Flying Free

כ"ד טבת, תשס"ז

I learned to ride a bike, as a kid, on Sunday mornings in empty parking lots. Growing up in Manhattan there was a shortage of open space where I could learn to balance, speed up, steer and brake without inevitable mishaps that could have put me in the path of oncoming traffic or put unwitting pedestrians in the path of...well, me.

So on many Sunday mornings, my parents would wake me up early, toss me in the back seat and my bike in the trunk, and head out to the no-man's land outside shopping malls in the Blue Law area of New Jersey. We'd spend at least a couple of hours with me struggling to juggle all the necessary skills simultaneously, and with my parents taking turns holding the seat and running alongside. And then later, when I finally got it, those huge lots were my chance to fly away. I could really move, in a way I couldn't do on my own steam by any other means. I remember sailing across a parking lot until our car was a speck in the distance and then coming back the long way, turning figure eights around every set of lampposts or row of spaces between myself and the impending "time to go, now."

As the years passed, I stopped having time to do most anything, so the bicycle (and I) stayed inside. When my grandfather bought me a new adult-sized bike for a birthday, it was exciting to pick it out and to upgrade to handbrakes and multiple gears, but my chances to use it were few and short. It and its predecessor moved to the garage of the townhouse my parents bought in NJ as a combination investment /weekend home, and when I came with them there I sometimes took a much-needed break from my homework in the form of a spin around the development -- up and back along the main drag and in and out of every side road and cul-de-sac along the way, adding every possibly detour among the look-alike residences and suburban landscaping just to extend my excursion a few minutes more. A few moments of exercise, that old familiar rush of wind through my hair...then the bike went back to the garage and I went back to my papers and books.

I spent the first two of the four months I lived on kibbutz in the middle of my college years sorely wishing there was some way for my bike to join me in Israel. On kibbutz, very nearly everyone gets around by bicycle, even several older people who have graduated back to an adult-sized tricycle (with a great basket between the rear wheels for groceries, laundry, small grandchildren, etc.) Watching everyone else hop on and disappear down a path, I felt heavily encumbered by my own two feet. After quite a while of monitoring the placement of possibly-abandoned bikes and asking around for anyone who might have a spare, I was ultimately rewarded with the loan of a circa 1970s Schwinn whose owner had long since graduated to more sophisticated two-wheeled transportation but had brought it along with her when she made aliya for no reason she could articulate. I was so ecstatic to have wheels that I was more than willing to overlook the fact that there were no handbrakes (only coaster brakes, which in my mind equated with kiddie-brakes), and only one speed (again, suggestive of my old outgrown relic).

I soon realized, however, that the price I had paid for feeling grown-up had been -- as it so often is -- an imposition of weight, a deprivation of precision, a loss of invincibility in some respects and a false sense of ability in others. With this borrowed piece of simplicity I could fly again. Late at night, when an afternoon nap had left me with overflowing energy, I made dashing circuits around the kibbutz's perimeter road, gazing through the fence at the fields, the mountains in the distance, and up at the moon. Coming back from work, I could carry garbage bags under my arm, laundry over my shoulder and a bowl of dinner in my other hand and still have no problems navigating turns in the narrow paths or stopping on a dime. In the late afternoons, eager for a change of scenery, I'd ride out the back gate, through the orchards and up to the above-ground reservoirs, circling the ridge around their circumference from which I could see for miles in every direction. When I encountered hills or bumps I had to push harder and brace myself; there was no easy fix on my handlebar to mask the need for effort, nor fat treaded tires to cushion a rocky encounter. I felt real -- closer to the ground I was riding on.

At the same time, though, I was living in a bubble. Kibbutzim are, in many ways, remnants of an idealistic world that barely exists, if at all, outside their fences. No one ever, ever locks a bike there. The rows of bike racks outside the common buildings are of the type that hold the front wheel upright without the need to put down the kickstand -- nothing more. Every house's front yard has the family collection of vehicles, and just outside the doors to the laundry and the dining hall there is an ever-rotating display of bicycles whose riders have jumped off just for a moment to pick something up inside. No one ever wears a helmet; I can picture the puzzled stares that the sight of one would likely produce. And in all honesty, there's little reason for one, as certainly no one ever rides alongside a car. I imagine there's very rarely a biking injury there more severe than a skinned knee.

After my return, on the few occasions when I was out at the NJ house, I tended to prefer the old, too-small child's bicycle rather than my (not-so)-new mountain bike for my brief excursions, just to relish the nostalgic sensation it gave me. When my parents sold the house, soon after, and I had to choose one of the two to give away, common sense prevailed and I said my good-byes.

