College Town

The Bay area has always been a favorite place to visit. When I was eleven, the highlight of my trip was a walk along Fisherman’s Wharf. During my thirties and forties, I always included a day in Muir Woods where I’d indulge my tree-hugging yearnings. And yes, I have been to Golden Gate Park and City Lights Bookstore, checked out exhibits at SFMOMA (the modern art museum) and walked the labyrinth outside of Grace Cathedral at the top of Nob Hill.

On more recent trips, I have also tried to include an afternoon in Berkeley. It always seems to be sunnier on the East Bay. There’s a convenient BART station downtown, too. But neither the sunshine nor the easy public transportation constitute my reasons for making this a favorite stop.

To me, Berkeley is the quintessential college town.

I love wandering into Pegasus Books on Shattuck and peering into the little cafes on Center Street, just off the main entrance to the campus. Within a few blocks, there must be thirty different ethnic restaurants serving up different versions of macaroni. (Udon or vermicelli, you make the call.) I love that the main drag feels like it’s been frozen in time. (A Berkelite gets keys duplicated at Berkeley Hardware, not at Home Depot.) And the street people --

I have to laugh when I see the street people in Berkeley. Like a brazen cartoon cockroach that dons a pair of sunglasses when the lights of its tenement get switched on, the attitude of people living on the streets here is “in your face,” like it’s a matter of choice to live on the streets. Today, during my stroll down Shattuck, I saw a bearded man with his black mutt of a dog. Looking to be around twenty-five, he was still in his bed roll, camped out near a parking meter where he spent the previous night. He had two hand-lettered signs displayed. One read, “Too lazy to get a job.” The other said “Too ugly to prostitute.”

Beyond the particular quirks of local history, the small stores that sell tie-dyed everything, and the illusion that sunshine and good weather can cast, which makes it easy to believe that if cars don’t get old here maybe we won’t either, being in such a college town evokes a special kind of nostalgia in me.

I grabbed a croissant and bottled water from the small cafeteria at the Haas School of Business complex then sat in a nearby sculpture garden trying to soak up as much of the college scene as I could, and I contemplated this.

In many ways, it’s great to be 55, to have most of my angst about “fitting in” behind me. But amid the innocent-looking, golden student athletes, the backpack carrying hordes, unconscious to their good fortune of being here now, and the growing numbers of young Asian scholars, progeny of tiger moms from around the globe, it’s hard not to wish I was back in my twenties. It can be nice to think you have more life ahead of you than behind you and to look at making mistakes as the natural course of things.

Almost at the very moment I became aware of this thought, I recognized my suspect logic. You don’t have to be twenty-something to be fearless about your choices. The real issue isn’t about youth or time. It’s about living with a sense of freedom.

As I headed back to the BART station, I felt light. I decided to make a conscious effort to let go of worry and give myself more freedom to make mistakes – and that’s no small thing.