dogs and Good Samaritans

I've been on the road a few hours now, and no one's barked out their window at me as they were driving by. On the contrary, I met another Good Samaritan on the street: a woman in a white Volvo drove up to me, pulled over, leaned across the passenger seat and handed me-- that's right-- a freezing can of Pepsi.

"You look like you need it," she said, smiling.

"Oh, my God, thank you!" I stammered, having long since abandoned whatever pride had kept me from accepting food and drink from strangers.

And with that, the lady drove off.

On one hand, perhaps it's not surprising to discover that, as little Anne Frank believed, people are basically good at heart. My overall experience in Washington State has been overwhelmingly positive, whether we're talking about the CouchSurfing hosts I've met or the religious institutions I've dealt with or the many random encounters I've had in stores and restaurants and on the street.

On the other hand, you've got the people who shout incoherent garbage out their windows as they drive by, and all the warnings from good folks about the need to "be careful out there"-- a testament to our pragmatic or cynical conviction that people are basically fallen.

Which is it? Are we basically good, or basically fallen? (Or are we mired in a sort of fundamental avidya, or ignorance, as Buddhists would contend?). Life doesn't provide clear, pat answers to most of our important questions, and the question of basic human goodness is among those admitting of no clear answers.

Dogs are lucky in that sense. Being pack mammals responsive to abstract notions like hierarchy and territory, dogs are born into the world wired with a sense of duty. They may be, as a result, the most Kantian of domesticated animals.

As happened when I went on a long hike in Switzerland, dogs have been barking at me all along my journey, especially when my path takes me through a suburban neighborhood or a farming area. Most of the dogs wag their tails while barking, which I take to mean they're not really serious. In one case, two dogs ran off their property to come right up to me, but I was more pissed off at the mindless owner than at the dogs themselves; they were only doing their sacred duty as members of the human pack.

I've been sitting at a place called Riverside Park while typing this entry. It's a fairly quiet place right now-- field, baseball diamond, trees, parking lots-- and I'm not even sure what city it's in. Many of the neighborhoods I've passed through have been advertising July 4th in some way or other: I've walked by innumerable fireworks booths. This neigborhood, wherever I am, is no different.

Anyway, it's time to get a-movin'. I stopped at this park because the lady's Pepsi (this state is an enormous Pepsi advertisement: almost every restaurant corrects me every time I order a Coke) gave me an excuse to rest my feet a bit, and while I might grab a snack if there's a convenience store down the street, I need to get moving.

Later.



UPDATE: I forgot to note that today, I encountered my first true hill. It was long, steep, and cruelly laid out so that, every time I thought I had reached the top, another little hill appeared before me. A bit like life, eh?


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