Under the Bridge (East of) Downtown

Spontaneity: my lovely Little Flower and I took our bikes downtown on Sunday with no plans. Park where? Start where? Go where? We didn't know or care. So we put the bikes on a rack on the back of my little car and drove in from the 'burbs planning only to start somewhere different than the spot where we sat on a bench the weekend before.

We started near the playground at Zilker Park, where my son and I have spent many mornings over the years playing and running and swinging and sliding and riding the Zilker Zephyr and eating snow cones. We followed the Zephyr's tracks to Lou Neff Point and paused to watch the turtles. I smiled to hear the moms' conversations with their toddlers and reminisced about the good ol' days of stay-at-home dadding, and together we wondered if the strewn rose petals we saw there had been part of a marriage proposal. Not far from that very spot, I had helped a friend of mine with his own complex romantic proposal scheme some years ago, which involved me madly paddling a canoe across the Colorado River and a little way up Barton Creek to hide under a bridge for a while like a canoeing troll before emerging with a sign at just the right moment as they strolled along above me. His proposal earned an enthusiastic yes. I hoped the rose petals had elicited the same.

Then we headed west, young man, past the seemingly ever-present Woode Wood playing to the passengers of the Zephyr, then crossing the river under Mopac and heading east, pedaling nearly the entire length of the Butler Hike and Bike Trail past Festival Beach, watching all the way for the large, circular "Live a Great Story" stickers that dot Austin. We think of them as ours, now, these wise signs, and we're usually living a great story whenever we see them. We paused on our way for lunch at G'Raj Mahal on Rainey Street before crossing the river again and riding all the way back, under the sleeping bats of Congress Avenue Bridge and past Stevie on Auditorium Shores, who was still watching over our cuddle bench.

I'd never been biking with my Little Flower. I'd never ridden the length of the trail. I knew there was a new boardwalk, but I'd never seen it. I'd never heard of the Dragon Boat Festival, or the Austin Food & Wine Festival through which we rode, wondering, "what's going on here?" I'd never tried G'Raj Mahal, which we settled for when we found that Banger's had a 2-hour wait. And I'd never been under the bridge before, where we were greeted with the ethereal echo of a saxophone and had a surprising and uplifting encounter with an unusual man named Joe.

When we crossed the bridge at IH-35 and came down the ramp to the path crossing underneath, we heard the sound of the sax filling the cavernous concrete space. There's a quality to saxophone music that is unlike anything else, rich and visceral. Reverberating in that space, it sounded alive. Joe later said that's why he plays there: it's like singing in the shower, making it sound so much better than it really is. I stopped at the bottom of the ramp to listen and to look back for my companion, who'd been caught behind in a crowd. When I turned around again, Joe had stopped playing and was standing right next to me, asking us what we were up to today.

We talked and smiled and laughed together for maybe 15 minutes or so, and what we said wasn't as important as the joy of stumbling into the rarity of that moment when we all three came together, completely open in our hearts and willing to connect with strangers. My series of first dates last year showed me with a new kind of clarity how rare exactly that is, even in situations where people come together for the express purpose of trying to get to know each other just a bit. In situations where there is no general expectation of connection, where people flow past each other like water over rocks in the river of humanity, it's rarer still. So many of us, and at some points all of us, have defenses against strangers, even when we put ourselves purposely among them. I remember in Boston, riding the subway every day, I wore sunglasses and headphones and kept my nose in a book, because to make eye contact on the subway is to invite conversation, and the only people who would want to converse on the subway are crazy, or begging for money, or both. So, best to nip that in the bud, if you're an experienced veteran of the urban life.

So it may be a risk, but it's a risk I like taking, as I've discovered in the years since I left Boston behind and learned that being an experienced veteran of the urban life isn't all it's cracked up to be. When you talk to people, you never know what you're going to get.

Joe was not afraid to put a hand on my shoulder and give it a friendly squeeze. He did not worry about offering us graceful openings with which to walk away from the conversation, such as "I should probably let you go" or any of the other conversational exit signs people use. He made eye contact and smiled. He spoke in an easy, relaxed way. He talked about himself and about us. He gave us charming and unexpected anecdotes about himself and his wife and the career from which he'd retired. He told us he started playing the saxophone for the first time only 2 years ago, and that's why he appreciates the acoustic help the bridge gives him, making even the novice sound expert. He made several kind comments about us, like that he didn't care much about auras, but if he did, he was sure he would like ours. He asked how long we'd been married, and offered kind and encouraging words when we said we've been dating for 9 months. He told her that she was secure and compassionate, and that I was a gentle man. He told us there was an old song about us, then sang us a few lines from memory: "Love is lovelier the second time around, just as wonderful with both feet on the ground. It's that second time you hear your love song sung, makes you think perhaps that love, like youth, is wasted on the young." Turns out it's Frank Sinatra's "Second Time Around." Maybe it'll be our song. Maybe we'll listen to it and smile and think of Joe while we hold hands on the porch 30 years from now.

We pedaled away smiling and feeling uplifted by the interaction. That's what I wish for you, my friends, and for myself: spontaneous adventure and new discoveries even in long-familiar surroundings; love, affection, and fun with those you adore; and an open-hearted willingness to find meaning and human connection in unexpected places.