Interestingly enough, after returning from Valparaíso, Chile, Berkeley seemed sparkly and clean in comparison. Now, returning from Germany, I’m struggling to come to grips (again) with the homeless population, with the smell of too many cars, and with the considerable decrease in general prettiness (in strictest terms) from shiny Munich.
The other extreme is taken by Palo Alto, the suburb where I grew up. This rich community of Stanford-alumni or Stanford-bound is laid out by an oppressive city ordinance requiring every house to follow the uniform tree regulation of its street (when our house’s oak tree died, the city refused to allow us to plant a willow tree in its stead, as that would have destroyed the unity of Greer St.). The result, of course, is a very lush suburb (especially in comparison to urban Berkeley), further highlighted by the range of shiny expensive cars driven around by the locals (public high school students driving brand new Mustangs and Porsches? You’d better believe it.)
I always feel out of place in Palo Alto now. Partially, this is due to my frustration at having taken this extremely privileged community as the “norm” when I was in high school (I recall temporarily resenting the fact that my parents gave me the used minivan when I turned sixteen, instead of buying me a shiny new car like all the other kids). While I appreciate the education, opportunities, and friendships that growing up in Palo Alto afforded me, I regret that I was drawn into that culture without even knowing it. It saddens me that my parents had to deal with another Palo Alto snob as a child, when all they wanted was to give me a good education.
I now occasionally refer to Palo Alto as the “shiny city” (so named for the spotless streets as well as for the shiny new cars. Karin, our wonderful neighbor in Palo Alto, once said that it was as if there was a little old lady sweeping up after everyone in Palo Alto). So, if I mention it again (which I’m sure to do), you’ll know what I’m talking about.
It’s strange, associating “home” with Berkeley and Valpo and LC and Munich (well, Jay) all at once. Strange, and disconcerting at the same time. I feel as if I’m not really here. I can see my hands in front of me, and they’re cooking something in the Berkeley kitchen, but if I turned around, the Valpo dining room could face me. Or if I pass through that door, Jay could be sitting on the chair playing guitar. Or if I barge into the hallway brandishing a tube of toothpaste, I can wage a playful war with Rigel (my first year roommate at LC). All my memories are trying to coexist, to meld the places into the time that I feel they must have occurred in. In the space of two years, could I really have been in all these places? Plus the traveling with Carrie in Latin America? And with Jay in Europe? And with my dad in London? And with Julia to the coast? Realistically, it doesn’t add up. If everything happened “just yesterday”, then clearly they must all be in one place.
Either that, or I have a wicked-fast method of rocket-based travel.
In the time remaining in CA (about 1.4 weeks), I need to somehow (a) get my knee fixed by a chiropractor (b) get my yearly physical (c) make an appointment and get all four of my wisdom teeth removed (d) get a cellphone (e) somehow get down to Santa Cruz to see Leoni and (f) figure out what I want to write my honor’s thesis on.
Oh, and pack for my final year at LC. You know, seeing as my flight leaves on the first of September. Arg. Maybe I can finish knitting that haltar top and reading the pile of delectable for-fun books in that time too? And sleep? Sure I can. Maybe. Hm.
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