Streets of Berkeley

I walked the avenue till my legs felt like stone
I heard the voices of friends vanished and gone
At night I could hear the blood in my veins
Black and whispering as the rain
On the streets of Philadelphia...

Recently, I rediscovered "Streets of Philadelphia" by Bruce Springsteen, part of whose lyrics are printed above. I don't remember the movie at all, but the song's melody stayed with me since I saw the movie many years ago. Now, I'm playing the song, over and over again.

I often wonder how many people wander their neighborhood streets, destination unknown or neglected. The simple joy of treading familiar and foreign territory, discovering the expected and the new, in urban forests or suburban plains, surpasses the joys I experience from entertainment, digital or analog. I only regret that I never thought about carrying about my sketchbook until now. There were so many scenes I witnessed that are unique to their moments.

But I have always walked the streets alone. The last time I dragged someone out on my sidewalk-hikes, he was practically begging to go back to his place (sorry, Steven ^_^;;;). Perhaps it was the aimlessness of my Spaziergang, or the fact that I couldn't find the school I was looking for (Hillside School), that exhausted him. I could hike up the mountainous neighborhoods of Northside and come back down without rest, and expel barely a tired breath. The hiking trips in Alum Rock Park with my father must be the culprit behind my fitness. I don't think a lot of friends that I know can lay claim to that privilege.

Left with my own mind as my companion, I could wander and end up in a outlandish street, unaware of my path (this is how I found the aforementioned school one day and couldn't retrace my path for Steven). In this way, I have walked great distances that many would prefer to bike. I dared to walk to the neighboring town of Albany twice so far, and a good distance into Oakland many times. After every session of depression and social anxiety group help at Kaiser in Oakland, I would walk towards my Berkeley home at nine in the evening, four miles away (the Target store in Albany is 4.5 miles away from my current residence), with the intention of catching the 51 should it chance to pause at the nearest bus-stop. Countless times I end up missing the bus, watching it zoom by, and kept walking, knowing that the next time the bus comes along, I may as well be close to finishing my trip by foot.

These lonely trips by aching foot gave me many views of the streets of Berkeley and Oakland as they really are, when most people might zoom by in their cars and bikes, privileged as they are to possess such convenient transportation. I watched cats and squirrels dodge looming vehicles and duck under parked ones. I listened to lonesome rants of homeless folk as they carted their shopping carts to the next trashcan. I smelled their repulsive isolated body odor lingering near store corners and sidewalk trees. I avoided catcalls from street roamers as they hung around solitary 7-Elevens.

All this I witnessed with my eyes and ears, and no one lent theirs to accompany mine. But I want someone to join me someday. I cannot walk alone all the time. It will be nice to actually talk to someone while I embark on a Spaziergang. And frankly, walking alone is, well, lonesome. The silence of the neighborhood, especially that of Northside, hovers impatiently over me.

Funny thing is: the reason why I love fall and winter more than the warmer seasons is because I love to walk. Nothing, absolutely nothing, delights me more than strolling in the rain on the hilly Northside, with raindrops dripping off barren trees and onto my rain-jacket, and my breath seeping out between my lips and dropping down with the weight of the rain. Even better: nocturnal strolls. December chill + 11pm + downpour = winter delight.

So? Will you join me one day? Will you risk hypothermia and wander with me in the winter rain? Or sweat and wheeze in the summer evening while I laugh and point at the bay-view? Soon? Later? Never?

Please?