July 2, 2000
Tito Nonong and I found apartment 325 without much ado. Thanks to patience, not to mention Yahoo’s navigational aids, we arrived a little after 5 in the afternoon. Uncle Nonong helped me unload my suitcase, backpack, sleeping bag, and pillows from the car. While he scouted the lane for a parking space, I sat on the stoop waiting for someone to let me in.
I had phoned Nicole the night before to tell her that I had flown into Oakland Int'l earlier in the day. I informed her that I would be spending the night at my uncle’s before proceeding to the apartment late Sunday. She had mentioned how she had plans to go camping this weekend and that she would leave the keys in a safe place for me to claim. As for the front door, I would just have to wait until someone from outside came in or someone from inside came out. After some deliberation, she decided to place the keys inside an oven, situated between two apartments in the main hallway. An oven, great, I thought, before bidding her bon voyage.
I examined the names on the panel against the wall. "Portley," unit 8. I buzzed, but no one answered. We waited outside for a good half-hour, I would say. It grew a bit cold, as the sun was setting. To our relief, a woman clad in running gear showed us in.
Just as Nicole had promised, inside the white oven, taped in black adhesive, were the keys. I put it in the keyhole, turned the brass doorknob, walked inside, and nodded in approval of the flat’s aesthetics. Shaggy brown carpeting, cast-iron lamps, and wooden bookshelves gave the place old world flava. The air smelled European, and I liked it. On the walls were paintings, sketches, and framed photographs. On the shelves were antiquated art books, classical lit, and Iranian texts. It was then when I realized Nicole had mentioned in passing how the residence belonged to an artist, Karoosh. She was merely apartment sitting, or more formally, subletting the place for the summer. A smile lit my face. The apartment consisted of a small entrance, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a main room whose French doors led to a meditation cove. The latter was a space that housed a Persian rug, a low table, some pillows, a tapestry, candles, and a cabinet. Also, in the corner of the main room was the artist’s workspace. A red muslin covered his table of art supplies, which included an assortment of paintbrushes, a wooden model, an easel, canvasses, and some paints.
Displayed randomly throughout the apartment were his compositions, mostly oils but some of mixed media. Set on the bookcase for me was a welcome package from my roommate. After settling in, I read her note that outlined the basics of the neighborhood. Enclosed were her membership cards to Captain Video and the Oakland Public Library. I then surveyed the maps she had provided for my orientation. "Eat anything and I’ll see you Monday afternoon!" she wrote, in closing.
July 3, 2000
My travel alarm clock went off at 6:45, but I snoozed until 7:30. During the night, it surprised me that my feet had frozen. No doubt, there was a draft. I showered, made toast for breakfast, and by 8:45, was out the door, directions to the bus stop in my pocket. The plan was to "go down the lane, take an immediate right, merge onto 27th, and turn right onto Broadway." The number 51 bus arrived promptly at 9:00. I sat by the window and surveyed my adopted neighborhood. It took less than two stops for me to realize we were in the heart of "Auto Alley." Once we cleared Oaktown, however, the urban-scape grew more bohemian in flavor. I disembarked at Berkeley proper's Bancroft stop and trailed two students who looked like they’d be the sort who would attend UCB.
I joined the flood of humanity passing through the campus gates and walked north towards Moffitt Library, where class was to be held. I took note of Berkeley’s fashion scene, flavorful as Crayola’s 96-in-a-box fun pack. From yellow jumpsuits to retro-eyewear, Birkenstocks to mile-high wedges, khaki capris to gypsy sarongs, the eclecticism was choice and the eye-candy, tasteful.
After locating the classroom on the negative-third level of Moffitt Library, I resurfaced and walked around to bide the time. I went to the Golden Bear bookstore, where I purchased a notebook and some pens. Naturally, they were out of the required texts for the history class I was enrolled in. While waiting in the meters-long check out line, I befriended someone who was to take the same course as I. Despite having asked this girl to repeat her name three or more times, to this minute, an attempt at its recollection would amount to blank. Nonetheless, she was a sophomore, international student at Carnegie Mellon, persuaded by her dad to study computer science, though at lunch she later mentioned how much she'd rather take up art or fashion.
