Good night, Lucy

Over the past couple months, Lucy and I have worked out a little routine before bed.

When I go in to fill up my water glass, she comes out and meets me in the kitchen. I turn off the water and kneel down, and she comes up to nestle her head into my chest. She’s a big, ferocious-looking German Shepherd, and she loves a good cuddle.

Her fur is dry and clean, and smells like dog in a way that has come to mean Home, these last 10 months. She leans in as I scratch behind her ears, over her shoulders and rub her belly, which slows into a hug. After we’ve both gotten a nice little session of luving in, she turns around and trots back to Manny’s room, tail wagging, and I go to bed smiling.

I don’t know how many times we’ve done this, but I know that we’ll only do it twice more. This Saturday Loopers is going away.

We’re down to our last weekend in this house, as June finishes its run, and Manny’s new place has graciously allowed him to bring Sammy, but there’s no space for Lucyfress. She’s going to Manny’s dad, a good home with a big yard to run around in and another shepherd to play with…

But damn I’m going to miss her.

Good night, Lucyloo

Oakland last night: food, architecture, and gigantic Jesus.

The various houses of worship I have seen throughout the world have all impressed me in some way, with their assortment of characters, aesthetics, and iconography. From the Buddhist prayer flags of Myanmar to the cavorting Hindu gods of Sri Lanka. The studious silence of the synagogue in Jerusalem to the studious silence of the mosques in Malaysia. (It's amazing how much we humans have in common.)

I have also enjoyed time in the cavernous cathedrals of Europe, though their proximity to my own cultural foundation leaves them more vulnerable to critique, and I have trouble looking at expanses of gold without imagining how much blood was spilled to put it there. But there is a unique sense of reverence in their stony sanctity and stained glass.

But I ain't never seen a church like this one.

My corner of Oakland is an easy place to hibernate, which would be a waste in a city this diverse and vivacious, so last night I mounted my trusty green bicycle to explore beyond the boundaries of my neighborhood. I ate savory lamb samosas in Vik's Chaat Corner then headed downtown, where I found a spaceship sitting opposite Lake Merritt.

The website of Oakland's Cathedral of Christ the Light tells of the demise of the previous church (a more conventional building) after the 1989 Loma Prieta Earthquake. But the juicier story I heard was that after the old church was destroyed, the insurance company refused to pay up.

The Mausoleum, where contestants
begin and end

The community came together and raised the massive amount of money necessary to build a new and improved cathedral, but then the insurance company kicked in after all. Now the builders had twice their required budget. The result sits on Harrison Street like an extraterrestrial cocoon, has a mausoleum underneath that could host The Hunger Games, and the actual worship area was like none I have ever seen, watched over by a towering, yet relatively subtle, image of Jesus more easily seen during the day, when sunlight pours through the holes of the screen. Jesus Ra?

But the most stunning aspect for me was the acoustics. In between the snippets of hymns from choir practice I could hear every softly spoken word the choir master said as if he'd been standing behind me, instead of way on the other side of the nave (if that's even the correct term for a space like this). When they finished singing, the music continued for several seconds in the stunningly designed space. I thought Davies Symphony Hall was incredible, but this transcends even that acoustic marvel.

A little hard to see the Jesus image on the big white thing
at night, but I'm assured that during the day it's stunning

All that listening had made me hungry. Luckily Oakland is one helluva multicultural town, so a few blocks away I took a table near the window where ducks hung behind Chinese characters. To my left four old ladies debated something serious in Mandarin, behind me eight African American men knew the menu inside and out, and to my right three men conversed in the fricatives of Arabic.

Authentic Indian street food, a nice ride past Farmers Markets closing up shop, a tour of epic architecture, and now succulent duck and barbecue pork?

Yeah, I can live in Oakland.

The system's out of order, this lad's opinion, and the fire hasn't even started yet.

“Well, I guess that's what we get for unplugging for a few hours,” said the businessman, relaxed on his bench outside the shuttered BART train station. “They must have decided to go on strike late last night. My office hasn't decided what they want me to do about it yet.” He leaned back, no frown on his face as it angled towards the morning sun, his loafers tapping slightly to a beat only he could hear.

Here was a man at peace with the problem. The bag lady down the row to his left looked at him without expression.

In a parallel universe I took them both out for breakfast, heard their stories and watched them fall in unlikely love (Joaquin Phoenix and Susan Sarandon for the movie adaptation?), but I was itching to get to Santa Cruz. The fire and light festival started in eleven hours, and I had plans for lunch, then aspired to a full afternoon helping without getting in the way.

