A home away from home

Looking at what’s “good” about Berkeley

By Julia Baumgaertner
From the May 2004 Print Edition

Berkeley is, and will always be, the perfect remedy for those feeling trapped in American suburbia. This is the very reason many of us chose Berkeley over the pastoral Farm in Palo Alto or the undeniably attractive University of California’s Sexy Bodies in good ol’ Goleta. California offers a cache of coastal colleges; however, we run the risk of leaving in four years with little more than the skin cancers on our backs. Many Ivy Leagues offer up coveted spots, but we turn them down for fear of becoming as transparent (literally) as the Ralph Lauren ads we’d soon come to resemble-the combination of pink pants and Proust is never considered hip.

Emerging from this higher-education haze, UC Berkeley stands as a beacon of hope and truth. Cal Day attracts throngs of angst-ridden “new admits” each year -campus maps and parental units in tow- attempting to choose a home away from home. These newbies are seduced by aromas of the Thai House, lured by the reggae-fusion siren songs from Ameoba music, and most feverishly embrace the cultural microcosm. Berkeley offers an unmatched education in a picturesque place where we can pierce every orifice of our bodies, begin our days at 3 PM, and buy alcohol with money allotted for food. On the whole, our parents sit back at home, blindly content as they proudly display “UC Berkeley Parent” stickers on the backs of their Volvos.

It was only a couple years back that this progressive enclave seemed like utopia for the mind. Like many of the recent Cal Day visitors, I was stuck in the Lego-Land of my hometown in the San Gabriel Valley. I would zone out in a Radiohead-induced catharsis trying to live through a terrible bout with high school senioritis. Years of the pervading Southern California subculture had driven me to abandon homecoming for Jim Morrison’s biography and film noir rentals. Then years of prayer in catechism summoned the big envelope to my mailbox.

If Telegraph Avenue were the yellow brick road, I expected Oz to be Ann Arbor on an acid trip. To my surprise, Berkeley was less radical and more regular. My life generally does not differ from my quiet cul-de-sac days. It is strange to think that an infamous place like Berkeley could parallel my mundane suburban life, but trust me, any weekend morning will prove my point.

While walking to a café breakfast local folk are seen with their pets-not Linda in her Nikes with the golden retriever, but Rocky in his steel-toed boots with “Killer” the ferret on a leash. Neighbors happily greet you on Sunday morning: instead of the expected “Good morning,” a mumbled “Looks good coming…looks good going” is uttered from something which vaguely resembles my dirty laundry pile in front of “Hi Times” smoke shop.

Yet, while I like to believe that Berkeley is my home away from home, I warn prospective freshman to toughen up and desensitize a bit. Come October you might become irate after the patchouli oil-induced coma you suffered on Telegraph wears off. It won’t be because someone has posted a Kerry ’04 sign on the door but because your main modus operandi will be stolen despite a Houdini-proof lock system. Save yourself any senseless self-pity, and rather reflect upon your charity that has made some local peon very happy, for you have graciously donated to a nose-candy fund -all without having to hear trick-or-treat from the figure on the corner who is dressed for Halloween on the fourth of December.

Aside from the characters, the place is great fun, and even more so when you get a car! It’s a shame the city parking permit doesn’t come with a remedy for symptoms indicative of a lemming with vertigo; at CalSO they won’t admit that King Minos had a hand in Berkeley city planning. Somehow I remember two-way residential streets having room for two cars, without plastic pillars randomly cemented at four way intersections. Econ teachers should utilize these as real world examples of “barriers to entry” when teaching the concept of monopoly. Such a restriction on mobility is even more devastating when a giant geranium planter prevents you from parking in the only spot your permit will allow within five miles.

So for all of those sitting in cap and gown, eagerly awaiting entrance into this Berkeley kabutz, your adventure is about to begin. Those of us already bunkered down for finals will be looking to escape, waiting in anticipation for the spoils of summer. Whether you are emigrating from or immigrating to the valleys of small town America, know you enjoy the convenience of a Costco, wide streets without meters, In N’ Out Burger, and cheap minor league baseball. I’ll be joyously returning to everyday Americana for the summer, but you can bet your bongo drums I’ll be ready ditch apple pie for some organic veggie wraps in three months!

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