Several years later, when I finally managed to bring my bicycle up to Ithaca and collected the appropriate gear, confidence and weather to ride around campus and town, I had a very distinct sense of something gained and something lost. Gained, because I had "gotten into" biking again, felt secure in my own ability to control my location at each instant of motion, and with the help of my gears could tackle all but the steepest hills. Lost, because the lightness was gone. There was a weight under me that I had to drag with me wherever I rode, a weight on my head that shielded me not only from injury but from the invigorating breeze rushing by, a weight on the frame of the bike and my keychain and my mind when I had to secure my property wherever I parked, and a weight on my conscience when I refused to obey the minute cycling rules on campus that would have had me getting on and off so often it would have been simpler just to walk. I had transportation -- fun, recreational, even exhilarating at times (think downhill) -- but not freedom.

The bicycle was damaged that year (not while I was on it, b"H), and I ended up leaving it behind in Ithaca for anyone dedicated and mechanical-minded enough to fix it. As for myself, I was determined to find something similar to that vintage Schwinn on which I could replicate my dreams. Not being quite patient enough to wait until the photo in my mind's eye showed up on Craigslist, I paid too much for an old Raleigh in not-so-good condition. It served me well while it lasted (except for the amusing morning when one of the pedals fell off on my way to work and got eaten by the street cleaner behind me), and I particularly liked the double insurance of its coaster brakes and front handbrake (especially as neither was as immediately responsive as I might have wished). I became more comfortable riding in traffic, and with the assistance of a great big double basket, zipped my way to work grocery shopping and on other errands around town...but then one night the bike was stolen, basket and all.

So I've been watching the postings again. Part of me, the part that is feeling severely restrained and unexercised, is tempted to take the first good deal that comes along, so I can get moving again. The other part of me wants to hold out for my dream bike, the one that lets me fly with the wind. But what I've realized recently -- what prompted me to write all this out -- is that what I'm really waiting for goes beyond a bike model, beyond a reminiscent connection with certain past scenarios. There's a little part of me that's still hoping for the freedom associated with those situations, which I will likely never be able to replicate, at least not with any permanence. Because no matter how perfect the vehicle is, no matter how classic, how simple, how elementary...the life through which I will ride it is just a heck of a lot more complicated.

Brilliant!

כ"א טבת, תשס"ז

I've been slowly making my way through the archives of Treppenwitz, which is a great read (and why start a good book from the middle??) and I came across a post calling attention to the original Park(ing) installation.

The concept is that a parking space is simply a small piece of urban real estate, available for (very) short-term rent at relatively low cost. The creators of this project decided that the usual assumption that these spaces are available to vehicles only is overrated. They fed the meter and created a 2-hour park -- complete with grass, tree and bench. Beyond pulling a creative prank, these artists were making a statement about how much of our public space is devoted to vehicles rather than people, and how much our physical environment affects what we do...as well as vice versa. Because people used this space, and enjoyed it.

The idea caught and spread, and a year later the same group led a Park(ing) Day, on which they "planted" five such temporary green spaces and other groups around San Francisco as well as elsewhere in the world joined in with many more. Their comment on the event:

In addition to calling attention to the need for broader discourse regarding public space in urban contexts, we sought to test public response to the PARKs in a variety of socioeconomic situations. We are pleased to report that the PARKs were generally met with a varying mix of surprise, approval, joy and incredulity. A few people thought perhaps we'd fallen out of our tree. Perhaps we have.

I don't think so. I think they're brilliant.

Living in Washington, DC

י"ב טבת, תשס"ז

Many of you who actually come here from time to time (are there any of you left?) do so in an attempt to find out what I'm up to -- how my life is, what I'm doing these days, etc. If that's been your goal, I haven't been too helpful. For some reason it's been hard for me to get into the "swing" of writing on a regular basis again. There was a short while when I kept having ideas for amusing current posts, but that was when my brain was backlogged with Israel material I wanted to record and none of them were worthwhile enough to withstand a delay of a couple of months.

I do, however, have a somewhat generic list of likes and dislikes of this new city of residence of mine which I'll share in an attempt to get a little closer to the right subject matter. Mind, these are not about the more intimate aspects of my experience here, nor are they specific to the Jewish community (although some of them do relate to my personal needs as a shabbat- & kashrut-observant individual). Many of them relate to -- surprise, surprise! -- transportation. They are not comprehensive and I may add new points as the come to mind. But without further ado:

