We were told there’d be limited oxygen, so we shouldn’t breathe too much. We were told if we were claustrophobic, we should stay home. We were told to leave our phones and cameras at home or being blacklisted would be the least of our problems. We were asked to bring a bottle of water and $2.75 in quarters and good hiking shoes.
Are you curious? Want to know more? Well, since we’re all friends here, I’ll let you in on the secret…
It’s called
Covert. It’s a series of adventures put on by the creative duo of John Law, original San Francisco daring adventurer, and Mark Growden, an extraordinary Bay Area musician. It was the first in their series, an initiation of sorts into the world of wonder they aim to create for those who choose to throw caution to the wind, take a risk, leave their twitterbots at home and believe in possiblity. When I first learned about it, it sounded slightly dangerous, a little illegal and wildly exciting. So, I pounced on the idea, thrilled at the thought of taking an unknown journey to a special place in the city with a bunch of strangers. So, Zsuzsu and I went together.
Friday evening, in a mad dash, we made it to Justin Herman Plaza right under the wire before our 7:01 pm departure. “We’re late! It’s 7:06!” John shouted. “Let’s go.” And off we went, all 50 of us clad in our hiking shoes and layered clothing, down into the MUNI station. Quarters in, transfers taken. “Follow the man in the top hat!” someone shouted. And so we did. We were herded onto the train. And then, I started looking around. What train are we on? Oh, the L-Taraval to the zoo. Soon enough the theories began to bubble. “Are we going to the zoo?” “But there are no hills there—they said there’d be hills!” “Maybe West Portal? Hmmm.” “The Forest Hill station? There are hills there.” “Yeah, there are…I bet we’re going there…” And with that, we were bonding. Strangers and lemmings, headed into the unknown. Giddy with excitement about what might come next.
And, wouldn’t you know it, the man in the top hat signaled our departure and as the train pulled into the station and the doors opened, out into the Forest Hill station we went. Up the rickety elevator, out the turnstile and through the doors into the cool air. Ahhhh. The sweet smell of eucalyptus. The pile of us walk down the sidewalk and start to move with the herd. I’m walking and catching up with an old friend when I realize: the herd has stopped. And they’ve stopped right in from a 25 foot Ryder truck parked at the curb. Ladder leaning against the side, it became abundantly clear that this would be our mode of transporation. And if you’ve ever been inside one of those trucks—and I *know* you have—you know there are no windows. But, with no questions asked, we climbed the ladder into the truck, swiftly as to avoid unnecessary attention. And then, we found ourselves in the tight, dark, confined claustrophobic, oxygenless space we’d been warned about. We all have a good laugh about because at least we’re not in a sewer.
We drive for about 15 minutes, and suddenly we hear the screeching and scratching of tree branches on metal, the brakes start to hiss and we stop. We’re instructed to keep it quiet—nobody needs to call attention to the 25 foot moving truck with 50 people packed inside. They might call the INS. Climbing out of the truck, we’re up against a bramble of blackberry bushes which snag my left hand as I try to squeeze past them. Now, my hand is cut and bleeding, and it hurts. My eyes are adjusting to the light. I’m pretty disoriented. I turn the corner and discover a set of stairs. The sting of the thorns in my hand, I climb the stairs. It takes a bit for me to get my bearings, but when I do, when I get to the top, I see that I’m at the start of a trail and behind me is a deep orange sun barely above the horizon. I can see the ocean from where I stand. And it’s clear. There’s no fog. It’s crisp and gorgeous. And the smell. That sweet, delicious smell of eucalyptus and fresh earth. In quiet, with the exception of a few yahoos who kept right on yammering, we climbed the hill passing ivy and wild irises and tiny blue wildflowers along the way.
