant guest rooms. He at first had the impression that I was offering service in trade; an easily corrected misunderstanding. He was then a very informative host, telling me all the must-sees in Skagen. The next morning he gave me breakfast and we had a long talk about art, architecture, cities and travel. I regretted only staying one day but Skagen was expensive.
Another time I got caught in Norway by the seasonal change of the ferry schedule coming back to Bodo from the Lofoten Islands. I got in too late for the hostel and spent the rest of the night freezing outside the door. A man was walking back and forth trying to keep warm. At first I startled and looked up every time he came by; then got used to him and judged him harmless. We were both waiting for the train station to open. He spoke no English and I don't speak Norske but he showed me how to order breakfast, and then helped me fit my pack in a smaller, less expensive locker then the one I had chosen, as the train didn't leave for some hours. Just another fellow traveler, a stranger.
It is somewhat mind-boggling to consider how small the world has become, how our sense of geography has changed. In 1998 I took what was, for me, a life-changing course on how to think about cities. The professor, Shane Davies, had a lecture called "The Death of Distance", based on a book of the same title. The topic of the book was how instantaneous web-based communications contribute to connections across the globe. While there are many examples of how we are increasingly tied together on this small island of a planet, climate change being the big frightening one, there are also some delightful social implications.
Gianluca (Photocoyote on Flickr), from Cesena, Italy is very passionate about Seattle, particularly as regards the music scene. He came here on honeymoon with his wife Lisa, and upon his return to Italy he started several Flickr groups just for Seattle photos. One group is just for people who live in Seattle. He organizes photowalks recreating walks he did while he was here. He posts a Google map and photos of things to look for. It's really very funny to think that someone in Italy is acting as tour guide for people in Seattle, but it is also very effective. I go places and see things in my own city that I probably wouldn't have sought out otherwise. Seeing your city from far-flung viewpoints can be very enlightening.
I went on a walk today, but was late and missed the group. Flaneurism strikes me as being an individual and undirected practice, but sometimes it helps to go along with other people, because everyone is looking at something different, and sees things in a different way. That's one more good thing about strangers, too.
Gianluca (Photocoyote on Flickr), from Cesena, Italy is very passionate about Seattle, particularly as regards the music scene. He came here on honeymoon with his wife Lisa, and upon his return to Italy he started several Flickr groups just for Seattle photos. One group is just for people who live in Seattle. He organizes photowalks recreating walks he did while he was here. He posts a Google map and photos of things to look for. It's really very funny to think that someone in Italy is acting as tour guide for people in Seattle, but it is also very effective. I go places and see things in my own city that I probably wouldn't have sought out otherwise. Seeing your city from far-flung viewpoints can be very enlightening.
I went on a walk today, but was late and missed the group. Flaneurism strikes me as being an individual and undirected practice, but sometimes it helps to go along with other people, because everyone is looking at something different, and sees things in a different way. That's one more good thing about strangers, too.