Run back to house to check for alternate route. Bus leaves in three minutes, back at station. Run back, intercept bus partway, disembark downtown Oakland where local TV crews were interviewing commuters standing in line for the replacement buses across the bridge. I chatted in a Scottish accent with the guy next to me in hopes of hooking an interview, but the woman in front of us had boobs.

Boobs trump Scotland, apparently.

Too bad, because I was all ready to give a foreigner's (sic) view of contemporary American democracy. “What do you think of the strike?” They would ask.

“Well, it's an essential part of your country, isn't it? Your Constitution was designed to protect ye from the government, but they're not really the main threat anymore, are they? Not since Reagan privatized the lot of it. No, it's the businesses, yer employers that've got the axe over yer heads now. The idea was that if ye were abused, ye could vote them out, but you canna vote for a new boss, can ye? So you've got the strike, it's the modern equivalent of the ballot, isn't it?”

They were right to go with the boobs.

Packed bus creeping across crammed bridge, tankers below, then puking us into an unfamiliar hub, clicking of flats, where frantic employees in florescent vests answered rapid-fire questions and held heavy flashlights in defensive positions, clip board shields. Next transport medium: I didn't even know San Francisco had an underground train.

The uniformed woman with hair extensions and long acrylic nails called me “hun” as she directed this poor lost tourist to the train, her coworker joining us in a threesome of “have a nice day” grins and well-wishing.

The guy in front of me was asleep in his Hawaiian shirt, but woke when we passed the baseball park and shuffled to the train station with me. “Sir, I'm afraid you can't take pictures of the equipment, for security reasons” said the employee who I recognized as the nice one from my last trip's Good Cop/Bad Cop experience. I'd already given one (mental) speech, so opted against lecturing him about the chronic and egocentric paranoia of the United States, instead going with more smiles and well-wishing.

I reached San Jose an hour and a half behind schedule, but well on my way to catching up on my This American Life and Radiolab podcasts. (David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell are geniuses. Genae.) I was already entertained, educated, and frustrated, and the best part of the day was yet to come...

No assassination attempts here, I'll take a desk job instead?

My cut in Myanmar was the only one
I took pictures in.

I'm rumbling along, too vaguely happy and scatterbrained to have much on my mind to share, unless I go a little further up and get all literal on you.

It's only been two months since the stern woman in Thailand mowed my head-lawn, but I was eager to try a haircut beyond the usual: make buzzing sounds while pointing at the sides and back, then point at the top and hold fingers an inch apart.

I took a seat in a real-deal modern hairdresser's chair, hardwood floors under orange and green-accented walls, and Bobbi asked what I wanted. Oh. Um. If not The Usual Haircut, then what? “You don't even know, you gonna leave it up to me,” he said.

Bobbi reminded me of another cool cat who had cut my hair so that was fine by me. 

The other two chairs held women whose conversations revealed long-term relationships with their hairdressers. They talked about how the vacation to Mexico went, husbands, and a misadventure with some paint. I tried to chat with Bobbi, and told him about the chiropractic work that comes with a cut in Nepal, but soon enough the pseudo-massage of getting my hair cut lulled me into silence.

Now that was a chair.

The hypercolor zebra-print pants of one of the other stylists sent me on a psychedelic trip that ended when another guy came in and asked when Bobbi would be ready for his next customer. “In about 45 seconds, soon as I get Mr. Tim ready for his engagement.”

But there was one other thing. “I have a pet peeve against ear hair,” Bobbi confided, as he jammed the buzzer into my flappers, “It's just a part of gettin' older, we start gettin' hair places we never expected to. I understand.” I admitted that I appreciated the help, it's getting jungly in there in my old age.

Then we were done and he held up the mirror so I could see. To be honest I was looking for something a little more...exciting; I kind of feel like I'm applying for an office job; but I guess that's today's lesson, if you're going to have preferences, you have to figure out what they are, even if you are scatterbrained and happy.

Will the pattern be repeated?

I am a newly civilized creature of the hostel jungle. I know where I'll sleep tonight. I walk around the more-than-one roomS of my house in confusion. What do I do with all this space? Anybody need a place to stay?

The shower is amazing. I was raised with an ethos of care for energy and water use, so just standing in the steam feels prohibited, but surely I can break the law just a liiiittle, right? God that feels good. (And I don't even have to wear flip flops.) You can try it if you like.

