365 True Things: 133/Strangers

I used to be somewhat active on the photo-sharing site Flickr, participating in various groups, posting my Project 365 daily photo (four years running), checking out friends' shots. I enjoyed the community. But since Yahoo! acquired Flickr and the site went through format changes, I haven't been checking in as much, and I don't follow any groups anymore.

Well, none but one—and that one, I joined as a challenge to myself. It's called 100 Strangers, and the purpose of the group is—you guessed it—to post photos of strangers, together with a short something about them.

I do not as a rule take pictures of people. I'm camera shy myself, and I assume that everyone else is too (mistakenly, needless to say). So as my first Project 365 was winding down and I had convinced myself I'd be crazy to do another one (ha ha), I was wondering what sort of push I could give myself in another way. I think I'd run across some portraits of strangers in my photo stream, and I thought, Hm, that could be interesting. It would certainly be a stretch. Since in addition to being camera shy, I'm people shy.

My first stranger was Diane, who served us wine at the Talbott tasting room in Carmel Valley Village in April 2008. Here's what I wrote about her: "She only works at the tasting room a couple of times a month—in her 'real life' she's an accountant—so I feel lucky to have run into her. She said she only discovered wine about a year ago, because she grew up with a Belgian father who insisted that wine was somehow requisite—and so she rebelled, by not taking to it. She quoted a saying of his: 'Milk's for babies, water's for ducks, and everyone else drinks wine.' Uh uh, not Diane—until lately. But now she's into it. She's a local girl, but has been to Belgium numerous times (the French-speaking part). And that's about all I know about Diane. Except that I liked her : )"

Dan and Bob

The next three were Dan, Bob, and Jesse, all of whom worked at a service station in Elko, Nevada. They chatted me up first, so it was a no-brainer to ask if I could take pictures of them. They were more than pleased. Somewhere in there, they sold me a new set of tires. We all came out winners, though I came out a little poorer. But I did need new tires, and they saved me a potential blow-out, so I was grateful.

So far on my 100 Strangers Flickr set I have eleven subjects all told. In seven years. For people-shy me, that's not bad. But then just this month, I've met and photographed three more strangers—two of them, coincidentally, strong hikers with a connection to the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage.

One of said pilgrims was today's stranger (#14), Steven Jacques. We met him on a steep trail in Garland Ranch Regional Park. As we arrived at a switchback where he was taking a breather, he joked, "Don't worry, you're almost at the top. It's just around the corner." We assured him we knew full well we were nowhere near the top—but at least it was getting closer.

As we all continued on, he explained that he hikes that trail three times a week, and another coastal trail every Tuesday—with a 17-pound watermelon in his pack to share with a group of people who gather up the hill at "the bench" around 5. The reason: he's preparing to hike the Camino. (His pack will weigh 17 pounds: hence the watermelon. It's practice and a gift.) He plans to be in Santiago for his 60th birthday. An usher at the Carmel Mission, he has introductions from the head priest, Father John, allowing him to stay in monasteries all along the Camino, rather than the usual hostels and dormitories. Lucky guy. At the moment, he's living in the Carmelite monastery south of Carmel, where he does maintenance and small jobs for the nuns.

When we reached Snively's Ridge, I asked if I could take his photo. He seemed intrigued by my project and said, "Ask me anything." I said, "Oh, I think I've got a nice little story to go with this photo." But no: he wanted to tell us more. He was third generation in the area; his father and grandfather had both been carpenters, and his grandfather actually made some of the doors for the restored mission. "They still call me Johnny's boy," he said. He'd been married, he said, with a daughter, but he lost them both in a car crash on I-580 in the Bay Area seven years ago. "I don't think I'll marry again," he said. Sometime after, he started going to the mission, even though he's not Catholic, and a man sitting next to him one day suggested he become an usher. His life changed at that point, became grounded again. 

He seemed a joyful man; spoke of looking forward to his late sixties, when he feels like everything will come together. He said now, he's trying new things: learning saxophone, going to the ballet. He said he used to think of the ballet as girly—"And of course I'm a guy," he said, flexing his muscles—but when he went to see Don Quixote recently in San Francisco, he was captivated, not just by the dancing and music, but by the costumes and sets, and even the set changes.

Me, I keep coming back to his loss, wondering how one gets over something like that. I'm sure he's not "over" it. But he's continuing to live—and not just that, but he's living large. He's adventuring and exploring. Maybe, in a way, his loss taught him that ongoing lesson that, really, too few of us learn well: you only live once—and you might as well live with as much gusto as possible.

He invited us to come on out one Tuesday afternoon for the hike to the bench. He'll have watermelon to quench our thirst. Or maybe a couple of canteloupes and a honeydew, just to shake things up.

I'm tempted.