I'm in a dream. But I'm not. It's always that way when I return to the Bay Area and try to negotiate my old, once familiar haunts. The roads have changed; they are configured differently in many places. Just going from one to another confronts me with choices and risks I didn't know I had. Try to enjoy the moment I keep telling myself.
Enjoyment comes in the form of finding a shady place with a plastic chair and a cement shelf on which to rest my cup of Peet's coffee. Street musicians have upped their game here. What would pass for a "homeless" man in some cities has a sophisticated sound system that sends the background music to everyone from Marvin Gaye to Sinatra wafting over the cloudless sky. He sings his heart out. A real latter-day Mel Torme, he forms the backdrop for aging skateboarders, all manner of I-Phone fiddlers, and those who run errands or walk dogs or simply rush around the gentrified park they inhabit.
We are listening to his music without choice in the matter. This is Berkeley, after all. He is free to serenade with the blend of power saws, traffic, an occasional train whistle, and a barking dog.
He is flying to the moon now and playing among the stars as I try to recall how many businesses here on 4th St. are no longer here this year.
The umbrellaed tables are full with more people talking into devices than real faces.
Everything is in transition. People are dressed for a cool morning and a warm day all at once.
Trucks back up with their repeating warning beeps punctuating the troubadour's latest offering. He's now left his heart in SanFrancisco. The nerve! Taking on Tony Bennet in front of God and everyone.
Suddenly, I realize I've taken my place among the ranks of the retired.
Being able to sip coffee and get a free concert is not to be taken lightly. I no longer wheel and deal, but rather heal and feel.
It occurs to me too, that by the end of one week in my forgotten neighborhood, it would all come tumbling back. At least enough to get around easily.
Enjoyment comes in the form of finding a shady place with a plastic chair and a cement shelf on which to rest my cup of Peet's coffee. Street musicians have upped their game here. What would pass for a "homeless" man in some cities has a sophisticated sound system that sends the background music to everyone from Marvin Gaye to Sinatra wafting over the cloudless sky. He sings his heart out. A real latter-day Mel Torme, he forms the backdrop for aging skateboarders, all manner of I-Phone fiddlers, and those who run errands or walk dogs or simply rush around the gentrified park they inhabit.
We are listening to his music without choice in the matter. This is Berkeley, after all. He is free to serenade with the blend of power saws, traffic, an occasional train whistle, and a barking dog.
He is flying to the moon now and playing among the stars as I try to recall how many businesses here on 4th St. are no longer here this year.
The umbrellaed tables are full with more people talking into devices than real faces.
Everything is in transition. People are dressed for a cool morning and a warm day all at once.
Trucks back up with their repeating warning beeps punctuating the troubadour's latest offering. He's now left his heart in SanFrancisco. The nerve! Taking on Tony Bennet in front of God and everyone.
Suddenly, I realize I've taken my place among the ranks of the retired.
Being able to sip coffee and get a free concert is not to be taken lightly. I no longer wheel and deal, but rather heal and feel.
It occurs to me too, that by the end of one week in my forgotten neighborhood, it would all come tumbling back. At least enough to get around easily.
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