Man, what a kitchen. Plenty of counter space, all the burners work, and I have no problem putting my stuff in the fridge or finding it later. The dishes are clean, the sink empty. We have two ovens. Why the hell do we have two ovens? Was this a bakery in a former life? Anybody need a place to bake?

I'm in love thrice over, twelve legs to complement my two. They're far too lovable to summarize in a paragraph, so they'll get a little less than that at the moment, but suffice to say those furry bastards leave me shaking my head and laughing on a regular basis. Anybody need some animal love?

I have too many blessings not to want to share.

San Francisco breathes just a tunnel away

The location is ideal, with one of America's better mass transit systems (not the most competitive title in the world) a mere block away, plus a drug-addled spider's web of bus lines that I have not learned well yet, since the streets are relatively conducive to bicycicular passage as well.

San Francisco is close at hand, where friends abide in warm houses with chairs at the table ready for my visit. The same in towns all up and down the Bay Area, and it's not inconceivable that I would hear my name called on the street some day. There are people here who recognize me. If I keeled over dead in the gutter...people would notice.

There is a level of food security here that is unimaginable for billions of people around the world, not to mention the awed and wasted faces of millennia past.

You need this many shoes,
don't you, dearie?

I have clean clothes. Every day. I wash them before they stink. It's nearly free. I've even bought more of them, though I think I could still carry all my physical possessions at one time if I had to...but it's getting more precarious. I'd better make two trips, or I'll look like the junk woman from Labyrinth.

I'm getting work done at a better pace than ever before, and I feel almost good enough about it to share with a few more people.

Yup, life is pretty damn good right now.

Sooo...why do I wake up with varying degrees of a racing heart most nights? This doesn't happen when I'm on the road. Is the project too daunting? The To-Do List too relentlessly undone? Someonething missing? Or is it just the adjustment of a vagabond to stationary life?

Earlier this month was the five year anniversary of leaving for my first big solo backpacker wander. It snuck by, a vagabond in the night, without my noticing until it had already left town. I wasn't this Me yet when I left, but who am I now?

This is my third extended stay in the US since leaving my previous life. The first time, I lived with friends in lovely Portland, Oregon, but barely made it four months before I had to fly across an ocean to get my rhythm back. March 2010.

The second time I was house-sitting for friends, a beautiful house in a beautiful place with a kickass feline, and I didn't sleep through the night a single time in the three month span. Cross the ocean. March 2012.

Now here I am, about to finish my first month stateside. Third time's the charm? Or will the pattern continue? Will I cross the ocean in March 2014?

Reunited with one of my great loves

I was reunited with one of the great loves of my life this afternoon. My parents dropped her off yesterday, and her curves, lines, and quirks are as familiar to me, as nostalgic to behold, as the arrival (and departure) gates at San Francisco International Airport. I couldn't keep my hands off her, and this morning I woke with the question of where to take her for breakfast.

I had, however, forgotten about the rack she has now. Gotta get used to that. It totally changes how she looks.

This afternoon we went to the grocery store, an errand I remember with particular fondness in times and lands past...but today's trip was good too, just in a different way. I picked out jalapeño salsa tortillas, pomegranate berry yogurt, and dark chocolate coconut chews. (The store was magnificent, so impressive it was no surprise to see the wrinkles of discontent in affluent brows that patrolled the aisles, looking for things they could complain about not finding.) We danced together the whole way home, no need for music, we made our own rhythm and melody.

I bought her some new jewellery, to lock her down and keep her for myself. I asked the salesman where the best places to take her around here are, and was gratified to hear his answer, “around here, pretty much anywhere.”

We danced so much in fact, that the Voice of Responsibility in my head had to remind me to pay attention to the sluggish creatures sharing the floor with us; cars just aren't as graceful as the swoops and leans of my beloved bicycle.

Suddenly this city, not large in itself, but part of a metropolis that spreads far beyond each horizon, is much more attainable, and to my circumstantial delight I find it is crisscrossed with “bike route” streets which offer shady avenues with less autos to pass, more fellow cyclists to nod hello to.

Riding again, I just couldn't stop smiling. Sometimes I fear that a grin that just won't quit will sometimes drift down to a smirk, but I don't think that was the case today, as it evoked a succession of kindred expressions, until I was riding through a haze of happy, sparkling with smiles, warm September air, and a body moving in harmony with a machine, with itself, with a place.

God I enjoy bike riding.