In Search of Rice-a-Roni
Trip Start
Sep 25, 2005
1
15
22
Trip End
Oct 22, 2005
San Francisco/Berkeley, California
Saturday, October 15, 2005
I'm tired. I feel beat up, and raw. I've had enough of this place. I'm ready to get on the train and get out of here. I'm always on edge here. Always a bit anxious. Always wary. I shut down in the face of so many people, so much noise, so much confusion and distraction, so much dirt, so much need,so much frustration, so much concrete. I shut down. I bottle up my anger, and my sadness, and only let it out in bits of complaint, and tirades of sarcasm. I'm surrounded by mile after mile of places, and yet it feels like there's no place to go. Certainly no place to get to very easily. Everything is a chore. Everything is hard. I want to find a park, and lie down in the sunshine and rest, and listen to the birds sing over head. But to get there I need to drive through city that goes on forever, or step onto the Bart and fly through a tunnel that sounds like a tornado, or onto a bus that jerks me around in every direction, and then find a parking space (none to be found), or pay $10/hour in a parking garage, surrounded by people who won't even look at me, who honk their angry horns at me, who view me as an annoyance, as just another body in the way, standing between me and where I want to be, just as I begin to view them.
Human beings were not meant to live like this, I think. There are simply too many people to know, and to care about, and so we shut them out, and soon they don't even feel like people any more. Last night, walking to a Nepalese/Indian restaurant in Berkeley for dinner, was saw a raggedy old woman, pawing through the cold wet garbage in a trash can, looking for something to eat. The image stuck with me. And this morning, sitting with my breakfast, I thought of her, and cried a bit. This is what we have become. A human being, who in another time and place may have been honored and well cared for as an elder in her community, must paw through the garbage to stay alive.
We got up on Thursday morning and drove into Oakland to Park and Ride the BART. We had to park quite far away from the station, pay five dollars, and walk a ways. The train came, and plunged into the tunnel under the bay, speeding along at a million miles per hour, roaring like the devil himself. It came up in the noise and confusion of SF. We found a place to catch a transit car and rode along the piers, to number 41, where our boat would depart for Alcatraz. We got our tickets, and a cup of coffee, and waited for the boat. We boarded, and sat in the sun for the short trip out to the island. I got some shots of SF, and of the island as we approached. We docked, got off the boat, and sat in the sun on a bench to eat some fruit and nuts, letting the crowd get ahead of us. Then we started up the steep road that switches back and forth to the top of the rock. Along the way I got lots of video, of bars and walls and ruined buildings, shots of the prison, shots of confinement and severity. At the top, we got our audio tour headsets and toured the actual prison. It was well done. The tour took us through the building, explaining what we saw, telling us stories from the prison days. Interesting, sometimes moving. I took more video of cells and bars and walls and windows, video that conveyed the feel of the place, I hope.
After the tour, we sat out in the shade by the lighthouse as the Blue Angels showed off in the air around the island, buzzing us with sonic booms and tight maneuvers and colorful contrails. Then we headed down. The walking was tiring for my still-unhealed hip and knee. We took the boat back to SF.
At pier 39 we stopped to watch the sea lions, who congregate on one of the docks there, moaning and barking and sleeping and playing. Then we got back on the transit bus, went back to BART, and headed back to our car. We'd thought of going to Telegraph Hill, to see if we could see some parrots. We'd thought of heading up to Chinatown for lunch. We'd thought of finding a park. But everything felt hard. We were wiped out. And we didn't have a car.
But back in Oakland, we did. As hard as it is to drive around here, there's something strangely comforting about one's car. Here, that metal box that seems so confining elsewhere actually serves to shield you from the city, from the noise and confusion and the mass of people. We got in, breathed a sigh of relief, and just drove around in Oakland for a while.
We found a Chinatown in Oakland, and a parking garage, so stopped for an early dinner. It was a wonderful meal in a warm and happy little restaurant, where the people seemed happy and safe, where they knew each other, where the noise of the city couldn't intrude. We had potstickers and barbecue pork and prawns and rice...so much food, so nurturing. We headed to Berkeley, where we sat in a cafe for a while and prepared questions for our next interview, then headed back to Alameda to sleep. The house in Alameda has been a godsend. Quiet...comfortable...roomy...with a sweet older man who makes us coffee in the morning.
