We're Going to Berlin

Germany's transformation during World Cup soccer

Tuber Leaves, February 2008

I am what people would call a product of nineteen years of San Francisco schooling: a gay-friendly musician who eats mostly organic foods and wonders  how humans could live together more peacefully. An unapologetic Green Party supporter, my day job is to promote the rapidly renewable resource of bamboo. I read Vonnegut, Chomsky, Abbey, as well as blogs questioning the official version of what happened on 9/11. In short, I am the last person my friends call when they have extra  tickets to a baseball game.

However, behind the granola curtain lurks an undeniable reality: I am German. Yes, born and raised, 100 percent beer and pretzels. What this means, of course, is that I love soccer. Soccer, or — let's call it by its name — football, is in my bones. Always has been. From childhood memories of retrieving stray balls from the neighbor's flower bed to my one-way ticket to the U.S. on a soccer scholarship, the chase after this little patchwork of leather has been so much more than a past-time; it has guided me through life like an invisible friend who not only offers a looking glass into a common past but whose evolution continues to provide inspiration as well as self-reflection. To quote myself as a nine-year-old who had just completed his first full season with a soccer club, "Mom, without football I just couldn't live."

In 2000, as soon as it became clear that World Cup ‘06 would be held in Germany, I booked the trip. That is, in my head I did. In January of 2006, when the time had finally come to hunt for game tickets and cheap airfare, I confessed the clandestine plan to Deb, my partner of one and a half years. Swayed by my visions of a better world through soccer, and, being a trooper, she immediately warmed to the idea of joining me in Europe with the primary objective of catching as many games in as many locations as possible.

Summer arrived quickly and it was time to tune out the depressing news from Iraq and focus on positive human activities. And since both the American and Iranian teams had qualified there was hope that their countries' leaders would perhaps just tone it down for a month. We had decided to spend the first week of World Cup in San Francisco to take in the Latino football fever in our Mission District neighborhood before joining the action in Alemania.


June 9
Our living room, Mission District, SF
Germany - Costa Rica, opening match

Needless to say, I could not bear to watch this game outside the sanctity of my own home. Too much doubt had been sown in the media about this German team and its capacity to make it to the second round, not to mention winning the Cup. Since I would be the only one in my neighborhood rooting for Germany I wanted to be alone in case the unthinkable happened. But thank the heavens for Telemundo TV and Mexican sports commentators. Before the first whistle of the game was blown, their unbridled joy and excitement had already eased the tension. Who cares about winning when the whole world is poised for a party? Of course, this didn't keep me from jumping off the couch and dancing like a 6-year-old when German defender Phillip Lahm scored the first goal four minutes into the game in what would end up a rousing 4:2 win. Deb looked at me in utter amazement. My cover as intellectual non-jock was blown.


June 11
El Farolito Sports Bar, Mission District, SF
Mexico – Iran

When the proprietor opened the door at 8.30am, a flock of loyal fans filed into the bar. Before the game even started I was chatting with Manuel from Guatemala and his friend José from El Salvador. Neither of their teams had qualified for the tournament, but I could sense a Latino pride that made their hearts beat for the big brother to the north. When Omar Bravo scored the go-ahead goal for heavily favored Mexico we had just changed the subject from Hugo Chavez' chances of reforming South America to Nestor Kirchner's accomplishments with the ever so fragile Argentinean economy.

After Yahya Golmohammadi tied it for Iran, Manuel poured forth with his doubts about the land reforms in Guatemala. His parents, sixth-generation corn farmers, could hardly keep themselves afloat. Having to compete with subsidized corn from the U.S., the only reason they could afford to retire on their small plot of land was because of the monthly envelope containing their son's dollars. Manuel, who held a pretty steady gig as a house painter, felt it his duty to spare his parents the fate of so many of their friends and neighbors who had to abandon their land to look for work in overcrowded Guatemala City or Antigua. As the game went into the second half with the score still tied, the mood got quieter, though never desperate. Then, seventy-six minutes into the game, it was  once again Omar Bravo who brought relief to us all. Another three minutes later Antonio Zinha topped it off with another goal, kicking off a day of honking and flag waving in the streets of San Francisco.


June 17
Downtown Kaiserslautern, Germany
Italy – USA

My parents picked me up from the Frankfurt airport in the afternoon. (Deb wouldn't arrive in Germany for another two weeks). Without tickets, but giddy and unwilling to heed my jet-lag, we drove to the smallest World Cup city of Kaiserslautern where the U.S. team was to take on Italy that night. There are several large U.S. Army barracks in what they call K-Town, and it showed the minute we drove into town. Hanging from windows and balconies everywhere were the Stars and Stripes, often intertwined with Italian and German flags, giving this medieval town of 100,000 inhabitants the appearance of a United Nations convention.

We parked the car and walked to Stiftsplatz, the main town square, where giant screens had been set up as a public service to thousands of ticketless soccer fans. To foster cross-cultural understanding and invite fans to share their excitement, these viewing areas had sprung up in cities and towns across Germany. That night, however, not even Stiftsplatz could contain the onslaught of people. By the time we got there, it was filled to capacity.

Getting around the narrow alleys to find alternate screens was like swimming in molasses. We longingly peeked through open apartment windows and shuffled past crowded pub entries to catch snippets of the game on obstructed television sets. Italy's go-ahead goal sent a surge through the wandering mass, erupting into climactic shock waves only moments later when Cristian Zaccardo put the ball in his own goal to tie it for the U.S.

We finally found a standing-room only wine garden (K-Town and surroundings in the Rhineland Palatinate region are known for their wines) to watch the dramatic second half. Three red card ejections and 45 minutes later, the referee finally blew the whistle to end the game. As if all the frustration of constantly having to answer for your government's policies had suddenly been popped like a balloon, the American fans began to sing, scream and dance. Drunken with national pride and German beer, they celebrated their small victory into the wee hours. That night, after the most captivating game of the tournament until that point, none of the Italians and Germans held it against them — if only their country's leaders could find such beauty in a draw.


June 20
FIFA World Cup Stadium (aka Fritz Walter Stadium), Kaiserslautern
Paraguay - Trinidad & Tobago

When I was a kid, stadiums were named after rivers, geographic regions, or people who had made social contributions to the respective team's hometown. It was a time when the meaning of World Cup was simple: The best football teams from around the world were invited by a host nation to kick a ball into the opponent's net until the last remaining team got to hoist a little cylindrical trophy. In short, football was just football, and FIFA ranked in significance right up there with the National Wood Flooring Association.

When my mom, stepfather, brother and I arrived at Fritz Walter...I mean...FIFA World Cup Stadium to attend the only game we had been able to score tickets for, it quickly became clear that we were being ushered into a brave new FIFA world. Upon entry into the fortified gates of FIFAland we were funneled through licensed merchandise stands and Budweiser-only beer booths. The only thing reminding us that we were actually in the same town that had served us Bischoff Bier and Leberknoedel mit Weinsauerkraut only three days earlier was the stadium announcer's repeated and obviously choreographed Welcome to FIFA World Cup host city KAISERSLAUTERN!!

From the moment we took our seats we were barraged with mega decibel jingles. Multiple video screens were giving us detailed instructions as to who and what to pay attention to, and when and where. Like a frozen dinner, this experience had been neatly packaged for easy and frequent consumption. And yet, thriving in the compost heaps of McFIFA were the connections and friendships between the Soca Warriors, the singing and dancing fans of Trinidad & Tobago, the smallest nation to ever have qualified for the tournament, and the Germans. To have 30,000 Germans dress up in Caribbean red shirts and chant “Trinidad, Trinidad,” points to a deeper cultural connection. Despite the Soca Warriors' eventual 2:0 loss that night, the Germans and Trinis made a lasting impact on each other.


June 22
Downtown Stuttgart
Croatia – Australia

The tournament had advanced to the last group games and most match-ups were now do or die. As my hometown Stuttgart was playing host to Australia and Croatia in the evening game, I knew there were going to be a lot of Croats downtown. Having grown up with many children of guest workers who came to Germany after World War II, I had a feeling that there would be a disproportionate number of Croats, but little did I know that thousands of Aussies had left winter behind to cheer on their underdog squad.

When I got off the tram around 2pm the mayhem was in full swing. Grown men were singing folk songs out of tune and in languages I couldn't decipher. Pregnant women were flaunting bellies painted with soccer ball checkers. On Schlossplatz, the old castle square, a group of Aussies dressed as kangaroos were bouncing across the cobblestone. The beer was showing its effects; by the time I had worked my way to the gigantic screen right in front of the castle to watch the afternoon game between Italy and Czech Republic, the honking, hollering and whistling had crescendoed to symphonic levels.

The Squadra Azzurra beat the Czechs to qualify for the second round, which sent thousands of Italians into frenzy. Not to be outdone, Croats and Australians cranked their party into high gear while heading for the stadium. I journeyed back for a mellow evening at my friend’s garden in the suburbs. That night we heard the Aussies singing into the wee hours from ten kilometers away, celebrating the Socceroo's last minute goal that advanced them into the second round for the first time in the nation's history.


June 30
Frankfurt airport
Germany – Argentina

When Germany beat Sweden 2:0 in the second round, two fates were sealed. One, a previously skeptical national psyche was catapulted into a new and unknown sphere of levity, and two, Deb and I were destined to watch the quarterfinal between Germany and Argentina, the most important event in Germany since the fall of the Berlin wall, in the Frankfurt airport, due to her flight’s scheduled arrival thirty minutes before kick-off.

If the German flags hanging from every balcony, car window, and store front weren't enough of an indication that the country was undergoing a historical transformation, the young team's refreshing playing style and ensuing four-game winning streak launched the nation into a new orbit. The very same black, red, and gold stripes, whose mere presence had left a vile taste in my mouth as a teenager, were now triggering a new, more refined set of responses. Here I was, standing before my people who in the course of sixty years had evolved from tank makers to solar energy consultants, feeling at ease. The nation that had been hell-bent on starting wars was now using their god-given gift to organize the planet's biggest multicultural party. Riding this wave of brotherly love, we were jazzed to beat Argentina.

A short train ride from Stuttgart, I arrived at the Frankfurt airport in time to meet Deb at the gate. We hurried through the terminal, and, as I had suspected we would, found a viewing area equipped with big screens and a beer booth. We got there right after kick-off, to standing room only. Safe for the commentator’s voice, the airport was as quiet as a church, as if the whole country had ground to a halt.

After a scoreless first half, we were in for a rude awakening when Ayala scored for Argentina only four minutes into the second half. It was the first time the German team had fallen behind in the tournament, and the moans and groans in the airport crowd hinted at a dwindling faith in the team's good fortunes. In the 80th minute, Polish born striker Miroslav Klose's header into the top left corner of the Argentine goal lifted us all off the ground. In a matter of a split second, eerie silence erupted into a thunderous wave of screams, outstretched arms, and flying objects that quickly rippled into the international terminal.

Regardless of the outcome of the game and the tournament, this goal opened a door through which there was no return ticket. In one final push, a nation incarcerated in the dark and dank vaults of incurable angst, chronic pessimism, and irredeemable guilt was now riding this team's carefree spirit for good. If eleven football players could dispel the image of the boring, mechanical German and defy all odds to come back against a seemingly invincible opponent, then certainly we the people, the descendants of Mozart, Rilke, and Goethe, could trust in our own creative powers to recover our generation's most oppressed treasure: our heart.

