Finding "My" Spot

Like millions of others, I read Carolos Castaneda's The Teachings of Don Juan. More than the vivid descriptions of the effects of hallucinogenic drugs, I was taken by Carlos's assigned task of finding his sitio – a spot on the porch of Don Juan’s house where Carlos feels “naturally happy and strong,” the one place on the floor that is unique, where Carlos can be at his very best.

It seems that, like Carlos, I have been looking for my sitio ever since. For decades, I thought that spot was in northern California. Sure, I've traveled to cities and towns both near and far and, for a short time, felt that I could live there and be my best. But issues of language, customs, friends, and family – sometimes the cost of living – always took hold and pushed me back to where I started.

Will this time be different? Friends who have known me forever just laugh when I tell them I'm moving to California. I've been threatening such a move since 1970 when my first husband finished law school in Detroit. I had hoped to join throngs of friends and acquaintances who were going to the land of sunshine, acid rock, and "Hippie Hill." It was not to be: My husband and I got as far west as Chicago.

After our divorce, I was tethered to Chicago because of our son. No way was I going to be able to take him across the country with visitation rights for my ex during holidays and summer vacation. I weathered the ensuing winters as best I could with frequent visits to northern California. Each time, I vowed that I'd return for good. Each time, there were compelling reasons why I could not leave. (Think second marriage and my new husband's full-time employment for starters. Even when my son was long out of the house and on his own, California jobs in the arts were like warm, sunny days in a Chicago winter.) I was stuck.

Now after 40 years, there are no jobs holding us back. We are "free to move about the country."

I duped myself into believing that our current 8-week sojourn in the Berkeley Hills was not about a permanent move. I promised that finding my sitio was a distant second behind spending time in more temperate climes. But I hooked us up with a realtor the second week we were here, and she has been trying her best to sell us a home ever since. For better or for worse, there is a dearth of For Sale signs in these parts. Anyone who hasn't had to move has sat tight, waiting for the recession to end and for real estate prices to rebound.

And in the years since I've first come to northern California, my tastes have changed. Many neighborhoods that appealed to me in my 20s and 30s now seem gee jawed, uneasy. If there was a historical board or city planning commission in these parts, the members must have been high because there is no rhyme or reasons to many of the residential sections. Contemporary homes abut weathered Craftsmans. Cars clutter the winding roads because owners are too lazy to drive up the steep driveways. It feels tight, messy, too tight and messy for me.

Only down the hills in the older sections is there a sense of design and calm. Some of the streets are blocked to through traffic, turning the areas into walking spaces immune to the sounds and smells of automobiles. Alas, most homes in these sections no longer enjoy a "view." They face multiple directions instead of due west onto San Francisco Bay. Damn. There are always compromises to be made.

Like Carlos, I am spinning, twisting, and turning.

"America's Most Wanted"

The little girl and I strolled hand in hand toward the water. Without warning, violent waves crashed just in front of us, around us, threatening to sweep us into the vortex never to return. I picked up the girl and ran for our lives, luckily outrunning the raging waters.

Then they were coming. The bad guys, the ones who thought nothing of slitting your throat in one masterful stroke. Where to hide? Frantic, I opened and closed doors. None of them had locks. Even if they did, the bad guys would smash the locks or break down the doors. Then I saw it, a small, green refrigerator, the kind you might have in a basement for all the meat and chicken and soft drinks that wouldn't fit in the kitchen frig. Without a moment to lose, I pulled out shelves and bins, unplugged the wall socket, and somehow managed like a the girl in a Houdini magic act to step in and curl up just enough to close the door.

I could hear the bad guys rumbling into the building, climbing the stairs, and piling into the room with the green refrigerator. Then I listened in horror as one after another unsuspecting dancer met her fate. The bad guys showed no mercy, ignored all pleas. "Where are the keys?" they screamed. None of them knew about the keys. I had the keys stuffed in my jeans' pocket.

