Human energy is a funny thing. What is it, after all? Energy. We’re not talking E=MC2. Or are we? If we are, it’s way beyond my pay grade, so forget that. Energy. Best described as vitality. Which if you are navigating the earth’s surface with diminished neuromusculature…not a word, I know…well, you want as much as you can get, right?
And in any case, on any day, you do want a certain amount for Muni. And I’m not complaining. The redoubtable transit agency is very much at the center of my mobility. And I believe in it. And I support it. And it supports me, one should note. In any case, it was going to take two buses, and on a day when I felt particularly dragged down by allergies a mild virus, hard to say…it was very hard to make a commitment until the last minute.
But I did. And then it was off, madly swinging up over and down the other side of Twin Peaks. Where the buses are always fast. But particularly attractive for drivers who enjoy being untrammeled. Not only is there little traffic on the route of the 44 O’Shaughnessy, but there is little anything. A long stretch of the route overhangs Glen Canyon. So, there are only a few houses, no businesses, and precious few stops. Which brought us all the way across town to California Street in slightly more than 20 minutes.
Where, San Francisco being what it is, a different climate prevailed. Windy. Downright cold. The latter being a function of the former. It has been hot in San Francisco. Not far short of 32°C. But not to worry, for soon I was aboard the 1 California Muni bus. Which I would recommend to anyone getting into San Francisco on a serious basis. For the route charges right through Chinatown, up and down Nob Hill, and on into the Richmond District flatlands. There is a lot of chatter in Cantonese. And owing to the population density, and the challenges of the hills, the buses wander.
Yes, we do start off on California Street. But before long that gives way to its parallel Sacramento Street. And then damned if we aren’t one further north, Clay Street, all of which inhibits what a manufacturer would term throughput. Landing me late and about one block east of Congregation Sherith Israel. Where people were still wandering in, cop cars double parked and flashing their lights, this paranoid attendee just hoping that homicidal nuts had been deterred from today’s gathering.
In support of Israel. And was I there with any ambivalence? No. My ambivalence is reserved for the current Netanyahu government. And we weren’t there about that. We were there to be supportive of the experiment, however flawed, that is the Jewish homeland.
As for the synagogue, there isn’t anything like it. The congregation dates from the Gold Rush. The current grand building must be about 100 years old. I was glad to be there. The sanctuary is ornate, well cared for and deeply and profoundly inaccessible. At one point, some locals had suggested I take a look at the place…a well-intentioned, if slightly oblivious, recommendation. The main floor seems to be completely off bounds for wheelchairs. So, I was upstairs in the capacious balcony. And Nancy Pelosi was just concluding her remarks. The mayor, seated next to her, might have already spoken. And as for the rest, it was a hasty affair, and only one merciful hour long.
We were all encouraged to give to the still-forming relief fund. And there was a live estimate of the dead. And the kidnapped. It was a disaster unfolding. And, yes, it has been unfolding for a long time. We were passed the stage of thinking about that. Although we will have to get back to fundamentals soon. But not now.
I was glad that the Israeli Consul General’s brief speech acknowledged local irritation with Bibi and company. But, it’s true, time to focus on that would be later. Meanwhile, all I could think of was my Israeli cousin’s daughter. I only met her once in the UK, but during several family days in Somerset and London, she was so delightful. Such a good kid. A laughable term of reference considering that in the intervening 25 years, she has ceased being a kid, and has a couple of her own. But today I was slightly worried. Facebook. I would have to check her out.
I was eight years old when I managed to convince three or four friends that it was time to build a dam in the desert. There was a ditch where water ran from our road out into the chaparral. The ditch jointed another stream from a nearby quarry. And there was evidence that these were perfectly natural dry stream beds. That flooded in the most exciting way when it rained. Which, of course, it rarely did. But I was prepared.
I think that I was genetically unsuited to the Upper Sonoran Desert. I was fascinated by rivers, streams, and all manner of flowing water. Even at eight years old, I knew there was a problem with the dam. My laborers had managed to pile up a substantial amount of earth. And we had even brought some boards for reinforcement. But I didn’t know what to do about this obvious defect. There was no overflow. Still, I didn’t quite believe that the waters would back up, that a tiny pond would briefly form. How briefly, I never knew. After the rain, my inspection of the former dam clearly indicated that the water had backed up, crested, and then washed out the earthworks.
Water doesn’t like to be dammed. It seeks its own level, and so on. And so do people. And thus Gaza and the Middle East. And if everyone knows this and they may or they may not, we will have to get back to all that later. Meanwhile, today, Sunday was not the time.