The eventual win in penalty kicks was all icing. Deb got to see my stoic compatriots jump in the air four more times, showing displays of affection that had been unheard of in such latitudes up until then. Back in Stuttgart, we were greeted by face-painted, flag-clad mobs, arm in arm, dancing on a sea of broken beer bottles, chanting their irreverent new anthem: "Berlin, Berlin, wir fahren nach Berlin," meaning "we're going to Berlin."


July 9
Berlin
Italy vs. France, final

When Deb and I decided to go to Berlin for the final we had no idea that the game itself would be all but an afterthought. In a way, the Germans’ last minute overtime defeat in the semifinals at the hands of a relentless yet uninspiring Italian squad felt like divine interference, a final exam administered to my people, testing us on whether the displays of universal goodwill had been authentic or just emotional gravy spilling over from a winning train. If any city was going to be the barometer of a new “Germanness,” it would have to be Berlin. Divided and walled-in after the war, Berlin had not only been the symbol of Germany’s image to the world, but also a mirror of its internal state of mind throughout its illustrious past and into the present. Once again, Berlin, one of the cultural hubs of Europe, had been chosen to host the world. However, unlike the 1936 Summer Olympics the 2006 World Cup final promised to be a healing force in an otherwise divided world. And there I was, with my Jewish girlfriend, right in the middle of it.

The day of the final, after Germany had beaten Portugal to take third place the previous night, Deb and I took a stroll near the Brandenburg Gate. Swallowed by a  stream of football fans headed to the infamous fan mile, Germany’s largest public viewing  area, we got swept up in the euphoria of seeing our national heroes at their victory, or rather third place parade. The skeptical look on Deb’s face signaled that she had seen enough big crowds, a sentiment I tacitly shared after a month of non-stop football mania. We veered into an empty side street that let out to a vast landscape of charcoal colored slabs. Rising before us like a labyrinth, the Holocaust Memorial’s undulating field of rectangular blocks beckoned like a civilization within a civilization.

At the far side of the memorial, where a row of shorter steles gave the appearance of a ramped entryway, two young men were sitting on one of the blocks. Wearing black, red, and gold hats and scarves, they were enjoying a leisurely morning smoke when approached by a balding gentleman.

“This is an insult to history,” he said with a heavy French accent. “You call this affront to the senses a memorial? How would you like it if I sit on your grave?”

Caught off-guard, the two Germans glanced at each other. After a brief moment, one of them looked up and said, “Maybe the dead like the close contact with the living. We are very comfortable here, so why shouldn’t they be?”

“Ah non, monsieur, this is not the way to honor the victims of genocide,” the Frenchman said. “Children are climbing on the ashes of injustice like a playground or something.”

“But why is it so bad to play? We can’t change what happened, but we can change how we want to behave today. If we can play today, then everybody will play tomorrow.”

The three of them went on to discuss the matter while Deb and I wandered through the memorial. This was the game we had come to Berlin for.

The Big Island of Hawaii

A bucolic paradise in the shadow of a menacing volcano

Global Rhythm Magazine, September 2005

Life on Earth is an exercise in impermanence and constant change. Although we spend most of our time here trying to attain certainty, the only thing we can be sure of is that all things must pass. It's not surprising then that what cracks our ostensibly unbreakable shell of security is Mother Earth herself. Floods, droughts, earthquakes, hurricanes, shifting continents, ice ages, and ultimately earth's undeniable status as a piece of cosmic debris fading into an ever expanding universe, occasionally remind us to cherish what we've got rather than chase what we want.

The island of Hawaii is one of the few places in the Western world where human beings have not yet managed - and don't care - to hide from the creative and destructive powers of nature. Also known as the Big Island, this 800,000 year young and 4,038 square miles large island (93 miles long and 76 miles wide) is one of the last actively forming land masses in the world, and its 120,000 inhabitants are reminded daily of its growing pains and joys. In the shadows of Mt. Kilauea - the most active volcano in the world - life adapts to a constant lava flow that changes land patterns from one day to the next, converts shorelines into clouds of steam, and sends a thick cover of "vog" (volcanic fog) into the skies above.

The Big Island is a climatic, biologic and geologic smorgasbord. With desert to semi-arid to temperate to tropical zones, you could be caught in monsoon-like downpours while your neighbor is taking a swim on a sunny beach five miles down the road. You could be watching sea turtles swim at the foot of Mauna Kea (Snow Mountain) while people are skiing at the top (13,796 ft). You could walk on white sand beaches on the West side (Kona) and the same day climb on lava tubes on the East side (Hilo). There are plants, birds and insects that are found nowhere else in the world, although over 300 of them (and counting) find themselves on the endangered species list.

Yes, like so many other indigenous places around the world, modern civilization has taken its heavy toll on Hawai'i. Ever since Captain Cook set foot on the islands in 1778, the native life based on respect for the sea, the heavens and the earth has little by little been replaced by annexation treaties and high-rise hotels. Yet somehow the spirit of hospitality and love of the land has been handed down to the island's current residents, both native and non-native. This legacy was made clear to me during a week in the remote community of Pahoa in the South East of The Big Island, where I got to hang out with its spirited and musical residents.

Iopa K. Maunakea is a big man with a big heart and an even bigger smile. The Ukulele strapped around his neck seems to have found a permanent home in the warming cradle of chest and hands. On my first night in Pahoa I see him play with his band Bruddah Kuz at Punatix Bar, but I know I have discovered the source of his musical inspiration when I bump into him and his songs at the Sunday farmer's market on Old Pahoa Road, surrounded by orchids, pineapples and a motley crowd of earthy, happy looking people:

"I'd like to thank you all for being there for me And you keep coming back, and you'll know just what I mean I know that this is the place that I want to be Without the We there is no Me"

The last verse of "Waimanalo Hangloose" gives the visitor a good idea of what life on the East Side of the Big Island is all about. In a place where few homes have running water and the goddess Pele decides who will stay and who must move (fiery lava buried the entire town of Kalapana, just a few miles south of Pahoa, from 1986 to 1990), looking out for each other is essential. And while the issues of colonialism and globalization and their effects on ecology and native populations are manifest in a growing sovereignty movement, the vibe one gets from the locals is that we're all in this together. In fact, it seems that the love for the land and respect for each other is their ultimate defense against an invasive entity that seems systemic and anonymous.

Nature, music and reverence to the powers of creation - listening to Iopa it occurs to me that they are all one and the same. You almost don't have to talk to him to know that his music is inspired by the magic of this land and his place in a long line of ancestors, but should you decide to ask you will be charmed by a magnetic stream of mana'o (thoughts), observations, humor and kindness. Conversation will ultimately always shift to Katherine K. Maunakea, Iopa's "Kupuna " (grandmother) whose governing principles of life in a fragile, ever-changing world rings true for all of us sentient breathing organisms: "In order to keep what you have, you must give it away. Give it away freely. To keep learning you must educate others."

Music in Pahoa is all around you. From marimba ensembles to Buddhist chanters to the dreadlocked, didgeridoo-blowing Austrian expatriate to the local kids playing grunge metal with an island twist, sound happens all the time, especially when and where you least expect it.

On a rainy Saturday afternoon I'm invited to jam with local folk band Into Wishin' at their rehearsal space that is literally located in the middle of the jungle. To get there I have to drive up a washed-out dirt road (Pahoa got 50 inches of rain this winter) and look for my right turn at telephone pole #75. After that it's all instinct for a city cat like myself. I spin my wheels through a tiny opening in the dense and lush rain forest vegetation and magically slide into a secret garden-like cove, almost slamming through the mosquito nets that separate the musicians from the jungle.

Next thing I know I'm equipped with an acoustic-electric Ovation guitar, plugged into a state-of-the-art sound board and encouraged to let my hair down (it actually stands up in such humidity). The result is a solar-powered stew of mellow island folk injected with a tinge of urban/industrial acoustic restlessness transmitted directly to whatever creatures might dwell beneath the dripping green curtain wrapped all around us. The one thing I know for sure is these creatures are nothing like the neighbors at my Oakland rehearsal space...

On my last night I get another musical treat, something that puts an exclamation mark to a week of swimming in tide-pools, climbing on lava tubes and riding a motorcycle along narrow-winding coastal route 132 (Red Road): An all-out jam session at a birthday party with Iopa and the rest of the gang. Iopa busts out all the Bruddah Kuz crowd pleasers and before I know it there are two more guitars, violin, flute and percussion grooving along. I for one can't help but throw in some Franco double stops and an occasional Habib Koite finger pick. Now that's globalization!

Iopa Maunakea sums it up for all of us in nei Keia la, the Grande Finale of the evening:

"I'm living in today, I'm living in right now, don't worry about tomorrow, tomorrow is not right now. I can't dwell on yesterday, or my life will go astray, if I live right now, today, then I know I'll be o.k. Life is life from day to day - you're living in Hawai'i - nei Keia la"

Wrong is Right

A spontaneous journey up Highway 1

July 28th, 2004 - The San Francisco Bay Guardian

FINDING THE RIGHT travel mojo is an ancient art sought by many and perfected by few. What is it that makes a journey unforgettable? What are the experiences that years later pop from the vast pools of our memory like happy, buzzing lightning bugs?

It seems like it's often when things go wrong that the travel gods open their magic bags and bestow you with gifts you likely never asked for – but are unlikely to ever forget. The broken-down car that forced you to spend the night under the desert sky. The missed train that enabled you to meet the family in Thailand you're still friends with to this day. The bout with Montezuma's revenge that completely sucked but made you appreciate the little things, like banana shakes and your travel buddy. It was one such cosmic mishap that recently led me from a family visit in Germany to an unplanned trip up the coast along Highway 1, when really I was supposed to be back in San Francisco at work. (Talk about divine intervention ...)

I'd only been gone for a couple of weeks, but by the time my flight was scheduled to return to the Bay Area, the airline had gone bankrupt. After some wheeling and dealing, they managed to find some other airline that would take us poor suckers across the Atlantic Ocean ... to Los Angeles. I could have just hopped on a plane headed to San Francisco, but years of experience have taught me to recognize the moment when the travel mojo is likely to kick in – if I don't resist it. Not to mention that a rental car would be cheaper, and it sure would be a convenient way to miss a few more days of work. Determined to stay on the coastal highway the whole way, I picked up the rented wagon and began my cruise up north.

L.A. rush hour smog in the rearview mirror, I made it to Santa Barbara an hour before sunset, which left me enough time to drive down State Street to the beach and take a leisurely dip in the Pacific Ocean. The one thing about southern California that, despite our great wilderness areas, sumptuous food, and progressive politics, we just can't match up here? Swimming in the ocean without a wetsuit. I stayed in for about 30 minutes, washing off the airline grunge and frolicking with gulls and harbor seals.

After I'd finished drying off, my stomach began to growl, so I headed back up State to where a friend had recommended dinner at Arigato (1225 State; 805-965-6074), a Japanese restaurant near the corner of Anapamu Street. This was just what I needed: amazing food and an artsy, welcoming ambience to reawaken the taste buds of the tongue and soul that had been stifled by 11 hours on the plane. This was it, folks, travel magic happening. To top it off I went over to Soho Restaurant and Music Club (1221 State; 805-962-7776) a few doors down for a beer and a set of ALO's hip-shaking power funk.