My only hope was to wait until the bad guys moved into the next room to slit the throats of more innocent dancers. I held my breath and listened until I could hear a pin drop. Without hesitation, I pushed opened the refrigerator door, put my feet on the floor, and ran as I'd run earlier in the day away from the waves. Only this time, I ran down stairs, in and out of empty rooms, through industrial spaces with acres of what looked like furnaces and large metal coils, and finally to an open window on the ground level. I could hear the bad guys not far behind me. With no time to lose, I pushed the window open as far as it would go, squeezed through the opening, and jumped, landing on a soft patch of dirt. I picked myself up and ran like the wind.

"There she is!," one of the bad guys yelled, one of his legs already out the open window.

I'd had enough. Only 50 feet or so separated me from the knife-wielding bad guys. Either this dream ended like a Hollywood movie with a large police van turning up just in the nick of time to roadblock the bad guys from me or I met my fate like all the others. I wasn't ready to die. Not like this. So, I forced my eyes open, measured my breathing, and stumbled into the bathroom.

"Good Day, Sunshine"

Photos by Alan Leder


Ah, what a bit of sunshine does to adorn Mother Nature in all her glory and to lift the human
spirit! The flower on the left is from a flowering tree. (I'm waiting for my landscape designer friend to identify it. It may be nicknamed the "Money Tree.") We happened upon the tree in full bloom during a walk around Lake Merritt, a lovely lake on the east side of Oakland. Alan was bad and, while no one was looking, he plucked a cluster of flowers to take home and admire. The sun was shining, the path around the lake was flat, and, once again, I imagined living here all year round. (I think it's currently 12 degrees in Chicago with another threat of snow.)


Last week, we drove from Berkeley to Muir Woods National Monument in Marin County, not far north of San Francisco. Here stand groves of Redwood trees, proud and untouched for an average 5o0 to 800 years. It cranks your neck to stand at the base of one of these magnificent trees and scan all the way skyward. As might be imagined, the trees create their own climate; the forest is generally damp, if not rainy, and several degrees cooler than just beyond the giant Redwoods. We donned our Lands End jackets with rain coats on top and made our way into the sacred realm of the forest.

Because of all the rain, ferns were sprouting from branches where they normally don't grow, and green, fuzzy moss covered lower branches and twigs. It was a scene out of "Harry Potter" or "Alice in Wonderland" --- special, peaceful, overwhelming. To imagine 2 million acres of old growth Redwoods forests before loggers came to California and cut most of the trees down makes the acres that remain even more precious. Thankfully, the area has been federally-owned and protected since 1908, so nothing other than an act of Nature can tamper with it.

We ate a late lunch at the organic, local-farm-run cafeteria and then wound our way down the valley toward the San Rafael Bridge, in my mind the most exquisite of three East Bay bridges. As if on cue, the sun burst from behind the remaining clouds, a half rainbow arched above us, and we were screaming with delight. The San Francisco Bay to our right, the red Golden Gate Bridge in the distance - - we had died and gone to heaven.

A Visit with an Old Friend

She stood just inside the doorway, her right hand suspended in mid-air, her fingers crooked, frozen in space. Her hair was cropped short with tufts of gray at the temples. Her blue eyes looked at me and through me. "She can't see good," her caretaker said. Probably just as well. She couldn't see the distress I was trying so hard to hide.

Joan was diagnosed with Alzheimer's four years ago at age 59. The ravages of the disease forced her to give up her therapy practice. Her partner of many years couldn't accept the diagnosis and its responsibilities and eventually left. She hasn't called or visited since. Thankfully, Joan doesn't remember what must have been a crushing loss. "She's smart," Joan said, talking about her former partner. "She works with people when they're dying. I . . . I can't remember what that's called."

"Hospice," I said.

Joan smiled. "That's right. What did you call it?"

"Hospice."

I showed Joan a photo of the two of us taken in 1973. She sat behind me with her arms wrapped around my shoulders. The two of us with our long straight hair parted down the middle and flowers sticking out to one side looked like an ad for the "Summer of Love" in San Francisco. Those were good times.

