Notes made to self around Berkeley

Berkeley, Solano Avenue, 10:19am, Wednesday: A man pushing a cart-load of children up the street, Safeway grocery bags hanging off the sides.  Five or six kids in all, every last one of them smiling with glee.  Oh, did I say cart-load?  I meant CRIB-load.  You read right.  CRIB.  LOAD.  As in, this:

With five or six kids standing on the mattress and hanging on while the man, dreadlocked and smiling, pushed them along to some destination.  After, of course, having done the grocery shopping necessary to feed five or six children.  Who must be very hungry after a long ride.

You know you've become Berkeley-fied when, as Gabi put it, your first reaction is not, oh, say, "What the hell is that guy doing?" but instead, "Wow, that's genius."

Berkeley, the only place on earth where two people can go to the dog park - dogless - sit down at the edge of the spot where it's doggiest...spread out two very dog-attracting sub sandwiches on their dogless laps...AND YELL AT ME WHEN MY DOGS WANT TO PARTAKE OF THEIR MEAL.

Berkeley, where people keep LL Bean and Keen Shoes in business.  Almost singlehandedly. 

Berkeley, populated by a peace-loving, pacifist, tolerant people.  Until you tell them that no, they can't park in your driveway.  Or halfway in it, either.  Not even for five minutes.  Or that you're very sorry, your kid didn't mean to call them a douchebag; it's just that when he waits in line, patiently, and with much anticipation, to ask for the last morning bun, and you cut in because you're in a hurry and ask for said last morning bun, well, it's kind of irritating is all.  So no, I'm not going to make him apologize.  Douchebag.

Berkeley, the city we call home.  And where, despite some, umm, adjustments, we are happy to have put down roots.  

Now, could you walk a little faster?  I'd like to be home before the next decade.