It wasn't until I got out that I realized one rather crucial fact: if I wanted to make it back to San Francisco without begging for gas money, I wouldn't be checking into any hotels. Looking up at a crystal-clear sky, though, I felt assured that a night on the beach would be better medicine than sleeping in a strange room with clean sheets and hundreds of cable channels. Given that I'd just returned from Germany, my backpack was stocked with sweaters and jackets, so I walked along the sand in the opposite direction from civilization and eventually found a nice secluded cove, patched together a makeshift sleeping bag, and laid my jet-lagged bones to rest.

The next morning I got up and stumbled into the Natural Cafe (508 State; 805-962-9494), a great breakfast and lunch spot on State near Haley Street. Ordering myself a huge mixed salad and a carrot shake(!), I enjoyed a beautiful southern California morning munching away on the restaurant's little outdoor patio. After some stretching, though, it was time to continue my impromptu journey up the Great Highway.

I had no idea where I'd be spending the next night, but the mystery was resolved later that day when I pulled into the Henry Miller Library (831-667-2574) at Big Sur for a water break, only to be treated to an unexpected and amazing concert. Championing the literary, artistic, and cultural contributions of the late writer, artist, and Big Sur resident, the library merits a visit for its beautiful location and air of intellectual and spiritual sanity in an insane world. And regular poetry readings and concerts only sweeten the trip.

That day, in the library's courtyard, surrounded by gigantic redwood trees, Mobius Operandi was engaging a captive audience in a stream of otherworldly tunes. Played on custom instruments created by music maverick Oliver DiCicco, one of the group's five members, the sounds gently engulfing this magical spot in the heart of the Pacific coast ranged from ethereal "Drone Drum" whispers to the wildly eccentric echoes of the "Oove."

That night, in true beatnik fashion, I parked the rental car in a turnout along the 1 (which, by the way, is legal in state parks), unfolded my bed on a rock overlooking the Pacific, and thanked the universe for making things go wrong.

If you go

For more camping and lodging information, go to www.santabarbara.com and www.bigsurcalifornia.org. Check out entertainment and education options along Highway 1 at www.sohosb.com and www.henrymiller.org. For musical inspiration go to www.alomusic.com and www.mobiusmusic.com.

Biking to Green Gulch

April 24th, 2004 - The San Francisco Bay Guardian

ENLIGHTENMENT IS AN elusive concept, and to begin to understand it, you first have to pay your worldly dues. As Shunryu Suzuki, Japanese Zen master and founder of San Francisco Zen Center, once said, "Each of you is perfect the way you are ... and you can use a little improvement." So when I was planning a trip to west Marin County's Green Gulch Farm Zen Center (a SFZC outpost) to visit my farming friend Shannon, I decided to put those words into action and make myself work for the privilege of sitting under a tree in one of the Bay Area's most tranquil places: I rode my bike.

Being a Green German, I've always appreciated the Bay Area's extensive system of bike trails and low-traffic secondary roads, which encourage environmentally conscious and physically active urban residents to conduct their daily business on two wheels. Better yet, biking out here for the most part doesn't require a backpack loaded down with heavy rain gear and a frost-survival kit. This really is bicycle heaven. When I left the Mission District on a sunny Friday morning to embark on my journey to enlightenment, the only things weighing on me were a couple bottles of water, a fleece sweater, and a bag of snacks. (Naturally, I picked the Zen mix in hopes of getting on the Buddha's smiling side right away.)

There are numerous ways to weave your way out of the city and toward the Golden Gate Bridge, but I've found that from where I live, taking Sanchez Street across Market to Page Street and heading west toward Golden Gate Park offers the lowest ratio of car-door surprise attacks and black diesel clouds tarring your lungs. (Alternately, Fell Street takes you toward the Panhandle lane, shared by peds as well as bicyclists and other wheeled individuals.) At the western end of Page I cross Stanyan Street, enter the park, and jog over to JFK Drive, shooting past the Conservatory of Flowers and eventually turning right on 30th Avenue to get to China Beach. From there, Camino del Mar becomes Lincoln Boulevard, which takes me through the Presidio to the bridge. Call me a cheeseball tourist, but I never get tired of the latter architectural masterpiece, especially on a sunny day, with the ocean breeze blowing through my hair and clear views of the Pacific and the city skyline beside me.

Entering Marin County, I'm faced with the question many a traveler on the road to enlightenment has pondered: which path to take? A part of me wants to keep cruising out to Bunker Road, to hit the Miwok trailhead that will take me through the headlands to Tennessee Valley, then on to Coyote Ridge Trail across rugged shoreline with an elevation of 1,000-plus feet. The other part recognizes that I'm getting a bit dehydrated and my calves are tightening. Humble steps lead to wisdom, so I coast down Alexander Avenue into Sausalito for a veggie sandwich and a gallon of ice water at the Bridgeway Cafe on the waterfront. Well fed and rested, I ride north into Marin City, where I turn onto Shoreline Highway. Winding through Tamalpais Valley, the road grows steep and narrow, making me earn every pedal revolution with another stream of sweat and curses. Standing up now, all I can do is examine the next hairpin up ahead and wonder if it might be the last. "This is what you have come here to do," I tell myself. "In order to get to Green Gulch, you have to climb a mountain."

Just as I've resigned myself to an eternal ascent, the sign for Panoramic Highway appears, marking the turnoff to Muir Woods and the highest point on my journey. There's also another Miwok trailhead, but this time it's pointing downhill – and takes me to the northern end of Coyote Ridge, where I'm greeted by stunning views of San Francisco Bay to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. On a perch around the bend I throw down my bike, rip off my sweaty T-shirt, and fall into the grass to celebrate the moment.

It's sunset by the time I roll down Green Gulch trail straight into the cabbage field where Shannon is cleaning up her hoes and spades. After a delicious pasta dinner at the cafeteria, we walk down to the Pelican Inn for a cold home brew. Not monastically correct, yet spiritually necessary. The only thing left to do is fall into bed at the Green Gulch guest house. As I'm snoring away my enlightened time, I can see old Zen Master Suzuki smiling from heaven, knowing that enlightenment isn't to be found at Green Gulch but on the way there ...

If you go

Green Gulch Farm Zen Center (415) 383-3134 (guest house reservations), www.sfzc.org.

Pelican Inn (415) 383-6000, www.pelicaninn.com.
Reading Shunryu Suzuki's Zen Mind Beginner's Mind (Weather Hill).

Indian Gods

SF Bay Guardian, December 24, 2003

IN MY TRAVELS around the world, I am always fascinated with each country's system of public transportation for two reasons:

1. You are forced to deal with it on a daily basis.
2. It is a reflection of an entire culture, thus giving the visitor great insights into the workings of a society.

In Germany, the kingdom of punctuality and perfectionism, every little bus stop features an elaborate and weatherproof schedule, including departure and arrival times as well as destinations. The buses and trains are immaculate, always on time, and outfitted with squeaky-clean upholstered seats.

In the car-centric United States, however, public transportation is a little more adventurous: tagged windows, eternal waits, and the occasional unscheduled Big Mac break for the bus driver are not out of the ordinary.

But nothing even comes close to the wondrous chaos of cruising around India. Western principles of law and order just don't apply here. Moving from point A to point B is an exercise in faith, a pilgrimage whose significance lies in the journey rather than the destination. Perhaps this explains why supernatural powers are so well respected and trusted in India – miracles do happen there, and I've had my fair share of them.

Getting on a bus in India means trusting your life to a barefooted driver who maneuvers a vehicle seemingly wider than the road itself through an obstacle course of potholes, goats, and water buffalo. But there is no reason to be worried, because you are kept from falling by the mere density of human mass inside the bus. If you are meant to be in a certain place at a certain time, you will somehow get there.

The same logic applies to boats, taxis, and auto-rickshas, a three-wheel taxi decorated with illustrations of the driver's favorite god, which might be Krishna, Vishnu, Ganesh, or even Jesus Christ. And, by Krishna, you need all the faith in the world to finish an auto-ricksha journey in stable mental condition. After inhaling the black exhaust of passing buses and being driven off the road by hundreds of fellow commuters, one feels grateful to be alive. When you arrive, even your ailing ass will become an integral part of an exalted state of joy and satisfaction.

There aren't many cars in India – nobody can afford such luxury, and besides, there is simply no room left for them between all the elephants and cows – but if you're feeling adventurous, you can try a regular taxi. This may seem like a true haven of comfort at first, but after the driver has picked up seven other fares on his way to your hotel, you'll learn the true meaning of sharing space.

In fact, you will probably never make it to your hotel. Instead, you'll spend the night at the house of the guy who sat next to you, eating, drinking, and laughing all night. Unless you physically resist, you could even be dragged to a wedding ceremony the next day, dancing to polyrhythmic music until your legs finally give out.

The trains in India are actually much more comfortable and predictable than any other form of transportation – provided you have made a reservation – but they are still good for a variety of surprises. I just can't rationally explain what it felt like when I wound up on a train without any food or water and the Indian family next to me graciously fed me the most delicious homemade treats.

At one point I was stranded in the rather unexciting town of Hubli at 3 a.m., waiting for my connecting train to Goa, scheduled for 6 a.m. As I was rolling out my blanket to catch some sleep on Platform 2, an inner voice told me the chances I would wake up in time were rather slim, and yet there was some force that kept me from worrying. When I opened my eyes again, the big station clock showed 7.30 a.m., and to my left a train was departing: it was going to Goa. After a quick sprint, I jumped on. Had it waited for me? And who arranged it that way? These are the moments when even the most rational part of your mind is forced to accept that there is an Indian god of public transportation. Whatever you call her, she is there to watch over you. She will keep you on the right path.

If you go

Singapore Airlines (www.singaporeair.com) offers the cheapest and fastest flights to most major Indian cities. Make sure to get a Lonely Planet India guide (www.lonelyplanet.com). It lists all train and bus routes as well as places to stay and eat. November through March is the best time to escape the summer heat, and Goa is the best place for Westerners to chill out after having had one too many ricksha incidents. Check out www.goanet.com.

Hoes Down

A visit of a California organic farm festival

December 10th, 2003 - The San Francisco Bay Guardian

FARMING IS COOL, baby, really cool! That's the bumper sticker I'm going to design after an eye-opening weekend at the 16th annual Hoes Down Harvest Celebration at the organic Full Belly Farm grounds in Capay Valley, just about 45 minutes north of Davis. Organized entirely by volunteers, Hoes Down is a two-day festival promoting the knowledge of sustainable rural living through inspiration and education.

Turning off I-505 and onto scenic Highway 16 toward Guinda, I became aware of my own misconceptions about the California heartland: expecting the rank smells of chemical fertilizer and industrial farms that I've come to associate with it from trips down I-5, I was blown away by the idyllic backdrop of old barns and rural cemeteries. Shannon, my travel buddy and an organic farmer herself, got out to take some black-and-white pictures, documenting our journey into the heart of family farm country.

