Hike SF

Off Bayshore a ramp leads up to a bricked tunnel entrance titled “Morris Olson Tunnel” and dated 1949. Long since replaced by a pedestrian overpass and pointless to sweep, the dead entrance attracts piles of garbage.

So who was Morris Olson, and what did he do to deserve a tunnel? If Google reflects the world’s collective memory, Morris is lost to oblivion. Only photos of the bricks and passing blog comments mention the tunnel, and nothing mentions the man. Even the camera van had a bad day when it passed the tunnel.

Four weeks passed, each with their own excuse. Dark ages thankfully bygone.

My amnesiac alarm clock blunk 3:18am Thursday morning. My watch, less susceptible to power outages, reported I was 15 minutes too late for the last shuttle to work. I worked from home the rest of the day, but took a long lunch to mosey down to Glen Park.

A young Hispanic man leaning against a wiring box on Caesar Chavez and Mission was clad in a beanie and ski jacket. All black, of course. As I passed by he reached with his left hand towards his right shoulder. In moments he scrawled incomprehensible letters with gold sharpie.

His movement had all the grace and precision of an auto maker’s welding robot. From the corner of your eye, it’d look like he was scratching an itch–a skill I assumed was important when standing amidst a dozen people, a busy intersection, and broad daylight.

The light changed, and I had to move around him to cross. He’s going for two, I thought, stepping into the intersection. Looking back, sure enough I was right.

On the pre-BART portion of my morning walk on Monday, I very nearly bumped into the Adam and Jamie from MythBusters. Surrounded by a cameraman, sound guy, what appeared to be a producer and a few other companions, they emerged from Sun Fat Seafood on Mission. On the BART I started wondering what seafood-related myth they were busting.

Can you cut hair with crab claws? Do fish not smell under water? Can you keep a fish alive on ice for two days? We’ll see next season, I suppose.

No, fan boys, Kari was not there. Although on the BART I did run into Nori’s friend Jaime, who is–if you’ll forgive me for saying–hotter than Kari by far

Weeks back, Laurence and I became curious about strange patterns in the buildings in Mission. Along a line from roughly Harrison and 22nd to Dolores and Cesar Chavez lay buildings with strange diagonal shapes. The buildings along that line all seem to be cut by a giant scar, literally dozens of them. In some blocks the scar is an alleyway, in others a park, and in others completely missing.

Walking down San Jose Ave on Monday, I stumbled upon a long thin park, Juri Commons. Aha, that’s part of the scar! As it turns out, the scar was once the San Francisco and San Jose railroad, and was replaced by the current Caltrain tracks after the 1906 earthquake. Home owners along the tracks must have simply started to extend their buildings and fences to consume the abandoned space, except in the blocks were parks were later formed.

The cost of a ride from SF to SJ in the late 1800s was $2.50, or around $35 adjusted for inflation, which makes Caltrain’s modern $7.50 fare seem like a bargain.

My calendar at work has Friday mornings blocked off until 12:30pm to prevent Mountain View dwellers from harshing my weekly hangover after Thursday’s bender with early meetings. Remarkably chipper, I awoke at nine and decided to zig zag through the alleys near the Mission pick-up.

The neighborhood is peppered with murals. What I found along Ames between 21st and 22nd was entirely different: a long fence covered with small pieces of art. There were canvases of various sizes and styles, all without frames, and sprinkled with newspaper clippings any hippie would love. There were oils, water colors, pencils and lithographs. An alien doll dressed in wizard robes and a conic hat stood out from the group. Thrusting out both arms straight and feet sewn together, his posture seemed to say, “I’m dying for your sins!” But his vacant stare and saucer eyes, typical of any Hollywood Martian, said, “mee mee boo boo bee boo.”

I squinted at the signatures for a few minutes, looking for a pattern in the squiggles, and eventually decided these come from many artists. After another half block, I exited the alley without seeing any cars or foot traffic, which left me thinking: what an odd place for an art show.

My morning walk to Civic Center swung farther towards Potrero than usual today, and I ended up walking down Utah between Mariposa and Alameda. Two thirds of that span are furniture shops, no doubt situated strategically to serve the upscale district to the south and east. The first such block was entirely antique shops, which were crowded with beautiful furniture and presumably exorbitant prices. You know the sort of place–no price tags, because if you need to know the price, you can’t afford it.

I passed by just as the owners were opening their shops. More accurately I should say trying to open, as at least two were having considerable difficulty. The first were a couple of elderly men trying each key on a big key ring over and over again. “Did you try this one,” one would ask. “I’ve tried all of them. Twice!”

The latter was an elderly woman, weighing all of a hundred pounds, trying to push open the scissoring metal gate. It was just too heavy, but damn was she pushing. I thought about helping, but nixed the notion when it occurred to me that this must be a daily struggle. Who am I to interrupt Sisyphus?

With time to spare, I decided to cross Market and walk up Gough. I regretted this decision when I tripped on some uneven pavement and nearly broke my neck. Looking back, my reaction was a combination of a gasp and a chuckle. What are city workers to do when they find uneven pavement like this? Fix it, perhaps? Nope, just paint it bright yellow.

Thanks for all your help, San Francisco governance.