Today is a good day to have a great day to smile more worry less to be the very best version of you Cycling poster

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Today-is-a-good-day-to-have-a-great-day-to-smile-more-worry-less-to-be-the-very-best-version-of-you-Cycling-poster

Today is a good day to have a great day to smile more worry less to be the very best version of you Cycling poster

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Today is a good day to have a great day to smile more worry less to be the very best version of you Cycling poster

Pigeon people captured on Google Street View in Japan.

I’ve spent a lot of time staring at the corner of Glenbrook and St. Germaine Avenue in San Francisco’s Twin Peaks.

Not walking my dog or taking a leisurely urban hike, but on my screen, with Pegman, at night, furiously swooshing the little fella around the map with my finger until he shows me exactly what I want to see.

It had been two hours since I started watching “Experiment in Terror,” the exquisite 1962 crime thriller in which an asthmatic stalker threatens to kill two sisters if they don’t rob a downtown San Francisco bank. But the movie hadn’t even gotten to the experiment, let alone any terror.

I was stuck, around 20 minutes in, repeatedly pausing, rewinding, playing, pausing, grabbing Pegman, twisting him around. Is that the house Lee Remick lived in NOW? Swoosh swoosh. No it’s her sisters! But why did she turn right on Palo Alto Avenue? Wrong way Pegman! Ooh they’re going downtown, come on Peggy let’s hit Market Street. Swooooosh.

I’m never trying to solve some big mystery, just unearthing tiny geographic puzzles. Images and moments from the city’s history I need to find on that unending map, but it’s so much more than a map. It’s a real life gallery documenting ten million miles of the earth’s roads through 170 billion photographs. And Pegman has seen them all.

I’ve always been obsessed by maps. Growing up on the windswept southwestern tip of England, surrounded by narrow labyrinthian farm lanes, having a map is a necessity. (There’s only one straight road in North Devon, the Romans built it.)

Maybe it’s that addresses don’t really make much sense in England (the official address of the farm I grew up on is seven lines long and includes the words “in the wood”).

 

 

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