We arrived at Full Belly Farm long after sunset and pulled into a wide-open almond orchard, a designated camping area we'd be sharing with companions from all over California for the next couple of nights. Being used to the usual crop (no pun) of outdoor festivals where boom boxes blast all night and you have to hide your cookies from red-eyed neighbors, the silence in this orchard came as a welcome surprise. We rolled out our pads and got with the farmers' sleeping schedule, dreaming of juicy roots, bulbs, and tubers.

The next morning we headed over to the farmyard, where we were greeted with fair-trade coffee and homegrown cantaloupe. There was hustle and bustle everywhere – people setting up a stage made entirely out of hay bales, others pushing wheelbarrows of food and textiles to their respective vending and exhibit shacks, and kids running around frantically in anticipation of pumpkin carving, ice-cream churning, and climbing on the towering hay fort. At around 11, the place started to fill up, and the Hoes Down was on its merry way.

Shannon and I wandered around for a while, just taking in the down-to-earth vibe of the event, but then remembered we wanted to check out some of the workshops offered throughout the day. You can get familiar with tree pruning, cow milking, draft horses, herbs, gardening, and small-farm equipment. But that's not all – Shannon wanted to check out "How to start your own organic farm (and how not to)," and we were both curious about a presentation by the People's Grocery, a West Oakland cooperative that provides access to locally produced foods for its members.

After the two workshops, we took a tour of Full Belly Farm. Andrew Brait, one of the co-owners, told us how it is integrating production with longer-term environmental goals by providing year-round employment for farm laborers and using cover crops that fix nitrogen and provide organic matter for the soil.

It simply boggles the mind how much effort and dedication goes into the cycle of growing food. Picking the broccoli off the shelf at the grocery store signals the end of a long and illustrious journey. And in the world of organic produce, it is also just the beginning – all the food scraps will eventually end up in the compost pile.

With a tractor-load of new information, we walked down to Cache Creek and took a dip. Yes, it's the same Cache Creek the Indian casino down the road is named after. It's a sad reminder that it's become almost impossible for native people to live off the land. But maybe, just maybe, events like Hoes Down and its spirited participants can show us how to reenter the great cycle of sustainable living. With that in mind, we joined a hooting crowd over by the hay bale stage where we all danced the night away to the slamming sounds of the Hot Buttered Rum String Band.

Although it took Hoes Down to bring me out to farm country, you can go anytime and visit the local farms on your own.

If you go

Capay Valley is a great day trip all year long. Stay the night at the Capay Valley Bed and Breakfast (15875 State Highway 16, Capay. 530-796-3738, www.capayvalleybedandbreakfast.com). You can combine it with a trip to adjacent Napa Valley along scenic Highway 128 and Lake Berryessa. Hoes Down Harvest Celebration takes place every fall. If you volunteer, admission and camping are free (www.hoesdown.org). For more information on Full Belly Farm and community-supported agriculture, go to www.fullbellyfarm.com. For more information on the People's Grocery, go to www.peoplesgrocery.org.

Wet Friends

River Rafting on the American River

November 12th, 2003 - The San Francisco Bay Guardian

A FEW WEEKS ago my friend Dave called to invite me on a rafting trip. Dave is the kind of buddy who gets in touch with me about twice a year, looking for my dried-up urban body to join him on a splashing adventure that's usually about to unfold the very next day. I say "splashing" because whether it's camping at a glacier lake, soaking in hidden hot springs, or sailing on the bay, we always end up in the water. This time the level of excitement in his voice was cranked up just a notch: "I just completed an intensive training program with Friends of the River, and I'm leading a trip this weekend. I'm trying to get two rafts full of paddlers. Wanna come?"

Driving up Highway 50 from Sacramento to Placerville the next morning, he tells me the story behind Friends of the River and the rafting adventure we're about to embark on. Founded in 1973 during the struggle to save the Stanislaus River from the New Melones Dam, FOR has become the largest organization dedicated to preserving, protecting, and restoring California's rivers. "You see," Dave says as we're crossing the Sacramento River, "there isn't a single major stream left in California that hasn't been dammed. If it weren't for a combination of mankind's thirst, land development, and agribusiness, we'd be paddling through the Central Valley instead of driving our car."

In Placerville we turn off on Highway 49 toward Camp Lotus, where we meet with the rest of the crew, mostly Dave's friends, and the other two guides, Karen and Teresa. "What I really like about FOR," Dave muses, "is that we're not just some anonymous political force but a bunch of regular folks who enjoy the magic of these rivers and want to share it with others." We split into three groups to drive upstream to Chili Bar, the landing area where the actual rafting part of the journey begins.

"OK guys, hold onto the raft; we're approaching Meat Grinder, one of the most unpredictable rapids on the South Fork," I hear Teresa screaming. One last command to keep the nose of the raft slightly pointed to the left, and off we go into the secret chambers of the American River. I feel like a kid on his first roller-coaster ride, the moment after you've just completed the eternal ascent and you're about to be poked in the tummy by a thousand needles.

Right before Meat Grinder's mouth, we pull in our paddles and duck for cover. All I can see is a white bubbly mass of water sucking us into a dark and narrow flume. Pointed rocks on either side of our passage leave Teresa, our skipper, little room for error. Just when I've come to the conclusion that there isn't really much she could do anyway, we get flushed out toward a boulder the size of a garbage truck. We dodge it.

After we've wedged ourselves down two more rapids, Old Scary and Racehorse Bend, the time is right for a lunch break at a shady beach located in a cove, away from the river's current. Dave's raft, carrying all our lunch bags, is pulling up right behind us. Karen's crew, coming in third, looks slightly beat-up, shaking their bodies like a bunch of wet dogs. Everyone is in a great mood. Our spirits have been awakened by the rumbling, ice-cold water of the American River.

After lunch we huddle together to listen to Teresa describe the struggles to preserve California's rivers and its inhabitants. More than 90 percent of the salmon and steelhead habitat in the Central Valley has been blocked by dams. Stream-flow patterns and water temperatures have been altered, leaving the river ecosystems severely impacted. Dave points out that the force of rapids like Meat Grinder or Old Scary is not really regulated by the random will of Mother Nature but by the hands of dam operators who open and close the floodgates upstream according to human needs downstream.

Back on the river, with a full stomach and a new perspective, my senses seem to be in tune with the sounds and smells of the water and its environment. As we're floating around the last bend before reaching Camp Lotus, I close my eyes and soak up the tranquillity of the place. In a moment of clarity, it occurs to me that the most powerful player in this game is the river itself: not taking anyone's side in the political tug-of-war, it lives only to flow and give energy.

If you go

For more information on California river issues go to www.friendsoftheriver.org. To book a private rafting trip contact American River Recreation (1-800-333-7238, www.arrafting.com) or American River Touring Association (1-800-323-2782, www.arta.org). Lodging is best at the American River Inn on Main Street in Georgetown (1-800-245-6566, www.americanriverinn.com). There's also great camping in nearby El Dorado National Forest (for details or a visitors map call 530-644-6048 or go to www.fs.fed.us/r5/eldorado).

Winter Wildlife

Four snowy destinations where you can do more than ski and sit in the lodge.

November 12th, 2003 - The San Francisco Bay Guardian

SOMEWHERE IN THE annals of American folklore is etched the myth of California as a year-round summer paradise – a place where sun-roasted surfer dudes slurp ice-cold smoothies between swells and bikini-clad vixens dip their almond-skinned bodies in banana-shaped swimming pools.

But to say there are no seasons in California is like saying George W. Bush is a compassionate humanitarian. So while the sun worshippers are nursing their first cold in November, the rest of us are digging our gloves and down jackets out of the closet and heading for the mountains.

Here you'll find four excellent spots for winter sports that offer a little more than the ordinary kinds of activities and nightlife.

Skiing in Homewood, Lake Tahoe

Just six miles south of Tahoe City on the lake's west shore is one of California's most beautiful and underrated mountain resorts. While Squaw Valley, Northstar, and Alpine Meadows ring bells for even the most adamant beach bums, Homewood Mountain Resort (www.skihomewood.com) dwells in relative obscurity in the shadow of 8,740-foot Ells Peak. The 1,260 acres of groomed runs and powder skiing offer a long day's worth of exploring for both ski enthusiasts and snowboarders, taking you down 56 runs on eight lifts.

The reason why Homewood should be on every nature lover's must-ski list is its absolutely stunning views of Lake Tahoe from pretty much any slope. One particular treat is to pull aside for a lunch break and watch the other skiers and boarders seemingly descend right into the lake. If you're in the mood to impress the folks back home, you can even take a photo of yourself with your ski tip hanging in midair with nothing but the water of Lake Tahoe as a background.

While the breathtaking views alone may not be enough of a selling point for the seasoned urban skier, the price certainly is. Even the most downtrodden, unemployed ex-dot-com artist won't be able to resist the special weekday pass for $25. In an era of $60 day passes, this is a welcome relief. Due to Homewood's cozy, old-town feel, which scares away all the neon-suited ski bunnies, you almost never have to wait in line.

In the evening you can replenish all the lost calories at Angela's Pizzeria (7000 Emerald Bay Rd., 530-525-4771) in Tahoma near West Lake Boulevard. However, if you can wait another 20 minutes, I recommend driving to Truckee for a cold beverage and great pub food at the Bar of America (10040 Commercial Row, 530-587-3110). Some nights you'll get to see great live music, including Bay Area favorites such as Chemystry Set and Wig Salad.

Of course, if you're getting the sudden urge to fill Nevada's state coffers, Cal-Neva and Biltmore casinos are only a few miles east on Highway 28 in Crystal Bay, right across the state border. From there you're about equal distance (20 miles) from big hitters like Harrah's and Caesars in Reno and from South Lake Tahoe, just in case you break the bank in Crystal Bay and need to crank up the volume a bit. Either way, you'll most likely be grateful for that cheap Homewood lift ticket the next morning.

Cross-country skiing in Badger Pass, Yosemite

Known as summer camp for millions of RVing tourists from around the world, Yosemite National Park empties out in the winter, exposing its low-temperature beauty to those who are hip to the fact that the park is open December through April. Six miles east of Highway 41 on Glacier Point Road is Badger Pass (www.badgerpass.com), California's oldest, and probably cheapest, ski resort. You can get a weekend day pass for $28 and hone your downhill chops on Badger's smooth bunny slopes. But if you want to go really cheap, soak in the most breathtaking views, and get a workout, you've got to rent a pair of cross-country skis (skis, boots, and poles for $15 a day) and hit the back country. I know, I know, cross-country skiing is what your grandparents did before there was electricity, and I agree, it always looked a bit awkward to me, too. However, I dare you to try it. Never again will your buttocks turn into icicles while you're sitting in an overpriced chairlift, looking out at clear-cut landscapes.

A great day trip for first timers is the 7.5-mile loop to Dewey Point. From Badger Pass you take Glacier Point Road, then cut across the Meadows Track, which takes you 3.5 miles out through wide-open countryside, then more-serious hills. The great reward is a lunch break at Dewey Point, with sweeping views of Half Dome, and the realization that you're sitting in this fairy-tale landscape with skis on your feet and a permanent smile glued to your rosy red cheeks.

If you've never been to the Bug Hostel (6979 Highway 140, 209-966-6666) after a day of Yosemite skiing, I highly recommend you stop in for a hearty vegetarian moussaka and a Guinness on tap. Located in Midpines, just 25 miles from Yosemite Village on Highway 140, you can lay your sore bones to rest in one of its cozy cabins or just warm up by the wood-burning stove before heading home. Yosemite without the Bug is like a prayer sans amen.