I grabbed some coffee at the adjoining café. We proceeded to the lecture hall to join the forty other kids in our class. From initial impressions, I gathered that the professor would do his utmost to engage his troops in the survey of European history. Dr. Curtin’s bushy, quite hoary, brows danced every time he spoke about a topic he felt enthusiastic about. One and a half hours later, I walked out of the room with a syllabus and 5-pages of lecture notes. As luck would have it, I again had to shell three bucks-fity for Machiavelli’s manifesto--for a third time.
Girl-whose-name-I-do-not-remember and I hit the Berkeley streets in search of Ned’s Bookstore, which promised the goods, according to the Golden Bear associate I had spoken with on campus. We crossed the thoroughfare bustling with pedestrians, entered the premises, and emerged with the texts. Thanks to the pre-departure shopping I had done while still in South Florida, not to mention Ned’s robbery priced wares, I maxed out my credit limit that afternoon.
In spite of being assbroke, I managed to delight on some tasteful fallafel for lunch at a Mediterranean taqueria just across from a shop called Octopus, which prided itself on Goth wear. We wove in and out of stores until late afternoon. At MARS, I bought a fitted tank that was Kermit green on one side, but whose back was cartooned with anime Heidi from the 70s. For my feet, I found blue pompom socks to wear at night.
My newfound classmate parted ways at 5, when I decided to give Nicole a ring at her work. She and I agreed to meet up in front of the Student Union in an hour. I rested on the stoop just outside of the Bart station, people (missing)
July 4, 2000 Rose with the sun in my face at 10:30, put on a black pullover, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and went out for a run in my plaid pink pajama bottoms. I jogged to the 7-11 a few blocks down the street, where I picked up some peanut butter, OJ, and mac & cheese-staple foodstuffs. Caught a little Wimbledon on NBC before Nicole and I unearthed the communal bicycle from the basement. It was old skool, a number from the 50s, but I preferred the euphemism "new-challenged." She rode the bike with the U-shaped handlebars and big ass wheels to the gas station to try to have it serviced. At three, we took off for the Ashby BART station, where were to rendezvous with some of Nicole's high school friends. We pit-stopped at Safeway to buy two bags of cherries for the impromptu picnic. Right as we were about to pull into the parking space, the bike took a spill. Nicole stopped short, and I flew out. What an entrance! Inside, I met Anna, who goes to UCB, and Jaime, who goes to UC Davis. Nicole's co-worker Rob from New Jersey joined us at Embarcadero station. At Pier 39, we hopped aboard a shuttle that deposited us outside Aquatic Park. After a good length's walk, we parked ourselves in front of stage 1 of 6 where a ska-swing band, Lee Press-On & the Nails, were playing a lively set. The fog had burned off and the breeze, though brisk, was favorable. The next group to perform was a New Orleans Jazz quartet. To hype up the crowd, their vocalist tossed beads at the audience. By this time, dusk setting in, the wind was blowing something fierce, so Jaime and I volunteered to grab some hot cocoa from Ghirardelli square. We ran into two more San Mateans, old high school friends Carleigh and Meghan, who hooked us up with home-baked goods. Back on the green, we chowed on a meal of sugar cookies, fresh veggies & dip, Rice Crispies treats, and Hosin-flavored tofu. At 9 pm, the fireworks extravaganza, brought to the public by the San Francisco Chronicle and other fine sponsors, began. For 25 minutes, the sky was set afire. Ashish, another vagabond who by luck found his way to our picnic, insisted that I not hold back if tears of joy were to well in my eyes in celebration of my newfound American citizenship. God bless America, indeed. Impressed by the spectacle of music and light, we piled onto a shuttle bus and parted ways inside the BART station. Unlike Boston's T-system, carpet lined the floor and cushions padded the seats of the commuter train. Back at home, I read History before finally hitting the sack. July 7, 2000 Got back from the city at 2-and-something in the morning, tired as all muther, thankful to be alive. Attended a production of "Teddy & Alice" put on by a young adults company in Palo Alto. Nicole's friend Conrad who's studying architecture at U of Oregon played FDR. Met two more of roommate's friends, both humorful and friendly Calians. At intermission we snacked on brownies and lemonade, my dinner, David's treat. After the show, Nicole and I again braved I-880 on route to San Francisco to meet up with her friend Tor at Tower in the Castro district. To my amusement, random people at the joint commented on how the black "snakeskin" jacket made me look badass. Sampling the GROOVE soundtrack, I chilled on a stool at a listening station, resting my stiff back, not to mention jello-ing thighs and bruised ankles. RIDING THE FREEWAY ala one headlight makes the word -intense- a whopping understatement. While hanging on, I continued to recite Hail Mary's. Never the least, the sunset view from the Bay Bridge was most exhilarating.