I'm no stranger to the heartbreak of Alzheimer's. My husband's aunt was diagnosed in her early 70s. My mother showed signs in her late 80s. But this is the first time that someone close in age has been felled by this insidious disease. To see a vibrant, smart, dear woman now tethered to a caretaker for her every need devastated me. Maybe if I'd witnessed the progression of Joan's downfall, the impact would not have been so heartbreaking. But I came in during the final act.

I think Joan was happy that I came to visit. She didn't remember me when I arrived, and I'm not sure she understood our connection when I left. Our ties go way back: Her mother had been my Sunday school Hebrew teacher when I was in elementary school. Mrs. Gilbert was the only reason I was willing to schlep off to school on a Sunday.

"She was . . . a won-der-ful woman," Joan said with a stutter. Apparently, Joan's loss of memory erased all the negative feelings she once held toward her mother. For that, I was grateful.

Without warning, Joan put her hand on her stomach, crunched her face in apparent pain, and began talking very quickly. "I can't . . . I can't. Too much information. This is too hard." I reached for her hand, stroked it gently, and encouraged her to breathe. That seemed to do the trick. Within a matter of 30 seconds or so, the panic abated. Relieved but feeling guilty for possibly setting off her confusion, I decided it was time to leave. I promised that I'd visit again.

As I was putting my coat on, Joan said to her caretaker, "She knew my mother. I like that."

My Little GPS

Okay, so I know I'm years behind the curve. Hell, I still have boxes and boxes of LP albums, drawers full of cassette tapes, and, no, I don't own an IPod. So, how cool am I that I just paid my $10 monthly fee to activate my Blackberry Storm VZ Navigator!


I haven't a clue how any of us navigated our way around unknown territory before the invention of the GPS. I know all about maps and AAA TripTiks, but the latter are only good when you know in advance exactly where you want to go. There is no room for serendipity; no, it's a matter of getting from a predetermined Point A to Point B. That may be fine when traveling from, say, the Claremont Hotel in Berkeley to the Japanese Tea Garden in San Francisco. But what if you need groceries for dinner and have no idea where the nearest supermarket is? What if the parking meters have eaten all your pocket change (a common event in the East Bay), and you're in desperate need of a bank where you can purchase rolls of quarters? The possibilities are endless but, without a GPS, you're plumb out of luck. Oh, you could roll down your window and ask a stranger or wait patiently by the side of the road until a friendly cab driver drives by. That's how it used to be done. But that was then, and this is now.



I'll be candid: I wasn't convinced some satellite circling a zillion miles out in space would give a rat's ass about little old me and my travels. So it was with a muttered "I hope this works" that I plugged in the address of my first destination, pressed Navigate, and waited for directions. Magically, Ms. Navigator (who today has been christened Ernestine and, yes, the "Laugh In" connection is intended) took it from there, telling me when to turn, when to go straight, how many miles before my destination. I had my own personal MapQuest. And when I made a wrong turn, she didn't scold me like some people I know but calmly said that she was recalculating directions. No need to panic; she had my back. Hell, she even let me know that there was traffic congestion up ahead and kindly offered to reroute me.

Ernestine's robot-like delivery can be a bit annoying, so I'll find out how to make her voice more soothing to match the confidence she gives me every time I turn on the car's ignition. "One ringy dingy, two ringy, dingys" and off I go!

"Trips That Begin Badly Are Bound To End Well"

My cousin's dear mother always said that trips "that begin badly are bound to end well." I've taken those words to heart as I stare out the floor-to-ceiling window in our California retreat and watch Mother Nature wreak havoc on the California coast. It has been raining off and on for three days now and, if we are to believe the weather forecasters, we have another two days to go. All plans for long hikes have been delayed. Thoughts of sitting on the sunny deck overlooking the San Francisco Bay seem like a Midwestern gal's dream. A ferry trip from Oakland's Jack London Square to San Francisco have been held in abeyance. A field trip of sorts to look at homes for sale may have to wait until the start of the spring market.