Snowshoeing on Mount Shasta

It wouldn't be northern California if some of its earthly features hadn't been raised to spiritual heights, and driving up I-5 into Siskiyou County, you can't help but feel a little New Agey. Seemingly out of nowhere looms the 14,162-foot snow-capped peak of Mount Shasta, a truly impressive extinct volcano that beckons pilgrims from all over to ascend into the light.

Some claim to have seen tall beings in long robes here, creatures who speak of an ancient race who lived on the far side of Mount Shasta, from where they were said to journey out into the world on missions of peace and healing. And who wouldn't believe in such visions, sparked by a dose of stinging sunshine, thin air, and blinding snow light? Sounds like a mind-altering adventure, so strap on your snowshoes and embark on the search for the American yeti.

The best place to start is the Bunny Flat trailhead about 11 miles up Everitt Memorial Highway. For a nice day hike, you can walk the 4.5 miles up Mount Shasta's south flank through open conifer forests to the Sierra Club Hut at Horse Camp to 7,900 feet in three or four hours. There are no trails beyond Horse Camp, so for climbs to the top, for which you will need a wilderness permit, you're on your own. You can get wilderness permits at the trailhead; for more information about Horse Camp, go to users.snowcrest.net/ecoshasta/shasta. Make sure to bring lots of water, a hat, and sunscreen, just in case you see the light.

The most exciting nightlife in the nearby town of Mount Shasta City happens under the crystal-clear winter sky. Grab yourself a double espresso and a delicious homemade sandwich at the Bagel Cafe and Bakery (315 N. Mt. Shasta Blvd., 530-926-1414) on the town's main drag. Then wander past the shops offering clairvoyant readings and spiritual healing to the edge of town and find yourself a wide-open, snow-covered meadow. Lie on your back and look up. If you don't see a flying saucer here, they don't exist.

Sledding and tubing in Lassen Volcanic National Park

The closest I've ever come to actually having a flying-saucer experience was zooming down a snow-covered hill on an inner tube as a little boy. There is nothing quite like the joy of spinning out of control, hitting a bump, and landing headfirst in the fresh powder, only to get pelted with snowballs by mischievous little neighborhood bullies. There are a lot of places in California to land your plastic saucer, but none quite as remote and fantastically snow-packed as Lassen Volcanic National Park (www.nps.gov/lavo).

After getting your choice of sled, toboggan, or tube (you can buy them at REI or www.sno-toys.com for about $10), book a weekend in Chico on your old college buddy's living-room floor. From Chico it's less than two hours (Highway 99 north to Highway 36, then north on Highway 89) to the Lassen Chalet parking area, about a mile past the southwest entrance.

Once a popular ski park with a bustling lodge, running lift, and rental store, the Lassen Chalet area is now pretty much abandoned during the winter months; perfect for snow play. However, construction will begin on a brand-new $10.4 million Snow Center next summer, so this is your last chance to roll around the snow undisturbed. Make sure to check weather conditions the morning you drive up there.

When you get back to Chico, I recommend chowing down on a couple of $1 tacos at one of the taco trucks parked around town. You won't have trouble finding nightlife – after all, this is Chico – but a good place to get lost is LaSalles (229 Broadway, 530-893-1891). It always has great live music (Mother Hips, B-Side Players, etc.), and the cover is low. Plus, you get to watch college mating rituals performed right in front of you all night. Even if they develop Lassen, there will always be wildlife in Chico.

Sven Eberlein is a travel writer who lives in San Francisco.

Adventures in Castile

RHYTHM Magazine, June 2002

"Walk for twenty minutes at half the speed at which you normally walk. Pay attention to the details, people, and surroundings. Repeat the exercise for seven days."

The speed exercise is the first challenge on a pilgrimage down the road to Santiago de Compostela, a sacred passage stretching from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in the French Pyrenees through the Basque heartland of Northern Spain all the way to fabled Santiago, situated in the northwestern region of Galicia. Little did I know that my trip into the Castillian heartland of Spain would come to mirror the speed exercise when I picked Paulo Coelho's "The Pilgrimage" off the dusty shelf at a used book store. The next seven days would feel like seven years...

I hadn't seen my old friend Daniel Rodriguez in years. We grew up together in Stuttgart/Germany, but parted ways when I moved to the U.S. and Daniel settled down in Spain, his father's country. He is a language teacher (English & German) and tour guide in Madrid, and my visit was the first time our paths would cross in many years.

Madrid
The first three days we stay at Daniel's apartment in the Chamartin district. From there we visit El Museo del Prado, Reina Sofía (with an impressive collection of Dalí originals) and Chueca, a thriving gay community with abundant book stores and cafés, just north of Gran Vía. We spend the evenings cruising through Malasaña, meeting up with Daniel's girlfriend Ana and her cousin Marta, partying the night away in its countless bars and clubs. Malasaña, mentioned in Manu Chao's song "Me gustas Tu," is the birthplace of "La Movida Madrileña," a movement of underground art and music in the post-Franco early '80s that brought forth many brilliant new voices, most notably maverick film maker Pedro Almodovar.

The lesson I take from the first half of my trip is that Manu Chao is the king of Spain: Whenever my Spanish fails me I can resort to singing "Que voy a ser, je suis perdu" and be immediately dialed back into the conversation with just about anybody under the age of 40.

Proxima Estacion: Castilla-Leon
On day 4 it's time to leave the city behind and head into the heartland. Castilla-Leon is not only the largest region of Spain, but as well the largest region in the European Union. It was the central area of Spanish medieval history, and its importance during that epoch is still evident in its cathedrals, monasteries, castles and fortified towns, many of which are preserved in perfect condition.

Our first stop is the magnificent town of Segovia, where we meet Daniel's uncle Lolo and his cousin Diego under a 2000 year old Roman aqueduct, a masterpiece of engineering which unites 20,400 stone blocks without any mortar or concrete. After coffee and tapas we are on our way to Lolo's native town of Villalon, a hundred mile trek on narrow-winding roads across the great plains of northwestern Castilla. Lolo swears that Villalon is well worth the arduous journey, proclaiming it the home of the best cheese in the world.

We stop at a castle near Cuéllar, have tortillas at Bar Asturio in Medina, and enjoy a cabbage and pasta lunch served by nuns at the monastery in San Pedro de las Dueñas. When we pull into the town of Sahagún it becomes clear that this trip is more than just a sign pointing to the Strange Road to Santiago - we are now on it. Backpackers old and young are walking in and out of town and it occurs to me that these are real pilgrims on a 500 mile quest for wisdom and spiritual guidance. Lolo takes us up the hill to the ruins of La Peregrina, a once flourishing hospital that took in exhausted and injured pilgrims over 1000 years ago.

An hour later we get to Villalon, and Lolo is now really in his element, explaining that this is the poorest but also the proudest region of Spain. He takes us to the adobe house on Calle Cantareros where every child in the Rodriguez clan, including himself, was born. After ice-cream and stories of local heroes at Casa Peña on Plaza Portales we move on to Cooperativa El Cerrato to claim the grand prize of this day's excursion: The Cheese! Lolo picks his favorite specimen, a tasty looking chunk of sheep cheese, hand-wrapped by the dairy farmer, and off we go into the spectacular twilight.

Back in Segovia, Daniel and I meet up with Ana and Marta at Los Comuneros, a favorite local bar, drinking cañas (8 oz glasses of beer) and eating croquetas. From there it's on to La Oficina for aceitunes, then José María for calamares, then Jeyma for jamones (ham bits). Our last stop that night is Club Santana, a hip nightspot, where the kids are spread out into the medieval cobble-stone alleys, talking and listening to music until the morning hours - Que hora son, mi corazon?

The next morning the four of us head northeast toward "Parque Natural de las Hoces del Río Duratón," where a mythical hermit named San Frutos is said to have dwelled in the Canyon of Vultures (El Cañon de los Buitres). Legend has it that the hermit split the earth when Arabs and Christians were fighting bloody battles over this land around 700 AD. He surely did a thorough job, because aside from the Grand Canyon I have never seen a divide as breathtaking as this one. We decide to hike along the rim where we're greeted by a flock of vultures, reason enough to speed up and work off some calories.

Did I say work off some calories? The culinary highlight of the entire trip is waiting for us in the nearby town of Sepúlveda, famous for its fire-roasted lamb. Marta and Ana know Tinin, the owner of Figón "Zute el Mayor," one of the best known restaurants in the region, and so we are treated to great seats in this rustic old room that is sizzling with lamb claypots and a vibrant atmosphere. Traditionally, the sign of a well prepared lamb is its tenderness. In fact, the most famous and revered cook in the state of Segovia, Cándido, is said to have been able to cut meat with just a plate. I can feel Cándido's spirit right here - the lamb now placed in front of us, accompanied by a big bowl of fresh mixed salad and a carafe of wine, is so tender that it falls right off the bone. Me gusta su cocina, me gustas tu!

We spend the rest of the day in Sepúlveda checking out the great fusion of Roman, Christian and Arabic architecture. Daniel tells the tales of invasions, culture clashes, bloody wars and freedom fighters, and it all sounds so hauntingly familiar. I'm thinking that humans haven't really changed very much since our first wobbly steps on this planet, but I am also awed by our amazing resilience and our capacity to celebrate each other's differences.

Even at the end of an incredible journey I feel like I'm right in the middle of it, and time is slowing down just for me to put my little pilgrimage into the context of a much larger one. I hear Paulo Coelho say "It is the road that teaches us the best way to get there, and the road enriches us as we walk its length," and from the distance Manu Chao is heard loud and clear: "Too much hypocrisy, oh please, set me free!"

The Long Strange Road to Ocean Beach

Noe Valley Voice, May 2002

I am German, and let me tell you, we know beaches.

Before I could even walk, my parents carried my crib on a cheap, obscure charter trip to the shores of the Romanian Black Sea. We went on vacations to the Adriatic and Mediterranean seas during my elementary school years. By the time I was old enough to plan my own itinerary, I had taken my urge to escape the prison of landlocked existence to the shores of Gran Canaria (Spain), the Isle of Skye (Scotland), Goa (India), and Ko Pi Pi (Thailand).

When I first came to North America about 14 years ago, I was in ecstasy --more oysters to be cracked! I headed for the Florida Keys, Virginia Beach, Kona and Makaha (Hawaii), Seward (Alaska), Big Sur, Baja, and Vancouver Island. Whether it was to hike up cliffs, surf the waves, or just get a lazy tan, my reverse caveman instincts would lead me directly to the beach whenever I wandered within 50 miles of a coastline.

So now that I have established myself as a legit beach critic, I feel psyched up enough to reveal to you the path to absolute beach nirvana. As the Buddhist minds among you may already have sensed, the place I'm talking about is right here in our fair city. Yes, after circling the planet several times, I have found that the light of ultimate joy and contentment shines on a stretch of sand only a 30-minute bike ride from my Valencia Street apartment: Ocean Beach!