As we neared the top, I suddenly recognize where we are. And then I hear it. The soft, dreamy melody drifting down the hill towards us. I turn to John, with an ear to ear smile and say, “Thank you.” The path leads us to a clearing where, atop a rock, sits two musicians. A woman with an accordion and a man standing above her. We gather around them on the ground, and they begin to serenade us with Argentinean flamenco songs. It’s a dream. It’s an unimaginable surprise. And, just as we’re settling in and reveling in the feeling, we’re up again. And we’re moving. We’re following the accordion to the next location. Here, we gather once again, huddled together against the cold wind that’s whipped up as the sun has dipped below the horizon. And what’s before us is now a small band of musicians – with an accordion, an upright bass and a trumpet. The music begins. As soon as Mark begins to sing with that haunting, passionate, powerful voice, I’m transported to another time, another place. The melodies, that voice, that accordion. So many fond memories held in those notes for me. We’re singing and huddled close and letting this experience wash right over us. And just as we’re getting comfortable and settling in…we’re up and moving again, this time into a circle to for a fantastic call-and-response experience called thread the needle. This finds us winding around in concentric circles, weaving in and out of each other and spinning and laughing and loving every minute. By the time we finish, the sun is no where in sight. It’s that deep blue of dusk now. And as I turn, I see it. The moon! My god will you look at that MOON! Pale but deep yellow, slung low in the sky, hovering just above the southeast part of the bay. I’d never seen the city from this perspective before. And rarely do you get to see it so clearly.
It would have been enough right there. It would have been enough to be transported in a black box and magically delivered to this forest wonderland. It would have been enough to be serenaded by Argentinean flamenco songs. It would have been enough to experience this intimate musical experience with Mark and his friends. It would have been enough to bear witness to this gorgeous moon hanging over the city. It would all, certainly, have been enough. Lucky for us, there was more.
We walked a little further across the hill and arrived at a small bluff. On the edge stood a leafless tree, blown westward by the ocean wind stretching its bare branches towards the lights below. Its silhouette against the midnight blue of dusk, and shadows of hills as its backdrop. Again, we discover the Argentinean duo and we drift back and forth, our bodies swaying to the soft pulse of the melodies. The wind at our faces, we choose to shift the stage behind us to shield us a bit from its bite. Mark moves in front of us now, picks up his accordion and sweeps us off into another world yet again. I look out over the city. I sing along. I find unexpected tears in my eyes and a smile spreading across my face. I am surrounded by people I do not know but with whom I now feel a kindred connection. We lean in closer to find warmth and protect each other from the cold.
Just before Mark plays his last song, he turns to us and says, “We may be coming up to a time very soon when we’re all going to need each other now more than ever.” And we all titter nervously, unclear on the meaning. “But even if we’re not,” he goes on, “we still need each other now more than ever. So lean in close, and sing along. Don’t be afraid. There’s no wrong way to do this. Just sing.” With that, our voices carrying out beyond our hill, beyond the houses below, reaching out beyond the bluff where planes like fireflies in the night sky circle and drift downwards towards the earth, we sang from our hearts, from our souls. And I felt so full—of life, of love, of possibility. That night, we celebrated the possibility of it all. I could never have imagined this adventure would fill me with such gratitude for the life I am privileged to lead. And as we finished, I breathed that air in deep because now there was enough for everyone. From that small, dark confined space, we journeyed to a place of infinite depth and light. Together, we jumped down that rabbit hole. And I cannot wait to do it again.
last night, with one of my dearest friends in the world, i got to experience the force that is massive attack. i've spent a bit of time writing here about music -- going to shows and having some pretty incredible experiences. music is and always has been my life. i mean really. i collect it, i seek it out, i relish in the feeling of that song or that riff that transports me to some other place, some other memory. i've been listening to the new massive attack album pretty obsessively for the past however many months, starting with the Heliogland EP. the first time i heard 'pray for rain' i got that rush --a transporting, transforming, what-the-hell-am-i-hearing rush. now, i know this isn't their best song, or nearly their best album. i get a lot of 'they were better long ago' opinions. but for me, there's something deep that this album reaches. and, really, i cannot resist hope sandoval. i melt every time i hear her.
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