But all is not lost. I've finished one book and have begun another. In between the rain - and it does stop for hours at a time, usually in early afternoon - we've scoured the stores up and down College Avenue and the more chic establishments on Berkeley's 4th Street. We've taken advantage of our free guest status and worked out at the Oakland YMCA two times now. I even took a yoga class there yesterday before jumping on an elliptical machine for 20 minutes in my attempt to do something aerobically every day. We've eaten at some good restaurants and visited the Berkeley Museum of Art. And we have frequented the local Whole Foods, Safeway, and specialty food stores and delis that flourish here.

We watch the clouds, fog, and rain roll in and out as if they are in a huge hurry, late for something terribly important. Mother Nature is on display with her palette of colors, moods, and designs. Who needs museums or art galleries? The houses on the surrounding hills disappear and then magically reappear. One minute the Golden Gate Bridge is there; the next, it has been erased as quickly as memories of childbirth. I came here for warmth and sun but am beginning to appreciate the underside of this El Nino that is bringing much-needed rain to these parts. The rain and the snow in the upper altitudes that will eventually melt will help replenish the drought-stricken land and the all-too-shallow reservoirs. I don't know if this marks the end of California's three-year drought - probably not - but it will make a significant dent.

I'm aware of the stunning defeat of the Democratic candidate for Senate in the liberal state of Massachusetts. But I've chosen to implement a news blackout for now. I'm unwilling to let politics rob me of what I know will be a trip that ends well.

OUT OF SHAPE

A 64 year-old woman can't stop moving; otherwise, the consequences are dire. This was only too obvious yesterday when my husband and I took our first hike in Berkeley's Tilden Park. Now I knew I was out of shape. For a variety of reasons too typical to mention, I'd stopped any semblance of regular exercise for almost a year. Sure, I went to yoga two times a week, but yoga ain't aerobic no matter how many head stands one does. (And, no, I don't do headstands.) My feeble attempts at getting back to dance class petered out when I got sick in the fall. By the time I was feeling better, my excuse was that I'd have plenty of time to pick up the ball once I got to California. (The same excuse, by the way, that I used when I didn't lose the extra 6 or 7 pounds I'd gained after my parents died and I went back to work full time. As soon as you get to California, you'll be able to control your own kitchen and won't be tempted by the constant flow of office goodies and restaurant lunches. Easier said than done.)

Well, the buck stops here. Having to stop several times during yesterday's hike was pathetic. (And who in the hell designed the hike so that the return would be all uphill?) Standing outside of myself, looking at me slumping with hands on hips, practically hyperventilating, made me feel like one of the contestants on "The Biggest Loser." I pictured all those overweight men and women huffing and puffing, sweating gallons, moaning and groaning. Stuck in my mind's eye was the image of one of last season's contestants collapsed on the beach after a mile walk and then being carted off in a medical helicopter.
"I have to stop," I yelled to my husband who was ahead of me, practically out of view.
"Keep walking," he said with not a bit of empathy. I hated him. Couldn't he see that I was struggling?
"I'm really out of shape," I managed to spit out.
"Do you want me to wait for you?" he said.
"Yes," I said, feeling like a scared, little girl.
I fought the overriding urge to collapse on the grass. Instead, I focused on my breath, doing my best to inhale slowly, then exhale to the same count. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
Frustrated but not down for the count, I started walking uphill once again.
"You were a bit harsh," I said to my husband. "I told you I was really out of shape."
"I'm going to be your coach . . . just like on the 'Biggest Loser.'"
Some switch. For years Alan had begged me to stretch him, to show him how to do various exercises. And now he was going to be my coach? No thanks.
"You know you watch that show just to make yourself feel better," he said.
I wanted to kill him. "I watch that show on occasion because I'm amazed at what they can accomplish."
"It's the worst kind of reality show," he said. "Looking at terribly obese people in their bicycle shorts and halter tops. Disgusting."
I was too tired to argue. I needed to finish the hike and sit down. But I wouldn't let this one slide.