I consider myself a spiritual person. To transform a restless state of city madness into a peaceful blend of mind, body, and soul, I've tried yoga and sitting meditation. I've been to Glide Memorial Church and even wandered parts of the Strange Road to Santiago de Compostela. But the one and only pilgrimage that brings me closer to the true meaning of "present tense" is the journey I embark on almost every Friday afternoon, rain or shine. It's my day off, or really, my day on.

After a bagel, a cup of chai, and some beautifully subversive literature at Café La Boheme on 24th Street, I jump on my old faithful bike, which the kids at Pedal Revolution so righteously fixed me up with, and ride down Valencia Street. I kitty-corner at 19th Street so I can cruise down Lapidge Alley to admire the mural on the Women's Building. I never ever get tired of seeing it -- such eternal wisdom and energy! Then up 18th Street and right on Sanchez, to cross Market. Thank all gods for Sanchez Street; they had a warm spot in their hearts for us city bicyclists -- wide lanes and slow, mostly resident cars. I weave my way through the shops and cafés of the Lower Haight to get to the queen of all bike-friendly streets: Page Street.

This is the first time on my journey I'm facing due west, my front wheel pointing directly to the Promised Beach. No more traffic, some stunning Victorian flats, and only one more short hill before the forces of gravity will be in my favor the rest of the way. It's a beautiful day in winter turning to spring: clear skies, mild sea breezes, 70s. After weeks of rain, the first magnolia trees and lavender bushes are responding to the sun's invitation, with thick skirts of colorful blossoms. I'm now rolling down JFK Drive, flying past Rose and Tea gardens like there's no tomorrow.

Halfway through Golden Gate Park I turn off into the somewhat tangled web of trails on the western end of the park. Each Friday is different, and I just let myself be guided by the day's impulse, since ultimately all roads lead to Ocean Beach. Today I hobble down a rugged, root-strewn trail past an equestrian course before getting stuck in mud puddles thriving in the shadows of coastal madrones. Before I know it, I find myself in the middle of an archery club's practice field, awed by yet another curious park activity. Next I smell salt in the air, then I'm looking at Murphy's windmill on the right, and then..............yeaaaahhhhh!!!

There she is, this vast window of liquid blueness, creator of tides, keeper of my soul. I lock my bike to the sign that says you're going to die a dreadful death should you decide to frolic in the ocean of peace. I take off my shoes and start running through the sand until the cold water splashes up the sides of my shorts.

Did I say "shorts"? Yes, I caught one of those rare days when Ocean Beach rewards its loyal patrons for sticking it out through thick and thin (fog and wind) all year long.

The beach is an unbelievable sight!

In most other places in the world, a city's entire population would stream to the beach on a picture-perfect day like today. But in this town, and on this stretch of sand, it's about quality, not quantity. Ocean Beach serves as a reminder to the world that it is possible to bring people of all different backgrounds together with a smile on their collective face. It's the only place that transcends San Francisco's mixed stew of neighborhoods (often more stratified than we'd like to admit). The beach is where you see the spiked-haired punk petting a yuppie's dog, the Indian family watching the outdoorsy dude fly his kite, the hard-core dyke helping the Latino boys build a sand castle, the pot-bellied tourist chatting with the rad surfer chick. Whatever your colors, on this piece of land you are part of Mother Earth's complete and visionary masterpiece.

I crack myself up with the thought of a board of supervisors meeting out here, or hell, why not get George, Ariel, and Yasser, drawing some peaceful ideas in the sand. The wide-open views and cool, fresh air might work wonders. I'm telling you, this is what O.B. does to me, that crisp Pacific breeze just makes me lose any sense of boundaries.

At sunset, the afternoon contingent is replaced by the bonfire people, who are preparing for a long communal evening under the stars. I feel like staying, but the slowly emerging goose bumps on my skin are telling me otherwise. I hop on my bike once again, knowing that I've inhaled a dose of tranquility that will last another week. And even if I don't make it next Friday, just knowing that I'm so close to the coolest beach in the world makes navigation through city life so much easier.

You won't ever meet a happier German. I swear.

Coming of Age on Lake Constance

SAIL Magazine, August 2001

I remember the day in July of 1977 my father and I left the harbor in Friedrichshafen/Germany to tackle the last leg of a two week cruise around Lake Constance as if it were yesterday. The little Evinrude outboard motor was gurgling innocently as we were steering our 20 foot French-made Varianta around the towering lighthouse, one of three major storm-warning posts on the lake. Its bright red light was flashing at around twenty intervals per minute, indicating a storm in the distance, but nothing to worry about yet.

With the Foehn winds blowing steady from the Southwest, Dad figured we'd make it back to our berth at the idyllic campground "Fliesshorn" before things got too much out of hand. Disentangling the jib from the confines of a much too small nylon sack, I was staring at the statue of a stern Count Zeppelin, who 77 years earlier had raised the first blimp into the air above Friedrichshafen. With an authority punctuated by a Kaiser-style mustache and piercing copper eyes, the old count seemed very alive - yet strangely displeased with what he was seeing.

Traveling back in time can be one of the most potent experiences when you're trying to make sense of the present. No matter how far you've come, there are certain moments from your childhood whose lessons keep guiding you through the maze of life. When I returned to Germany in July 2000 to embark on a week-long cruise around the lake with my father, it was as if time had stood still. The last thirteen years I had spent in San Francisco felt like an impossible journey to a far away horizon, and yet somehow I was hopeful that all the different realities of my life could be united on this trip.

Lake Constance is the third largest lake in Europe, bordering Germany to the North, Switzerland to the South, and Austria on its far Eastern shore. Its origin dates back to the formation of the Alps about four ice ages (40-50 million years) ago, covering an area as large as 800 square miles from Zurich/Switzerland to Lindau/Germany right after the last ice age, about 15,000 years ago. Today it still measures about 400 square miles with depths of up to 750 ft, greater than the North Sea. Although comparisons with the Great Lakes of North America would be quite a stretch, the magnitude of Lake Constance in the eyes of a Central European cannot be underestimated: Great poets like Goethe and Hoelderlin wrote about the Lake, and from 1904 to 1912 Hermann Hesse lived and wrote in the small town of Gaienhofen on the lower arm of the lake that turns into the Rhine River.

To me, the Swabian Sea (as it is lovingly called by the residents of its largest adjacent German State, Baden-Wuerttemberg) was always the ultimate childhood experience. Growing up in landlocked Stuttgart, my Dad would take my brother and me on a 3 1/2 hour drive down the narrow-winding roads of Southern Germany until finally - after what had seemed like an excruciating eternity - the deep blue water spotted with little white triangles popped from out of nowhere like an oasis at the end of the world. The last few miles down into the "Fliesshorn" (The Flowing Horn) were always the most exciting: Watching my Dad shift into low gear to pass the tractors that were either hauling bales of hay or big yachts was synonymous with the excitement of Christmas - just a few more minutes until we'd be walking out onto the mossy pier where the old Varianta was gracefully bobbing over incoming steamboat waves.

The wind was picking up now, and the dark clouds that only moments ago had looked like they would permanently settle in the distant Alps high above the lake were now enveloping us like a gigantic sorcerer's cloak. Despite our double-reefed main and the little shred called "Sturmfock" (storm jib), the gusts unleashed by the looming thunderstorm were relentlessly pounding the windward side of our boat. By the time the slight drizzle had turned into pouring rain, we had already been completely drenched by whitecap waves chugging over the ship's bow into our laps. Over to the north I could see the outlines of "Birnau," a baroque monastery, and on sunny days, a significant landmark to sailors entering one of the two lower legs of Lake Constance, the "Überlinger See."

Not that I was much interested in the rich cultural heritage of the Lake at age 10 anyway, but over twenty years later, as I am once again spending summer vacation on my father's boat, the image of Birnau monastery looming behind dark clouds speaks to me like an old friend who's shared the good times and the bad.

Some things have changed: The millennial summer witnesses my Dad and I on his three-year old Sunbeam 27, brimming with luxuries such as nautical equipment, spinnaker and cabin standing room. No more canned stew boiling on a prehistoric camping gas stove-this baby's got a built-in stove, toilet and refrigerator running on a 12-Volt battery. I know this is no big deal for the average yacht owner, but for someone who's used to sleeping under the bench wedged between sails and sheets, a front bunk sporting a double bed conveys a serious Hilton vibe. What hasn't changed is the draft of the boat: Specifically made for Lake Constance by an Austrian wharf, the Sunbeam only dips 30 Inches below the water surface, thus granting its owners a particularly long sailing season. Due to rapidly dropping water levels in autumn, when the first snow descends on the Alps and lake tributaries dry out, bigger draft boats can have their sailing season shortened by up to two months (April-September) compared to the shallow Sunbeams (March-October).

On this first day of our 10 day cruise, we're sailing by the monastery once again, this time going Southeast toward Friedrichshafen, our first destination, at a whopping 2 knots. It's a sunny and clear day, and besides "Birnau" we can see Mt. Säntis and Mt. Schesaplana towering at 9000 feet over the distant Eastern shore. The lake follows an old-fashioned natural law: "You can't have it all." Great views are paid for by low winds, and a stiff breeze is almost always accompanied by a storm front.

The legendary storm front of July 1977 had now completely engulfed our little nutshell. Fiery bolts of lightning right above us were followed by ferocious thunder only seconds later, giving us a not so subtle hint that we'd been caught in the epicenter of the tempest. My Dad was yanking on the tiller in an attempt to keep our Northwest course when suddenly the jib ripped at the seam. Within moments the sail was halved, and both loose ends were flapping up and down the front of the ship like two gigantic whips. The next thing I heard was Dad screaming: "Hold on to the rudder, I have to take care of the jib."

Friedrichshafen in July 2000 is full of life. The "Seehasenfest" (sea rabbit festival) along its beautiful promenade is about to kick into full gear as we're motoring into the yacht harbor. Beer gardens, roller coasters and brass band parades lend the scene a Disneyesque surrealism, causing my father to retreat to his Perry Mason book. I decide to venture into the crowded bazaar for a taste of cultural heritage and cotton candy but return to the sanctuary of the yacht harbor after one too many German drinking songs and a Swabian reggae version of "La Vida Loca." We've got a big day ahead of us, all the way to Bregenz/Austria, and I certainly don't want to spend one of the most panoramic legs of our cruise nursing a hangover.

Clutching the Varianta's tiller so hard that my knuckles turned white, I was watching my Dad wrestle with what was left of the jib. At the tender age of 10 my legs had not yet grown to a length that would easily extend to the other bench for better leverage, so I was stretched out horizontally, wedged between benches like a broomstick, trying to stay on course. Somewhere over on the left I could make out the silhouette of fabled Mainau Island, owned by ninety year old Swedish Count Lennart Bernadotte and home to over 1200 types of roses. It couldn't be much further to Fliesshorn- even on a calm day the campground was only about an hour away from Mainau Island-but the protruding land mass with its signature mossy pier was nowhere to be seen.

For the first time on our millennial cruise we're getting something that would qualify as a stiff breeze. Dad isn't saying much but I can tell by the way he turns his relaxed leather face into the wind that he is silently congratulating himself on offering his long-lost son such a picture perfect day of sailing. We're comfortably cruising at about 4 to 5 knots with half wind blowing from the south, and as I'm ripping into the salted pretzel bag to appease my sea breeze appetite I'm thinking that we might even get to Bregenz early enough this afternoon to take a swim. Another incentive to arrive with enough daylight left is to check out the world famous floating stage of the Bregenz festival production that is about to kick off its second season of Giuseppe Verdi's Masquerade Ball.

