On Walking
I like to walk. I live in San Francisco. Deduce for yourself then, dear reader: I am a happy man. Indeed, San Francisco has to be one of the great walking cities of the world. Concentrated within a 7x7 mile sachet at the edge of the San Francisco Peninsula, its proximity boasts a dynamic hodgepodge of wildly individual and historically significant neighborhoods, hills serving as both subject and vehicle for expansive vistas, lovely parks and a generally temperate climate. I could go on, but I must admit: there is far too much in this subject to condense into a single post. So I’ve decided to “run her through” (not a subtly-sexual pun but in the British sense of the phrase) in a series of periodic installments dedicated both to the art of walking itself and the myriad wonders of doing so in San Francisco. Today, I hope to offer a brief introduction to both.
Humans have been walking for at least five million years, and over this stretch of time we’ve developed a number of clever ways to apply, modify and even circumvent this ability. Today, people walk for the purposes of travel, income, exercise and (quite farcically) competitive sport. Certainly all of these approaches are entirely valid though, in my opinion, only harness a fraction of walking's potential. My manner of walking seems to encompass each of these categories and, because of this, is difficult to define or codify in a way that offers the reader a trim understanding of what I’m getting at.
It may help to note that I am certainly not the first to embrace this approach to walking. The French have their Bourgeoisie “strolling,” the English their free spirited “rambling,” Thoreau wrote an entire treatise on the blessings of “sauntering” in 1862, while Buddhist sects have espoused “mindful walking” for centuries. And though I have an admittedly summary understanding of the role walking played in world cultures throughout history – a fascinating sociological issue that I hope to explore in greater depth with time – the ideals present in each also lie at the heart of my own love for walking. Quite simply, it is the notion that walking forges a connection between person and place, mind and body. It is the only way to truly come to know a city, and it is a remarkable way to come to know oneself.
With this as our foundation, a spectrum of approaches to walking becomes clear. Over to the left (or right, if you are so inclined), there is what I might call the “controlled” approach. The path is clearly laid out beforehand, the areas of interest highlighted and, in a sense, one has already begun to construct their experiences, reactions and conclusions well before even stepping foot outside. At the other end of things we have the “wandering” approach, in which one walks without preconceived direction, background (historical or otherwise) or goals beyond perhaps the experience of place and self. The pros and cons of both are immediately apparent, and the trick is to find the perfect balance between the two to suit individual taste, circumstance and mood. Personally, I love to seek out the forgotten roots of an area through history. Resources such as Rand Richards’ accessible “Historic Walks in San Francisco” or the public library’s phenomenal “City Guides” walking tours (free of charge, best on weekdays) are fantastic starting points in this vein. And yet, it is only after fully assimilating this knowledge, training my eye to pick up the faint specters of what once was, that I can return to the balance of my walks and focus again on the greater picture, experiencing reality through place and time.
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"The best way to know a strange city is to walk everywhere... Like all museums, Rome is hard on the feet, and the hills of Rome, though scarcely apparent to the motorist, are real enough, especially in the evening. On my way back, footsore and weary, I would sometimes think that the hills of Rome had been multiplied by ten or twenty. I would lie in bed at night and remember a day's walk, piazza by piazza, church by church, fountain by fountain, and palace by palace... and so, gradually, the map of Rome took shape in my head, and I realized that a city which had seemed so large at first was, in reality, so small that I could walk across it from the Pincian Gate to the Gate of St Paul in less than an hour." - H.V. Morton, "A Traveller in Rome." (1957)
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Humans have been walking for at least five million years, and over this stretch of time we’ve developed a number of clever ways to apply, modify and even circumvent this ability. Today, people walk for the purposes of travel, income, exercise and (quite farcically) competitive sport. Certainly all of these approaches are entirely valid though, in my opinion, only harness a fraction of walking's potential. My manner of walking seems to encompass each of these categories and, because of this, is difficult to define or codify in a way that offers the reader a trim understanding of what I’m getting at.
It may help to note that I am certainly not the first to embrace this approach to walking. The French have their Bourgeoisie “strolling,” the English their free spirited “rambling,” Thoreau wrote an entire treatise on the blessings of “sauntering” in 1862, while Buddhist sects have espoused “mindful walking” for centuries. And though I have an admittedly summary understanding of the role walking played in world cultures throughout history – a fascinating sociological issue that I hope to explore in greater depth with time – the ideals present in each also lie at the heart of my own love for walking. Quite simply, it is the notion that walking forges a connection between person and place, mind and body. It is the only way to truly come to know a city, and it is a remarkable way to come to know oneself.
With this as our foundation, a spectrum of approaches to walking becomes clear. Over to the left (or right, if you are so inclined), there is what I might call the “controlled” approach. The path is clearly laid out beforehand, the areas of interest highlighted and, in a sense, one has already begun to construct their experiences, reactions and conclusions well before even stepping foot outside. At the other end of things we have the “wandering” approach, in which one walks without preconceived direction, background (historical or otherwise) or goals beyond perhaps the experience of place and self. The pros and cons of both are immediately apparent, and the trick is to find the perfect balance between the two to suit individual taste, circumstance and mood. Personally, I love to seek out the forgotten roots of an area through history. Resources such as Rand Richards’ accessible “Historic Walks in San Francisco” or the public library’s phenomenal “City Guides” walking tours (free of charge, best on weekdays) are fantastic starting points in this vein. And yet, it is only after fully assimilating this knowledge, training my eye to pick up the faint specters of what once was, that I can return to the balance of my walks and focus again on the greater picture, experiencing reality through place and time.
--------------------
"The best way to know a strange city is to walk everywhere... Like all museums, Rome is hard on the feet, and the hills of Rome, though scarcely apparent to the motorist, are real enough, especially in the evening. On my way back, footsore and weary, I would sometimes think that the hills of Rome had been multiplied by ten or twenty. I would lie in bed at night and remember a day's walk, piazza by piazza, church by church, fountain by fountain, and palace by palace... and so, gradually, the map of Rome took shape in my head, and I realized that a city which had seemed so large at first was, in reality, so small that I could walk across it from the Pincian Gate to the Gate of St Paul in less than an hour." - H.V. Morton, "A Traveller in Rome." (1957)
posted by Ned at 12:21 AM
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