I walked across the night-time busy shine of Sproul Plaza this evening, fast strides toward the bus stop. My earphones were firmly encased in my pinnae, serving a double function of entertainment and interaction repellent. My high-speed walk was no match for the woman swaying directly in my path--clad in a fur coat, clown-pale makeup, eyes wide as her flowing skirts. She was planted on the pavement, almost twirling, and the three gaping holes in her face were opening and closing--two blinking, one either singing or speaking. I couldn't tell what noises she was making over the sound of Mark Kermode's movie reviews in my ears, but my slight change of course was intended to bypass any haranguing without my intentions being noticed. She was almost-firm--so slender, so white, wearing so many mixed up layers, yet persistent enough to make me stop. Her eyes had met mine, her lips flapped open and shut like a drowning woman, white in the night.
"The theatre?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Is the theatre here?"
"Oh, yes, it's down the stairs, to the left."
"Oh, it's downstairs?"
"Yes, there's a set of stairs just around that corner."
"Thank you!" The lips curved upward like the sliver of the moon and she almost chasséd toward the staircase that leads to Lower Sproul.
I once followed a group of students down a tiny Spanish alleyway. Gypsy women lining the stone walls grabbed at the students' hands, offered them rosemary, promised to tell their futures. As I took up the rear they shrank back, clearing a path. Not a one touched me. My Spanish co-worker was almost frightened of me after that, as though the gypsies knew something about me she didn't.
I have never been offered a drink by a stranger in a bar or restaurant.
I almost believe that I am ice, cold, unapproachable.
But Berkeley proves me wrong, time and again. Beggars yell at me from sidewalks, asking for five dollars as I pedal past them on my bike. I have begun collection the strange pickup lines I hear on a daily basis. And the nice lady on her way to the theatre willfully flags me down for directions.
It's a place where I never know what I'm dealing with.
"The theatre?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Is the theatre here?"
"Oh, yes, it's down the stairs, to the left."
"Oh, it's downstairs?"
"Yes, there's a set of stairs just around that corner."
"Thank you!" The lips curved upward like the sliver of the moon and she almost chasséd toward the staircase that leads to Lower Sproul.
I once followed a group of students down a tiny Spanish alleyway. Gypsy women lining the stone walls grabbed at the students' hands, offered them rosemary, promised to tell their futures. As I took up the rear they shrank back, clearing a path. Not a one touched me. My Spanish co-worker was almost frightened of me after that, as though the gypsies knew something about me she didn't.
I have never been offered a drink by a stranger in a bar or restaurant.
I almost believe that I am ice, cold, unapproachable.
But Berkeley proves me wrong, time and again. Beggars yell at me from sidewalks, asking for five dollars as I pedal past them on my bike. I have begun collection the strange pickup lines I hear on a daily basis. And the nice lady on her way to the theatre willfully flags me down for directions.
It's a place where I never know what I'm dealing with.
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