I like to walk. I do it for exercise, but I also do it for the sheer pleasure of witnessing life.

Yesterday at noon, I was walking near my house in the Berkeley Hills. I saw a man and woman  standing on a porch, drinking champagne.

“Wow, champagne at  noon. Cool!” I said.

“Do you want to come in?” they replied. “We’re celebrating a wedding!”

How wonderful, I said, and asked who got married. “Gladys, she’s’s 81”, said the woman, “and Dick, who just turned 86.” I clapped my hands and yelled congratulations to Gladys and Dick.

Another neighbor walked by and said, “Isn’t it great! She’s finally happy, now that her no good, lousy husband Victor died, and she’s met a nice man.” I stared in astonishment while the other people started eagerly nodding their heads agreeing — “He was a louse. The worst.”

On today’s walk, I met an ex-trader who pulled up to her house in a black 1962 Aston Martin DB4 Series 5 convertible. What a beauty! (The car, not the trader). “Yep,” she said, “bought it before the market crashed. Couldn’t resist.” I understood.

So many stories, right outside my front door.