As we're tacking into Bregenz Bay past the city island of Lindau, founded in 1275 under Habsburg rule, we are mesmerized by a gigantic skeleton reading a book right on the water. No, this is not Nessie reincarnated but the free floating setting of the masquerade ball. After finding a berth and paying our 140 Schilling ($10) fee, Dad and I walk over to the amphitheater where we stumble into the final dress rehearsal of the opera, scheduled to run throughout August. Men in shorts and medicine ball sized underworld heads are dancing with women wearing wire cages without dress. This rehearsal status lends a surrealism to the whole scene that might even outdo the performance itself, but we won't find out because tomorrow we are off to our next destination, a little village in the backwaters of the old Rhine River.

It was hailing now. Within minutes the assault from above was turning from frosty little bullets into fist-size ice-balls. From the front of the boat I heard Dad cursing. I'm not sure what hurt him more, the relentless hail or his inability to reel in the destroyed jib that was snapping at him like a cornered animal each time he was reaching out to grab it. I'm not so sure why he was even up there fighting to take down the sail, but I think it was his sailor's pride dictating him to never cease control of the boat, even in the most adverse of circumstances. And leaving me, his son, with all but ten summers of life experience, to steer the boat, was his way of passing the baton, of communicating an important lesson without saying a word. If he didn't think I could keep us on course he would never have left me back there by myself. At least that is what I would like to believe.....

There are quite a few streams that flow into Lake Constance, but none as significant as the Rhine River. Mostly known for its beautiful sections in Western Central Germany between Mainz and Cologne, the Rhine's watershed is only about 100 kilometers south of Lake Constance in the Swiss Alps. By the time it bids the lake good-bye on the western end it has turned into a formidable stream casting such popular images of German culture such as the Rhine River cruise ships. However, the Rhine's inlet on the southeastern end of the lake is an entirely different story. Rerouted into canals for better navigation, the actual river winds through wetlands and wildlife refuges through the idyllic Swiss shoreline to the remote docking pier of Wetterwinkel, where Dad and I spend the evening eating Schweinebraten and Röstis (pork chops and fried potatoes) at the local clubhouse.

A walk after dinner takes us down the rural roads of Switzerland through fields of wheat and barley, essential ingredients to a famous beverage served generously at The Anchor, a pub in the small village of St. Margarethen where Dad and I finish out the evening drinking local brews and trying to understand the Swiss Germans who are striking up conversations with us. Four beers later we find ourselves on the back of a tractor on our way back to the boat - compliments of a local farmer. The next morning we motor down the Rhine and, once we hit the estuary, catch a stiff breeze that takes us all the way back to the Swiss/German border at Konstanz in only five hours.

There is something about the relationship between my father and I that would spell trouble in most cases. We are about as different as personalities can be. His stoic, security-oriented approach to life stands in stark contrast to my unconventional, artistic nature. I know that to this day he has been unable to understand why I would choose to be a starving writer and musician in a country with virtually no social safety net when I could have stayed within the comforts of my roots and the temptations of lifetime employment and benefits that Germany offers. And emigrating to the USA, of all places....?

Our interactions are careful, trying hard not to step on each other's toes with snide remarks from experiences that seem like lifetimes apart, and the fact that we're stuck with each other on a 30 foot sailboat for over a week doesn't make things easier. But somehow, underneath all the penned up feelings of lost opportunities and failed expectations, there is a calmness that stems from the last leg of our memorable cruise in the summer of 1977, braving the storm of the century with the most unlikely of all crews.

We made it back to the little mossy pier that day, despite the destroyed sail and bruised bodies. As it turned out, we were actually much closer to our home-base than we had initially thought when I took the tiller, and docking the boat through a flurry of buoys and five foot waves somehow seemed like a routine after all we had gone through. We didn't know it then, but maneuvering grandfather's nutshell to a save landing had formed a bond between us that, while it wouldn't keep us from living completely different lives, instilled a faith in our family tie strong enough to sail through the storms to come.

Which leaves me with the present, the summer of 2000. We are setting sail one last time, after a night in the beautiful medieval town of Konstanz, the lake's namesake, heading southeast toward the old mossy pier at Fliesshorn. As we're passing by Imperia, a 15 ton revolving statue of a famous 14th Century prostitute holding the king in one hand and the pope in the other, it feels as if time is standing still. Once again, I'm at the tiller and Dad is up front, disentangling a sail. This time, however, it's a gorgeous, almost California-like day with a slight tail-wind, and instead of fighting a flapping jib Dad is setting up the spinnaker.

Once we're settled in and the Sunbeam 27 is safely cruising at around 4 knots, I am overcome by the looming finality of our trip. Glancing at gorgeous Mainau Island I hear myself asking Dad if he believes in life after death. Somewhat befuddled by the gravity of this unexpected question, yet also strangely calm and composed, he turns to me and says: "I don't think there's a god in this world or that I will go anywhere, but I do know that I will live on through my sons." The depth of his statement hits me like a lighthouse in the fog; it illuminates the roots of old Europe and my place in it; it explains the whole cruise, past and present, its adversities and challenges, its significance in times of confusion. I will go back to the United States knowing that there will always be a home, fluid and stormy, yet never to be lost.

Yosemite Groove

Noe Valley Voice, August 2000

"Home!" I thought to myself, stepping out of the band van into a moonlit silhouette of mother nature's finest. Standing on a sloped meadow sprinkled with wildflowers and pine cones, the bottoms of my bare feet were sending tactile waves of sensuous moss to the feelgood nerve endings in my brain. Below, only a stone's throw away, the Merced River was engaged in a show of force unparalleled by anything I had ever seen or heard before. Winter's grip had given in to the sun's rebirth, causing staunch snowcaps to turn into millions of cubic feet of melting water ferociously pouring into a system of thirsty streams and tributaries.

Five weeks earlier, after a 45-minute opening set for a death metal band in a smoky San Francisco dive, our mandolin player, Baba Ndjhoni, had tempted us with the offer to play on his friend's back porch in El Portal, a small community of park employees on the periphery of Yosemite National Park. "Paul and I talked on the phone today," Baba had burst out with soulful enthusiasm, "and all I could hear were the torrents of the river!" At that moment the guitarist of the death metal band stepped on his distortion overdrive pedal, inciting all eight of us to chant in unison: "When are we leaving?!"

The roar of this powerful spectacle was oozing into every pore of my body, shedding layers of smog, schedules and protection mechanisms that urban musicians acquire to keep their sanity in the concrete jungle. Rock formations towering around me appeared to be whispering tales of origin that preceded the concept of time, reducing pyramids and skyscrapers to nugatory specks on granite's clock. Thinking that the absence of any time structure would inevitably lead to a world of patience, I lowered myself into Paul's fifty-foot rope swing and gradually ascended to a weightless plateau overlooking Yosemite Valley.

Our band's name is Chemystry Set. It's a musical experiment that combines creativity, family and the longing for connection with a higher source. I knew that taking our groovy mix of jazz, rock and African rumba high up into the most pure and untouched corners of the Sierra Nevada was going to be like traveling to the roots of our music. What I didn't know was how mutually enriching this encounter would turn out to be.

"You guys wanna go for a swim in a water hole?" I heard Paul's voice echoing through the log cabin as we were unloading our arsenal of amplifiers, tambouras and chimes onto the porch. Moments later we found ourselves hiking among blossoming shrubs of wild raspberry, up a trail that eventually led us down a steep ravine into an oasis of pools and waterfalls. Baba was the first one to strip down to his bare essentials, and to the sounds of Tarzan-like howls, we watched him dive off a protruding cliff and splash in the ice-cold water like a young otter. The rest of us followed without much hesitation, and before long the idyllic valley had turned into a cartoonish scene of eight gurgling and frolicking city slickers in the nude.

Back at the makeshift amphitheater, an ensemble of mountain people had gathered, sipping beers and trading park stories while patiently waiting to put faces to the pile of cords and speakers that lay sprawled out on their friend's porch. After a few spontaneous welcome hugs, hoots and post glacier-water induced yodels we climbed up the creaky staircase to the porch and began to play.

"Sound has filled the air — look around, you are everywhere — what you found is still out there," I heard myself singing to the infectious grooves of the rhythm section, and it felt as if these words had been written with the sole purpose of finding meaning twelve months later, on a Yosemite back porch. The meadow had transformed into a sea of motion, grown-ups shaking their bones in all directions, hula-hoops gyrating down the hips of smiling children, and Frisbees zooming through the afternoon heat like flying saucers abandoned by air traffic control. The river's undulated flow had fused with our sound waves, both echoing through the canyon in unison. Playing our instruments felt effortless, almost ethereal. Time had lost its significance.

More than four hours later, we awakened to the fact that we had run out of songs to play. The sun had disappeared behind a dense forest, casting gigantic shadows of pine trees onto the scene. Exhausted but gleeful, we stepped onto the grass to mingle with our newly found friends and fans. "This was the most amazing experience I've ever had up here!" a sparkly-eyed woman with braids that looked like redwood bark revealed to me after an affectionate hug. As I was cruising around the meadow, many more people approached me, spontaneously sharing stories about their lives and the magic of the park. Without saying it we all knew that we'd remember this day for a while to come.

As the rope swing elevated my tired body into the boundless mountain sky for the last time that night, I was cherishing the thought of how closely dreams could dance with reality, of how the two could be joined through the silent wisdom of nature and the spirit of music. For just the blink of an eye — the human pendulum suspended in midair — they appeared to be the same, but before I could elaborate on dreams as reality, the force of gravity pulled me back to earth, where a flock of musicians was anxiously waiting to rise to their own answers.

On the Streets of San Francisco

Walking tours in San Francisco are cheap, healthy and hip

The Newark Star Ledger, April 16th 2000

Advances in technology are commonly regarded as revolutionary in the ways we move from point A to point B. Travel has become easier with every new invention, from the private automobile to civil aviation. Convenience is the buzzword, and with the arrival of the internet we don't even have to leave our homes anymore - adventures in exotic places around the world are just a click away.

For a piddling $80,000 you will soon be able to purchase a vacation package to Mars; add an extra 10000 bucks for a sleeper capsule. What we don't realize is how much we're missing out on all of Milky Way's little back alleys and non-rated spaces - accessible only to those willing to slow down and get off the rocket.

Back on Earth, slowing down is not exactly in style but I predict that it will soon become the next suave thing to do for the progressive 21st century traveler. Swing dance made a comeback and vinyl is rising from the ashes, so a walking revival is without doubt only a step away. The new leaders in the travel industry will be organizers of walking tours, advertising their services with images of tanned and athletic urban hikers.

San Francisco is the place to start. Its natural inability to sprawl is a blessing for the walking visitor: The City resides on a seven-mile stretch between the Pacific and the Bay, making all its quirky neighborhoods accessible on a whim. A year-round moderate climate and an infrastructure put into place long before the arrival of the automobile create a perfect setting for the most primary means of transportation - a pair of legs. And while the temptation is high to be swept into the Guinness Museum at Fisherman's Wharf or the department stores on Market Street, much of San Francisco's charm and character emanates through the nooks and crannies of its diverse and historical backstreets.