Things I like about DC

• There are trees -- and particularly grass -- in locations other than parks. That is, unless you identify any area within a city which has grass and trees as a park. Despite being from Manhattan, I choose not to, because I prefer to think that there is indeed space within an ordinary metropolitan setting for green things that grow, and I point to them here as proof. (There's nothing like circular reasoning, huh?)
• I like the general feel of the city. This is not something you're going to get a photo of, and it's not even something I can fully explain, but I think it's similar to the result of a successful recipe. There's a blend of "Northern" and "Southern" here that results in just the right speed. People are relaxed and laid back, but not too much so (which might not be saying much, coming from a New Yorker, but that's who's running this blog). There's a mix of urban and suburban characteristics (varying by neighborhood, of course, but all within the city) that makes neither density nor sprawl overwhelming.
• All entrances to the Metro (what the subway here is called) have escalators. Most or all have elevators as well, but the point is that the mode is not reserved for the convenience of only those who can walk up & down a gazillion stairs, nor are the possible routes limited for those who can't. Of course, in addition to the relative newness for the system, its sheer depth below ground may have something to do with the mechanized egress:

• While we're on the subject of the Metro, the electronic boards that give advanced traveler info are great. These list the next several trains that are on their way, identified by their line color and final stop, and specify how many minutes until they are due to arrive. Granted, these "minutes" are sometimes counted by a slightly, er, flexible number of seconds...but even so, I find it's helpful in lowering stress levels just to have an estimate.
  
• Along the same lines, nearly all the signal lights at crosswalks have countdown timers to let pedestrians know exactly how long they have to get across the street before the light changes. In addition to this primary purpose, which obviously helps prevent people being stranded in the middle of a wide intersection against the light, it also informs traffic waiting to travel in the perpendicular direction when they will have the right-of-way. This allows often-necessary downtime for drivers and cyclists to read directions, take a drink, find something in a bag, etc. without being nervous that they will be slow to respond to the change to green. I've also found, as a pedestrian, that encountering a timer near the end of its cycle in the direction perpendicular to that I am traveling will convince me to wait for my own walk signal, soon to come, rather than crossing against the light.
• Overall, there is relatively little incline on the streets here, and drivers seem fairly aware of the potential presence of cyclists. That may be a fair comparison only to New York...but regardless, I've been enjoying biking as a means of transportation (that is, until my bike was stolen, but that's a whole 'nother issue...)
  

Things I Don't Like About DC

• There seems to be a particularly high rate -- and if not, at least a particularly high visibility -- of homelessness here. Granted, my only strong point of comparison is New York, but it seems to me (partially based on the sharp decline of homelessness there in the 90s) that there should be some way for the city's government to give these people the assistance they need. Certainly, non-profit organizations with this specific goal abound, and I donate to select ones when I can, but I do believe that when the covered entryway to the local library becomes a fully-booked night dormitory...something has gone horribly wrong with the public welfare system.
• The sparsity of locations to buy packaged retail food in this city is remarkable. Supermarkets are few and far between, and the very few small grocery stores do not come close to filling the gap. Fresh produce is available with varying consistency, quality and variety at only some of these outlets, or at farmers' markets that only take place at certain places on certain days in certain seasons. This is inconvenient for general shopping needs, but nearly as annoying is the resultant void if I ever neglect to make lunch to bring to work. Wherever I worked in NY, if I didn't have time to put anything together or forgot to grab something from home, I would simply run downstairs to the little grocery on the corner, or the supermarket down the block, or even the fruit stand across the street, and get something to tide me over. It was never a problem. Here, in that situation, about the only place within reach that sells anything resembling real food that isn't prepared and very-not-kosher is CVS pharmacy!
• I like that the weather here in the winter is a bit warmer and milder (although honestly, I'm not really sure whether it's location or just the way things are this year)...but the summer is awful. I moved here in August and so only had to endure about a month of super-duper-horrendous humidity, but it was enough to make me rather dread the coming of June.
• It's against the rules to eat or drink in the Metro. What's up with that? I understand that they're trying to keep the place clean, and to their credit, it is. But frankly, I'm not sure so much of the dirt in the NYC subway is food-related, and even if it is...why not just make littering illegal? They don't seem to have much difficulty enforcing the no food/drink (although I can't imagine why), so why do they think the same obedience wouldn't hold for something so much more reasonable? Meanwhile, I have to surreptitiously sneak bites of a granola bar from my bag...
• The streets here seem designed expressly to taunt people who are, uh, directionally challenged. (I don't know anyone like that, do you?) I mean, the quadrant system can be learned, and it makes some degree of sense. Even the diagonal state-named avenues randomly criss-crossing the lettered and numbered streets can be gotten used to. But the absolute, ultimate affront to sanity and reason are the two-way streets that become one-way, the one-way streets that suddenly become one-way in the other direction, and the streets that simply cease to exist and then begin again several blocks later. Toss in a few "no left turns" and it's enough to drive a person mad! (And remember, I discovered most of this while on a bicycle, where every left turn is already a challenge and every extra block is on my own steam...)