Object of study

As I was walking home up beautiful Doyle Street in Emeryville, I realized that I've gone to two teaching clinics today, both incredibly convenient.

1. This morning I picked up new glasses at the UC Berkeley Optometry Clinic, which is right next to my own building on campus.  A nice young woman with long chestnut hair gave me my new glasses and adjusted them for me.  Her demeanor was a little shy or unconfident, but she did a nice job.
2. This evening I had a massage at the National Holistic Institute, which is five blocks away from my home.  A nice young woman with short spikey pink and platinum hair gave me a pretty good massage.  Her demeanor was a little shy or unconfident, but she did a nice job.

So I have participated in the education of students today in two ways beyond my usual work.

The best Christmas ever.

Merry Christmas! I am having such a wonderful time at my own Christmas party. Just me. I've had an emotionally and logistically complex few days, and today I finally got some me time: time to spend in my own life and at my own pace.

So after a brunch in Burlingame this morning (hitting the road when it's empty and the sky is clear is a great way to start the day) I took a nap and was awakened to my first Christmas present: my phone was ringing. For the past four days my home phone has been out of service, causing me to have a variety of meltdowns while I wait on hold to ask again when it will be fixed. I finally emailed the CEO of the company (whom I know -- it's not AT&T!) as well as the head of customer service, and the latter called me back within the hour on my repaired line.

A cloud lifted.

I walked on this beautiful sunny day to the local Borders to do Christmas shopping for niece and nephew. I knew what I wanted to get nephew, but I forgot who the author was, and the self-service stations weren't spitting it out when I searched for it. It also appears that Borders blocks access to Amazon.com from iPhones. I was, however, able to easily get into Amazon if I googled a specific book. After an hour, I figured it out: Bad Kitty Gets a Bath. Perfect.

And now I'm listening to KFOG's 24 hours of Christmas, which is incredibly fun and diverse, and I made myself dinner -- for the first time in weeks, between eating out, eating at others', and eating crap here. Me time!

Tomorrow won't be so me, but it's filled with tradition:

1. Open the box of Christmas presents that my father and stepmother have sent
2. Stop at my sister's to exchange gifts
3. Party of Torah studiers in the afternoon
4. Chinese food and a movie in the evening

Then on to New Year's, which will be in Tahoe for the first time in memory and promises to be its own unique adventure!

Love that rotten city

I had a surge of love for my little city tonight. I got home from work late thinking, "I want pizza for dinner." My choice was frozen Trader Joe's ... or Rotten City Pizza up the street. Until now, believe it or not, aside from driving by the Emeryville Public Market for a box of grease one night, I have not gone out to dinner after work. In my former home, I would make a quick take-out call and stroll down the street to pick it up. Here, not so many take-out opportunities. Plus ever since I've moved in it's been winter, and therefore dark when I get home, decreasing my desire to go for a stroll.

Well, it was dark tonight, too, but maybe not totally dark, and it had been light out recently. I strolled the block-and-a-half to Rotten City PIzza, enjoying the warm night (warm -- maybe that's why I hadn't gone out in the evening -- was it too cold?). As I approached, the door swung shut.

They were so sweet. The guy let me in, led me into the kitchen where they'd piled up the leftover cold pizza slices, and gave me a tour of the pile. He let me take my pick (one mozzarella/ricotta/pesto/arugula, one mushroom), packed it in a bag, and handed it to me at no charge. OK, you can think of all the reasons why he might not have charged me, but it was a very small town-feeling experience.

Arguing with lawyers

I found a new cool Emeryville spot, spending the evening at a wine tasting at my local winery (walking distance!).  Met a guy there and we chatted, debated, argued.  I found out early on that he's a lawyer, so I debated with him the way it happens with my lawyer friends.  He thought I was really neat.  Sigh.  I know because he called me a lot of names (socialist, naive), believing I could take it.  I could, but now I'm really tired and don't want to be called names.  I want to watch "Gilmore Girls." I think he doesn't understand that the first half hour of such discussion is fun because it's playful, but beyond that it's just taking things too seriously (45 minutes of discussion of how it's important to be able to defend yourself with a gun if someone breaks into your home?).   Laughter is good, too, and it's just as impressive as intelligence.

That's Emery-village to you

Writing from Oakland Airport. I walked by a newstand, the standard fare with piles of t-shirts in front, and saw one that said, “Oakland, est. 1850.” Cool: Oakland asserts its history. I felt that tug of acquisitiveness. “Mine,” I thought.

And then reality pulled me back. Oakland isn’t going to be mine any more.

I’ve been a devout Oaklander for 15 years. When I was (joyfully) unemployed before my current job, I watched Oakland city council TV. I like the city’s big messiness. It reminds me of Cleveland, where I grew up: some great old neighborhoods that outsiders aren’t aware of; a decent stab at culture; and a large, troubled African-American population. To me it is undervalued, an underdog, a place where good is just dying to happen and lives are ready to be changed, and I wanted to be part of turning it around.

In defining my condo search, Oakland was the only place I wanted to live. In fact, I wanted to live specifically in the downtown or uptown areas of Oakland, where there is lots of new construction and definite evidence of an evolving neighborhood. I didn’t mind being a pioneer: I knew that commerce would follow. Single professional women are a target market for these areas.

When I didn’t find anything I liked, another area I found was Temescal. Just blocks from my current neighborhood, Temescal is supposed to be The Next Rockridge. Since I’d love to live in Rockridge, why not be in the next one?

I read all of Temescal’s and Macarthur BART’s development plans. I contacted Jane Brunner, the city councilmember for the area (also my current councilmember), who was, predictably, entirely unresponsive.

(I had really been hoping to move out of her district anyway. My alternative was to put myself on course to run against her for her seat.)

Another red flag: the development plans are dated 2005. I could be an optimist who thinks that they’re due, that the time is about to come to execute them; or I could listen to my friend, J., who says that even if Oakland begins to execute these plans, they’ll screw something up. Certainly Jane Brunner’s unresponsiveness made me feel like I wouldn’t be a part of the success of even this neighborhood.

I made an offer on a place in lower Temescal, a condo that my father and stepmother and niece and brother and his girlfriend all visited. On the one day that month two people in California were buying condos, and I was outbid.

An unexpected swing of emotions. And when my great broker contacted me to go back out to see condos the following weekend, I was uninterested, but I indulged her. Grumpy. The last place she showed me was in Emeryville, and it was great. On Hollis, which is one of my favorite streets there. After a very traumatic detour into almost buying another place in Temescal, I bought the condo in Emeryville.

And then my car was broken into in front of my Oakland apartment. A sign?

Every change brings loss. Changing my identity from being an Oaklander to an Emeryvillager is going to take some practice. Changing from a city whose symbol is an oak (and I’ve wanted one of those oak pins that city councilmembers wear) to one whose symbol is … Ikea? … Best Buy? … Bay Street? … the Powell Street onramp? is not something I can get excited about.

I am excited about living in a well-run city, an aspirational city that executes is plans. Emeryville knows what it wants to be, and it’s not hesitating in heading there. And if it strays I only have to work with 8,000 people to help return it to success.