The next day we went back into the city again, this time to interview Jerry Mander at his office in the Presidio. We got up early to deal with traffic, and sat in long jams as we crossed the bay bridge. Once across, we made our way through town, stopping at a Mel's Drive-In for breakfast. It was awful. Expensive food, tiny booths, and a bunch of people who insisted on listening to loud 50s rock music through crappy speakers. We got out of there as quickly as we could, vowing to be more selective, feeling unsatisfied.
We made our way to the Presidio, which is a great corner of the city...with open spaces and huge trees, slow winding roads and beautiful historic buildings. We found a parking space (always a surprise), and a cafe, and hung there until our meeting, preparing questions.
Mander could only give us 90 minutes, so there was little time for pleasantries, or for taking the time to establish a background of relatedness. That was frustrating, as it didn't seem like he got the chance to get a sense for who we are and what we're up to. And it didn't feel like that bothered him much. We set up camera, he came in, we hooked up the mic and got started.
We had been a bit worried that Mander wasn't up on the oil situation. We were wrong. Mander is totally cognizant of oil, and climate change, and the whole host of global problems. And he is very discouraged, very depressed, and sees the whole thing falling apart fairly soon. We asked him about technology, about the myth of neutrality, about disconnection and the madness of the astronaut. He gave us some great responses, and spoke to the very things we wanted him to, providing some important pieces of the picture.
But at the end, he seemed disturbed at his own answers, afraid that he'd been too negative, that we were going to be too negative with our doc, and that we should talk to this person and that person, to get some balance. It was disconcerting. He wants so much for there to be a happy chapter at the end. He doesn't want to discourage people from diving in and working for change. And so while he knows that people need to hear and understand the true nature of the situation, he struggles to find ways to "keep hope alive", no matter how far one has to reach to do that.
After the interview, Sally and I sat on the beach near the Golden Gate Bridge, watching seabirds dive for fish, and sailboarders skim the waves, and dogs take their humans for walks. The bridge was almost lost in fog, and the foghorn blew regularly. We talked of the interview, as it had left us uneasy. We wanted Mander to see us and know us. And we wanted him to grok more fully the emotional complexities of our present time. We wanted more time with him. We wanted him to trust us, and give us his blessing, not to question our intentions. We wanted him to be farther along that he is. And he didn't seem to be.
We got in the car and drove into the city, checking out Haight and Ashbury (an ongoing Halloween party...) and Chinatown (no parking no parking no parking no parking no parking...). We wanted to stop for dinner, but there was no stopping, so we bounced around town for a while and then hit the bay bridge back to Oakland. We went back to Berkeley, where we ate the Nepalese and shopped at WholeFoods (getting provisions for the train), then headed home, where we watched Independence Day on VHS in our room.
And now it's Saturday. We've mailed a box of books home (to avoid carrying that weight around...)figured out the details of our train trip tomorrow, blogged in Berkeley (we're now in the library at Alameda, and caught up our email.
We board the train at 7:30 tomorrow morning...to LA, then Albuquerque, and our next room in Santa Fe. We have to drop off our bags at Amtrak tonight, return the rental car, and figure out how to catch a bus at 6:00 am tomorrow. I'll be glad to get on the train. I'm hoping it will be restful and restorative.
What IS "the San Francisco treat"? I don't know. It's a huge, smoggy, messy, cranky city, surrounded by other cities just the same. It has some beautiful spots, some good people, some interesting sights...but those get lost in the madness, as far as I can see. Desperation. That's what I see and feel around here. Desperation and numbness and confusion and hyperactivity and distraction and anger and a sadness so deep and so profound that it must remain unfelt.
And I am so glad, so very glad, that I am as sensitive to this as I am. Because, in the midst of this absurdity, this madness that is "the Bay Area", this desperate place that wants to grind me down, this mass of souls that has no room in its heart for one more person, I, in my annoyance, in my pain, in my own cranky response, get to feel conscious and alive and whole. The city tells me who I am, and lets me know better who and what I love, and what I value, and what I want. It teaches me. Painfully, at times, but firmly.
I am glad to have been here.
Time to go. I'll see you again in Santa Fe. Next stop: Chellis Glendinning.
All aboard!
Tim
