It is night when I set up camp on the beach of La Zona Hotelera in Cancún, away from all the hotels. I’ve just come in from Mérida and am sitting cross-legged in my sleeping bag, listening to the fall of waves about a hundred feet away. From that distance, they sound like measured breaths through the nose. In the morning I’ll see Aashik, my roommate from Berkeley.
On New Year’s Eve 2012, having returned early from an East Coast holiday with our kids, and with an 8 p.m. dinner invite ahead of me and no one to say no, I drive to Pantoll to do a run to Stinson. I’ve been running the Marin Headlands for 41 years and this is something I have contemplated doing for years.
Posted on February 9, 2015 - 3:58pm
I was 22, my sensitive vegan boyfriend had just dumped me, and my life was over.
Now I circled the park in my running shoes, trying to smooth over the jaggedness of the past two hours. No such luck. Every footstep was a lonely echo, every smiling family I passed another cruel reminder. There was only one thing left to do: I slowed to a walk, and called my mom. “I’ll never date again,” I announced.
This was met with a sigh, and what I could only guess was an eye roll. “Stop being ridiculous,” my mother said. “After all, there’s plenty of fish.”
Posted on January 26, 2015 - 11:23am
Because of its roots in single-gender institutions, the Greek system often exemplifies more subtle gender norms in our society. I recently joined a sorority at UC Berkeley, and these norms quickly became abundantly clear.
Posted on December 17, 2014 - 1:32pm
Stars filled the night sky as I pedaled up to Big Rock, a landmark on rural Lucas Valley Road in Marin County. As I got closer, the rock became a beacon, illuminated by a spotlight to inspire cyclists like me on the final leg of a marathon ride.
I wasn’t quite a red diaper baby. More like a pink diaper baby. Kind of Communist-lite.
Before my parents had kids, both had been active members of the Communist Party in New York City, but in the early 1940s, they changed their name, moved to Berkeley, and enrolled in graduate school at Cal.
It was the summer of 2008 when my 7-year-old daughter asked me to run for president.
We were shooting hoops behind our sublet in the Berkeley flats, where we’d come to escape the swampland heat of Washington, D.C. If I were elected, Sofia explained, I could make a law allowing women to play Major League Baseball.
Graduation was near and other seniors were scrambling for work. I knew I was set. I had met a brilliant entrepreneur and was investing my time and savings in his sure-fire venture that guaranteed me both a job and untold millions.
His plan was literally airtight: Create a device that would improve upon the highest volume manufactured product—the sealed bags used for everything from dry macaroni to potato chips.
And what was wrong with those bags? They weren’t re-sealable.
The lovely young woman has been admitted to the master’s program at Berkeley’s School of Public Health and she is seeking my advice. She’s also been accepted to Harvard and several other top schools, she says, and is weighing her options.
I make the appropriate comments. I have nothing negative to say about Harvard, or any other of the schools of public health she is considering, I tell her. Each has its pluses and minuses and so forth and blah blah blah.
To call it a birthday party would be a bit of a stretch.
It was my 22nd—not a particularly celebration-worthy year to begin with. I also didn’t have any friends with whom to celebrate. I was only a couple months into what would be a year-long stint as an intern at The Bakersfield Californian, and furthermore—since I was in the employ of a newspaper reporting news—planning ahead was a shady proposition.
My son, Danny, returned from an exchange semester at Berkeley and treated me to a recitation of Beat poet Allen Ginsberg’s Hadda Be Playing on the Jukebox. Robert Haas’s American Poetry class had introduced Danny to the Beats, and he wanted to know whether I had read Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. I hadn’t.
The Yosemite of Chile is located in Northern Patagonia about 60 kilometers, as the condor flies, east of the city of Puerto Montt. Its true name is El Valle de Cochamó—and that is where we were headed, four of us on horseback, riding slump-shouldered in the pouring rain.
The horse I rode was called Miti Miti, for mitad mitad, or half-and-half. Fabián, who owned the horses, explained that when they were gelding Miti, one of the animal’s testicles retracted in terror and they were only able to complete half the job.
We first noticed the giant Ferris wheel in Jinjiang park right after moving to Shanghai. But much of the wheel’s accompanying amusement park looks anemic and rundown. Of course, we are used to theme parks stateside, and it is hard to compete with the lands of Lego and Disney. So we avoided the place.
“Speak only truth,” says little Ray, as he raises his arms above his head, clasps his hands, then in a prayer-like gesture, places them over his heart. Ji Hun, giggling in delight, knocks over a stack of toys. I proceed with our lesson and say nothing—Ji Hun earned my loyalty the day I showed up with only a maraca, having forgotten my boom box: He was the only one who kept flawless time.
The sharply dressed man on television bows, then proceeds to talk in a soft, polite voice. I can understand perhaps a quarter of what he’s saying—mostly just conjunctions and pronouns. I miss all the essential nouns, like, oh, radiation, nuclear meltdown, and disaster. Lucky for me, he has a model of the Fukushima reactor in its current state of disintegration.