Working on my La boheme piece

Little details

The sidewalks here are signed and dated (presumably by the contractors who built them). For example, outside these flats you find McGettigan's sidewalks, dated 1941, and in the next street, sidewalks by A. E. Clarke, 1935.

I also like the way the traffic lights tell you to "Wait!" when you press the button. It's so imperious I wonder what would happen if I crossed against the red - "I THOUGHT I told you - "

A few stops on

Over at the Presidio yesterday, a guy asked us where we were staying. When we said, "Oakland," he said, "Whoa, it's the fifth most violent city in the US." And, admittedly, when we arrived here we were shown which streets belonged to gangs. When I said, "West Oakland", he said, "That's worse".

But I had it wrong. We're more like northern Oakland, up the top end of Piedmont Ave, where the cafes are frequented by students availing themselves of the free Wi-Fi.

We loved the Presidio - sweeping views up and down the coast (over the Golden Gate, too, of course), 'historic' (remnant?) forests on some of the slopes, sea birds hovering in the thermals, city workers jogging in their lunchtime... We were intrigued to find that you can rent there. It'd be a beautiful place to live.

On the way out on the shuttle, I noticed streets named after little-known (outside the US) early 19th century presidents - Pierce, Franklin, Fillmore. I noted that the 'golden gate' itself was named by Fremont, who later became the first Republican presidential candidate, in 1856, and a Union general in the western theatre during the Civil War. All this kind of located the Presidio for me in history. Lincoln Boulevard up there then has a certain poignancy. Lincoln never made it this far west, and I remembered how I had read that he and his wife, Mary, were planning a grand tour when he left the presidency. But of course he was assassinated not long into his second term.

Back in the city itself I realised that I am growing to love the linguistic richness here - the lilt of the African-American banter of the guys picking up a load for UPS, the guys digging up the street speaking Spanish, the ads on the BART which are not even translated into English. Hey, the Presidio was founded by the Spanish in 1776.

When we got back on the BART to come back to this side of the bay, there were no seats on the train. One woman had her parcels on the only available seat. Kate looked at it, and the woman flared up, "Are you gonna say, 'EXCUSE ME'?" I was about to stop Kate - after all why should she apologise to someone taking up a seat for her parcels. But Kate said excuse me, and the woman said, "That's alright."

She had the words 'bitch' and 'nigga' tattooed on one of her forearms, and I imagined that they may have said, in full, "I'm not your bitch; I'm not your nigga", though I couldn't see the part of her forearm which was resting on her legs.

Emerging from bay tunnel, a friend of the woman's came over. Saying "excuse me", she reached across Kate and said "You getting off?" tapping the shoulder of her friend who was moving around to the music in her earphones. She said nothing, but when the train stopped she got off with her parcels - at West Oakland.

On the way to my 'office' - whichever cafe I choose in Piedmont Ave

Orientation and disorientation

In many respects Oakland is not unfamiliar. It's easy to feel as if I'm in that 'Australia on the other side of the sphere' (to paraphrase Melville). Acacia parramattensis, for example, is flowering up here in the Redwood Preserve. But a one-word difference in meaning can throw me. This afternoon a recorded message advised me that "if you know the name of the person you're looking for, enter their extension followed by the pound." The what? I had no idea what 'pound' was. Finally I worked out that it was what we call the 'hatch'. And yet, when I went looking for shoelaces later on, I was directed to 'the cobbler' - an old English word I haven't come across in Oz since I used to read children's storybooks.

I sat in Gaylord's on Piedmont Avenue this morning working on my La boheme piece (while Freak Water played over the sound system). The cafe was full of people working on their laptops. They sat in rows along the wall or at the various tables, furrowing their brows in concentration against the music being piped through for the benefit of those few customers not availing themselves of Gaylord's Wi-Fi.

To distract myself I glanced at yesterday's Oakland Tribune and a regular column called 'Voices'. There was an article by a 60 year-old insurance broker from Walnut Creek, a Lt Col in the Army Reserve, who recounted that he'd got an email back in 2007, ordering him to report to Ft Bragg within 9 days. In the few days he was given to get his affairs in order, he had to organize his office manager to take over his insurance agency, finalize a divorce, etc...

In Iraq he was a member of an embedded Provincial Reconstruction Team. He said that one of the most satisfying parts of the job was briefing Baghdad civilians on "mini loans" of $4,000. It doesn't sound like much, but it was enough for Iraqis to set up new businesses. I thought "what a great thing to do - nation-building is still alive and well". And yet, when this guy came back from Iraq, he had lost his 17 year insurance agency, and was unemployed for a year. It seems no assistance was provided to help him transition to civilian life. His company allowed him to re-start his agency but contractually obliged him not to get in touch with former clients. As he said, "I never thought that I would lose my successful agency by fighting for my country."

Everybody around here is friendly and very, very polite. It is quite touching. But the sense of "you're on your own", in tales like this, is a chill wind for Australians.

Turning to starboard

The last few days in Sydney were filled with sentiment - work farewells, people saying nice things. (I hope they'll say such nice things at my funeral.)
As the plane sat at the bottom of the runway, Kate asked me for my hanky. She'd been thinking about our neighbours dropping in.
I saw the wake of a windsurfer in Botany Bay outside the port window (we were facing north). As the plane roared off, we caught up with the windsurfer himself. Then we passed him.

Comparing tans

Nice to have been able to experience one more hot Australia Day at a crowded Victoria Park Pool last Wednesday before leaving for the States. I did 24 laps this time just in case I cop a lap-swimming drought when we arrive in San Francisco in mid-winter. I saw a couple of friends meet at the entrance. As they walked over to the lawn they both looked backwards and down at their forearms, and I knew exactly what they would have said: "You're browner than I am," or "You haven't seen much sun this summer." In how many countries would this gesture have been so easily translatable?