I love waking up early in a new city and running the streets, the ports and parks, seeing awakening neighborhoods in a way that few tourists do. Running through the Luxembourg Gardens, under the Eiffel Tower, all around the empty Louvre entrance court, long before Parisians head to work. Or taking the J-tram from central San Francisco out to the Pacific, then running back through Golden Gate Park. I’ve seen many wonderful places in this comfortable, exhilarating way: Albuquerque, Istanbul, Barcelona, Lisbon, so many. Perhaps the oddest “running route” I’ve followed was in Tangier. Getting off a cruise ship in the storied city’s large port complex, Jay and I realized that our shorts and T-shirts were inappropriate for a downtown jog (especially on the eve of a major Islamic holiday), so we stayed within the walls of the port, past guards up on the breakwater and merchants setting up below. One guard shouted to me in English, “Take your hands down.” What? Seems he was a runner, too, commenting on my form. He later showed me a photo of himself in a Spanish half-marathon (and later still came to our rescue when a pesty local “guide” refused to take “no” for an answer.)
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