Tor was a trip, dreadhead with nice threads. Wearing dark olive pants, gray sleeveless shirt, boots with leather jacket, he sported slicked newly cut hair, chin piercing, contemptful eyes. Mighty hardcore, as one who claims to have gone Goth turned gay turned bi. We walked around for half an hour, passing record stores, nightclubs, leather shops. At a coffee house, Nicole scored a free ham sandwich, I ordered Mango sorbet, and Tor munched on a peanut butter black-and-white cookie. Before calling it a night, Nicole took public enemy no 1 for a ride on her bike. At a bookshop, I drowsed through SF Weekly, watching couples buy copies of the new Harry Potter, volume IV. An hour later, safe underneath my blankets, I released a sigh of relief before shutting my eyes for bed. July 16, 2000 6:15 pm, and I just got back from spending the weekend at Uncle Nonong's, where on this afternoon's agenda was a cousin-in-law's wedding in Concord. Feasting at Tita Irene's also marked my vacation away from Oakland. Close friend of Tito Padi's and parishoner at OLR, she served us guests a six-course meal, one topped with multiple fruit plates, Friday evening. Accustomed to snacking on toast for dinner these past two weeks, my stomach nearly imploded from the deluge of home-cooked eats. In due time, I expended much of the energy stored studying for tomorrow's history midterm. In preparation for the exam, I read the text, reviewed lecture notes, and rehashed information. Also, I received a FedEx care-package from the fam. Enclosed were animal crackers, herbal tea, a thoughtful card from sis, and pepper spray and Sprint treats from the parents. Merci beau-tres-coup mon pere et ma mere-je les aime, mwaah. This afternoon's wedding was held at St. Bonaventure Church in Clayton, Ca. Upon learning that the bride was of French descent and that her relatives had flown in from Paris directly, I was delighted, for part of the liturgy was en Francais. Incidentally, Sandra and Francis had both attended Berkeley-in fact, as an incoming third year med-student, Fran had recently taken the boards. It was only fitting that Fr. Roy's homily bore a message of social justice and moral activism. After the celebration, newbie parents cousin Gian and Cyn from San Antonio took us to meet Gabriella, aged two months young. Though she had been napping when we arrived, I was able to cradle her some, precious baby with static-cling hair. Soft, fragrant, angelic bundle of tiny fingers, toes, and ears, she inhabited the realm of nirvana. Whispering baby-speak into her eyes, I rocked Gabby back to sleep. August 8, 2000 Though I was feeling a bit flushed from the cold and cough I was battling, I convinced my body to think otherwise, seeing as how I only had a few days left in the bay area. Wanting to make each minute count, I forced myself not to use illness as excuse for idleness. After class, I sped home to change outfits before heading off to San Francisco's Haight Ashbury district to see Dilated People's perform live at Amoeba's. I pulled my hair back into a high pony tail, put on a warm black sweater, wore my favorite pair of runners, and packed my fitted black coat inside my bag. Listening to the hip hop album on the way to the city, I tried not to think of missing Shuhei, though clearly he'd taken up residence in my mind. With a BART map and a city guide as navigational aids, I consulted the ticket agent manning to show me the way. I took the number 6 line to north Haight, then walked eight blocks to the record store. On my way there, I passed clothing stores of bohemian flavor that prided themselves on selling vintage threads. Most of the pedestrians, too, were clothed in avant-garde apparel, hippie yet stylish. Some sported permed hair set in dreads, while others pulled off unusual gypsy do's. It was as if they invested time to look vogue by not looking their best. Entertained, I noted their fashion statements in high regard. Dilated People's, a trio from LA, executed a chill show, despite poor acoustics. Afterwards, I stood in line for them to autograph my CD. While waiting, Nicole spotted me from a distance, and she relayed good news about the re-repaired motorcycle. She had just come from a track practice and was on her way to meeting up with coworkers for dinner. When my turn came, I requested that the celebrities also sign promo-cards for my roommate and for Shuhei, knowing that they'd be equally amused by the gesture. On my way back, I stopped at the Wasteland, a clothing emporium renowned for its recycled goods. I also snapped a photo of historic Haight-Ashbury, site of many sit-ins staged by stoned hipsters and political activists of the 60s. I found it ironic that across from the Ben & Jerry's situated there was a GAP.