Taking a walking tour in San Francisco is a bit like an appetizer that hints at what's to come but leaves you hungry for more. It helps you overcome initial reservations about venturing into lesser-known areas and prepares you to continue exploring on your own after the official tour is over. And for now, until business catches on to the new walking craze, tours are offered for free through City Guides at the San Francisco Public Library (for updates, call 415 557-4266 or visit the web at www.walking-tours.com/cityguides).

You can choose from 25 different tours and over 100 walks scheduled every month. Tours range from "Lands end: Sutro Highs and Lows," a hike through the windswept ruins of early century baths built into the steep cliffs of Ocean Beach, to "Brothels, Boardinghouses & Bawds," a two-block stroll through the shady corners of the Gold Rush era. Adding a bit of improvisation and adventure to good exercise, the tours meet "on site," which means either a scenic $1 bus ride (line 38) across town to Sutro baths, or a short walk from downtown to Maiden Lane Gate, off Kearny Street on the edge of Chinatown, for the brothel tour.

The tours are led by volunteer guides, mostly longtime residents of San Francisco who are knowledgeable and passionate about their neighborhoods. On a sunny Sunday afternoon in November, I partake in a walking tour of the Mission Dolores district led by Denis Rauchman, a retired teacher.

Denis tells the story of brave locals who took matters into their own hands and contained the inferno resulting from the 1906 earthquake along Church Street. As everyone's eyes are glued to the golden fire hydrant in front of us, Denis' voice takes on a solemn tone: "....and every year to this day, on April 17th, the locals gather at this fire hydrant with wine and song to commemorate their heroic ancestors...."

We march on through Dolores Park, a former Jewish cemetery, and past the gay/lesbian synagogue on 16th Street to the Women's Building on 18th and Lapidge. Denis is now telling us the colorful history of this multi-ethnic neighborhood, from early Scandinavian settlers to Irish, Chilean, Vietnamese and most recently, Mexican immigrants. All the while I am staring at the most beautiful and moving mural I have ever seen in my life, entitled "Maestrapeace."

Above the third-floor window towers the image of a Native American woman clothed in a colorful shawl, her kind but firm brown eyes telling the story of ancestral wisdom. Riding down her arms along the second floor and toward the fire escapes on both sides are an African priestess on an ocean wave and a South American farmer woman cradled inside the nurturing leaves of a palm tree. Nestled among pearls, rainbows and the native woman's crescent body shapes are women of different heritage, old and young, Asian and European, Muslim and Hindu, women in captivity, protesters, doctors, mothers and educators, all conveying a message of courage, hope and resilience. A sign held by an educator reads: "

"And when we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard nor welcomed, but when we are silent we are still afraid. So it is better to speak remembering we were never meant to survive. - Audie Lords-"

We've come to the end of the tour, and after everyone has said their goodbyes I am left daydreaming on the sidewalk. "There are a lot more murals all over the Mission." A voice next to me gently pulls me back to reality. I am looking at the woman who had seemed very familiar with the area, and had spiced up Denis' catalog of information with bits of personal insight during the tour. Her name is Lisa, and after we share a few thoughts on the magnificence of "Maestrapeace," she dares me to delve a little deeper into the womb of this neighborhood. I don't really have anywhere to go and my legs are still pretty fresh, so I gratefully accept the offer.

Our first stop is Taqueria El Toro on Valencia and 17th, where Lisa tells me over a delicious vegetarian burrito that she is a walking guide for the International Youth Hostel (415 788-5604). She's been a resident of San Francisco for six years, and started volunteering to lead local walking tours after a guide on one of her trips overseas refused payment but instead encouraged participants to do the same in their hometowns.

Not only do you meet people from all over the world on these walking tours, but also local folks who want to learn more about other parts of town that they are less familiar with. Whether they want to or not, they usually become fascinating sources of information inspired by eager questions asked in some of the world's most exotic dialects. Lisa is one of these locals.

We are now strolling down Mission Street, between 17th and 24th, where a bustling, multi-racial crowd is gravitating in and out of countless little bakeries, butcher shops and corner stores. The smell of meats, pastries and herbal remedies reminds me of street bazaars in China or Mexico. We pass by more murals depicting farm workers' struggles and environmental issues, meticulously painted and sprayed on the walls of liquor stores, banks and, on 24th Street, McDonalds.

Lisa tells me about artist-led mural walks offered by Precita Eyes Mural Arts Center, the nonprofit organization that's behind all these thought provoking paintings (for info, call 415 285-2287). I put it on my mental list of things to do. We stop in for a cup of coffee at one of the Mission's favorite writers' and artists' hangouts, Café La Boheme on 24th Street, when the sore muscles in my legs tell me that my walking zenith has been reached for the day.

The following week I take three more walking tours: Haight-Ashbury, Potrero Hill and the mural walk. Haight-Ashbury takes us into the hills of Buena Vista Park, the City's oldest, and then down past Janis Joplin's and the Grateful Dead's houses to the fabled Red Victorian Hotel at 1665 Haight Street. The Red Vic is a living museum of '60s art and flower power with guest rooms named "Summer of Love Room" and "The Playground." (Call 415-864-1978 for reservations or tours or visit www.redvic.com)

Potrero Hill, an industrial quarter in the eastern part of town that you couldn't bribe a tour bus driver to detour into, turns out to be the hotbed of colliding lifestyles. Mixed in with old machine shops and warehouses are so-called live/work units, spacious and sinfully expensive studios occupied by a flood of wealthy Dot Commies, S.F.'s new high tech elite. We end our walk at the Anchor Steam Brewery at Mariposa and De Haro, and this time, not surprisingly, I spend my after-tour hours with Lars, a nuclear physicist from Germany. (Brewery tours M-F, 2 pm, reservations recommended, (415) 863-8350)

By now I am in iron-man shape and so my next trip to the Mission flatlands for the Precita mural tour seems like a breeze. This one is everything it promised to be, and more. Sean, mural artist and guide, takes us behind the scenes of Precita's latest project, a 90-foot by 6-foot ceramic tile mural depicting the four elements and points of the compass, assembled by high school students from all over San Francisco. The finished art piece is going to become the sidewalk outside McDonald's on 24th Street.

Sean's enthusiasm alone is worth the seven bucks. He takes our group, consisting mostly of local college students trying to earn extra credit for their art classes, through tiny Balmy Alley, where faded murals remind us of the struggle for peace in Central America during the '80s. Some of the murals are invisible that day, because the garage doors they are painted on are open. I don't mind - being able to glance into people's garages and backyards is one of the true rewards of the walking tour. At one house, we listen to a teenage salsa band's rehearsal. At another a father is showing his son how to work on a souped-up Super Beetle. The intimacy of Balmy Alley is contagious, its inhabitants seeming like the embodiment of all the symbols of hope and compassion painted on their doors.

Sean takes us to César Chávez Elementary School at Folsom and 22nd Streets, where larger-than-life images of César Chávez, Dolores Fuentes and Martin Luther King adorn the front side. Looking at these powerful images, we collectively wonder what life would have been like if our own schools had been colorful pieces of art instead of dreary old buildings. With this in mind, we head over to Casa Sanchez on 24th Street (282-2400), "home of the best chips and salsa in the world," and conclude a memorable walk with a memorable meal.

The time has come to say goodbye to another group. We all agree that walking is by far the best way to make a connection with this city, and that there is a good chance we might see each other again on another tour. As I meander down the tree-lined sidewalk of 24th Street one more time, peeking into a different universe each time I stop at another family-run business, I can't help but think how lucky I am to live in this neighborhood.

The Zen of Waiting

A Journey to Baja California

San Francisco Bay Guardian, Feb. 9th, 2000

"Totolito, go get the Quesadillas!" the stubble-faced Ranchero yells, "and don't forget the cerveza, these Gringos will need a lot of liquidos!" A gangly kid emerges from a pile of scrapping young boys and shuffles his feet through a smorgasbord of human odors blending 100% humidity with cheap cologne and nervous anticipation.

Welcome to the middle of Baja. The coastal town of Santa Rosalia is separated from mainland Mexico by an eight-hour ferry ride across the Sea of Cortes. Although the boat doesn't leave till 11pm, my friend Joel and I head to the terminal early. It's Friday, and if we don't get on tonight, we will be stuck here until Tuesday when the next ferry is scheduled to leave. We don't want to take a chance - Joel's familia is waiting for us in Chihuahua. And after all, Baja California is part of Mexico.

Noon.

The line extends from under the tiny terminal roof into the blistering summer heat. Tickets are sold out. Everyone is waiting for cancellations — many people, young and old, rich and poor, car owners and pedestrians, cousins, nephews, friends and pets, all engaged in the process of "wait and see." Kids are flying across piles of luggage. Young women in seductive poses, engaged in heated conversation, are throwing occasional flirtatious glimpses over to a row of soon-to-be-macho boys. We do what everyone else is doing: We get in line.

One-thirty.

"Hola amigos, you from San Francisco?" Onto the scene steps Oscar, proud owner of the number 4 slot in line. He's wearing the only Grateful Dead T-Shirt in Mexico and so we start chatting about music and travel. Oscar tells us that there are usually over 50 cancellations and that we will definitely get our tickets before this day is over. We look at the current state of the line, count ourselves as approximately number 30 and give each other an affirmative nod: We will be on the boat tonight.

Three thirty.

Totolito returns with the quesadillas and two ice-cold Tecates that the Ranchero sells us for the desert bargain price of 50 Pesos. We don't care. The beer goes down like a magic elixir preparing our stomachs for the pound of cheese about to be stuffed down our throats. Totolito jumps back into the pile of revved-up niños, the soon-to-be-macho boys are now exchanging timid smiles with the perfectly manicured señoritas, and the rest of the potential passengers has lost interest in our sunburns.

Five-thirty.

A woman accompanied by two heavily armed security gorillas arrives at the ticket booth. She'll be residing over us latecomers' fate because she holds the ribbon to the manual typewriter that types the name and age onto every single passenger's ticket......

Seven o'clock.

The line behind us has suspiciously dissolved into an occasional passer-by. The kids are sleeping at our feet, and the señoritas have been invited to a cruise in the macho boys' pick-ups.

Another hour passes and the woman-in-charge pulls the scrappy old piece of wood out of the booth window to open a tiny hole of transaction. For all of us, it is as if the universe has been exposed. The line gets really tense now, everyone is pushing even though no tickets have been sold yet. Our hopes are the highest they have been in the last eight hours. We are like cats who have just heard the opening crack on a can of whiskas and we're ready to devour the goodies in a single bite.

Before we know it, the booth is boarded up again and the adrenaline rush is over. She sold five tickets! F-I-V-E!! But it's not over yet, she is still tipping and tapping away in her tower of power, and another fifteen minutes later she sells five more tickets. At ten-thirty, half an hour before departure, all hell breaks loose: "No mas, no mas — come back mañana to get tickets for Tuesday!"

It's almost anti-climactic by now, like we waited in line for 11 hours, but so what, it could have been much worse. The next morning we buy our tickets for the Tuesday ferry (we wait in line for an hour — piece of cake) and drive down the coast to spend a few relaxed days on the beach, knowing we will be able to provide good counseling to next Tuesday's cancellation line.