A Day In The Life of a Berkeley Visitor

by Farid Hamka (Indonesia)

I didn't expect to find USA

I went out of the door from Jon’s house at Berkeley Hill. I strolled down the hill toward the city centre. I never expected for it to be one of my favourite morning walks ever. All my senses were awakened. Sight: the shimmering water of San Francisco bay in the distance, undulating waves are stripes on the blue skin of the ocean. Smell: minty, bitter eucalyptus and the cold fresh lull of coniferous trees. A winter’s comfort. Touch: Fruits and pinecones that feel strangely familiar to the skin. They prick, they tickle, they invite pressing. Sound: Serene grace disturbed by occasional whispers of the wind. On the pavements, the dying auburn leaves crisp and rustles around. Taste: Like hope. Each step on that 40-minute walk took some weight off my weariness. My steady walking pace evolved to a prance each time something in the landscape inspires awe in me, I twirl when I felt compelled to breathe in the moment. I was in a tango with every figment of creation then. Who ever knew that an eye contact with a stranger on a plane would ever bring me to a place I never knew I needed that much in my life? Berkeley is a cosy university town. The city centre has everything a student need. Moe’s bookstore, with its five floors of collection attracts readers all over. No nonsense coffee shops mushroomed along Telegraph Avenue. Their clientele: students with a hoodie and a laptop. Along the way, I passed by a cheese store selling pizza. There is only one thing on the menu and it changes every day. This should make it quick, but a long line still formed. I drool as I walked by. Gorgonzola. Everyone wanted a slice. I paused just to see people munching on their pizza, saving the signature small slivers for last. Their chatters, oil drips on the paper plates, and the sound of kombucha being gulped down by the hungry was pure bliss. I decided to walk into The Butcher’s Son, a vegetarian deli with a selection of over thirty different types of sandwich. I devoured a buffalo fried mock chicken sandwich, with ginger kombucha, of course. As I was finishing a stranger sat beside me ‘Can I see your book?’ ‘My favourite poet, she distills something about existence in each piece’ I slid the book towards him. The stranger introduced himself as a student of poetry, and our conversations meandered from his Quaker upbringing to the limitations and the possibilities of a language in describing all the complexities of human emotions. ‘Loneliness is perennial’ I told him. ‘That is a delicious sentence, I am stealing it for a poem’ Thirty minutes passed by fast. Later that day, he sent me a poem inspired by our exchange of words. He closed it with those words. Loneliness is perennial. I fell for Berkeley like I fall for anyone. After a profound impression, I needed to take that leap of faith. Risky, but necessary. Then, small details bloom with meaning. I engage, at awe at how my senses are quickened, how a rosy haze enshrouds everything around me. And then I glimpse at the peaks and the troughs. I anticipate heartache when it is gone, but I convince myself that the joy I feel is worth it. I know I will return, in dreams if not physically. Once love grips you, everything changes. See you on another day, loneliness. That night, as I rode on the back Jon’s vespa, I was still mesmerised by everything. A blanket of stars festooned the blackness of the night sky. The evening air pierced through my jacket. Shivering, I put my arms around Jon’s waist. As we ascended the hills, heavy fog enshrouded the surrounding. It was wistful like a hazy scene from a black and white film. I clutched him tighter. I did not want to let go of that night. I did not want to let go of him. I did not want to let go of Berkeley.