Big Day in the Big City (i.e. not Berkeley)

Sarah and her cat, Lynn and Karen (fiddlers), Eric in the hall of Raphael House, Bob Harrison, Sophia, the receptionist for Raphael House

Friday was my amazing adventures on BART and in the city. When I lived here in 1973-4, they were just digging up Market Street to start on BART. I worked downtown as a clerk or something for a while then, except that I kept falling asleep because I was pregnant.

Sarah’s

Here, I took the Ashby BART train to the Mission District for my first stop—to see Sarah Wilson, once a Seattleite and fiddling buddy. Sarah had to coax me more than once on the phone on directions. I think I was just overwhelmed by all the Spanish bustle of the Mission District, and the rain had started coming down in earnest. I nipped in a work clothes store and bought an umbrella, and then all was well. Sarah met me and we went into her charming apartment, especially congenial with its piles of books and CDs, two chairs drawn up for playing tunes (did I say that I was carrying my banjo?) and, of course, the ever present cat, who, like all cats, adored me. They all know I’m allergic to them, so they hunt me down, except for Sprocket, who, I have to say, has been pretty good after our initial meeting. (No, I didn’t punt him.)

Sarah had baked cookies and everything, so of course I had to have a few. But before playing we went over to see if the owls that are nesting near her in a park were there. They weren’t. Then we went over to see Lynn and Karen’s house. I would have felt weird taking pictures, but I should have at least taken a picture of the view off their deck, which is incredible. Skylights, cool art, wow colors—it all felt more like a nest than a house, high up on a hill perched in the sky. Lynn and Karen were just finishing up a fiddle session since Lynn had to leave for work.

Sarah and I headed back to her house and got into some wonderful D tunes in D tuning on the fiddle, including Tommy Jarrell’s “Cumberland Gap,” which seems to be following me around on this trip since I had just played it at Sammy’s (Foghorn Sammy for those of you who know what the heck I’m even talking about).

Raphael House

Raphael House is a shelter for families, women, and children run by the Orthodox Church of America (OCA). Since some friends from church were there and it's so cool, I wanted to see it! (For more on Raphael House, see http://www.raphaelhouse.org/)

The time kind of slipped by until Eric called wondering (in a politely annoyed way) just when I was going to make it over to Raphael House since he was leaving at 5-no-matter-what to see his fiancé, who lives across town. Not only that, he warned, but it was the last Friday of the month, when about 20,000 cyclists assemble for a big ride, and the streets were going to be, basically, hell.

So I packed up and began what, little did I know, would be a careening, tumbling, stop-and-start rollicking tour down Mission Street at about 5 mph, with occasional stops in which the driver got out to fix things. At least we never saw the cyclists. By the time I got to Sutter and Van Ness, I was ready to run, and it was about 4:45 p.m. I dashed down Van Ness, looking for the number of Raphael House, the Orthodox women and children’s shelter where Eric as well as Bob and Connie Harrison, who used to live up in Port Townsend and go to the Orthodox church there. (Connie was in the choir and has a wonderful soprano. She doesn’t always believe this, but she does.)

Well, I wasn’t finding Raphael House, so I called them, and the charming receptionist, Sophia, clued me in that duh, the house was on Sutter, not Van Ness. So I had to walk back UP HILL and then over a few blocks to Raphael House. Sophia calmed me down, but I was about to give up on Eric and leave a message when lo! He appearethed! (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) All 6 feet plus of him, he gave the weird old lady with the banjo a whirlwind tour of his room, the lobby, and a few other places. It’s kind of all mixed for me because after he left, lo, Bob Harrison appeareth as well and gave me a longer whirlwind tour that was really quite amazing, through huge kitchens and craft rooms, and I even got to see the door to His Grace Bishop Benjamin’s room! (I didn’t know he lived there!) (Did I do this right as an honorific?)

Anyway, it all used to be a Catholic hospital and has cool skylights, a chapel (in process of fixup), and a zillion nooks and crannies.

But I had to dash to meet my dear friend and fellow English instructor from my full-time Pierce College days, Sandi Sonnenfeld.

Puttin’ on the Ritz

With all these headings, I’m beginning to feel as if I’m writing for National Geographic, but without pay.

So, I called The Palace, the hotel where Sandi was staying, and they kind of helped me figure out what bus to take down there. Sarah Wilson, blessed be she, had given me bus change which I hadn’t had a chance to get, if you can call $1.50 change. So down to Market I went and after a little tearing around found Sandi’s hotel. Whoooeee, footmen, potted palms, lotsa glass in the roof, the whole schmear! (See above.)

Sandi and I had planned this. She flew in from New York City the day before for work—she’s head of PR for a huge lawyer firm. We got all shrieky and talked nonstop for about the next four hours, comparing notes and agreeing that I had the better deal living out of my van and hacking around. She had made reservations for us at a really interesting vegan restaurant, Buddhist and fancy, with all these weird vegetables and things I’d never heard of. I got some shitakes that looked like a lace tower, then this potato and some other things soup and some grilled veggies that we shared.

Sandi is a wonderful writer who has published a memoir I highly recommend: This Is How I Speak: The Diary of a Young Woman. However, currently, she’s in the bind of working too much and wondering how to get her next novel published. She’s loving being back in her home turf but struggling like most of us. We talked about all this and more and then went back to the hotel for a little dark chocolate. Instead, we wound up with a room service piece of chocolate cake that was about 9 layers and the size of a small condo. We went for it but even I, folks, could not finish it, let alone Sandi, who is slender and small and much more polite.

We hugged goodbye and wondered, where and when shall we see each other next?

BART FROM HELL!!!

Well, BART had been fine on the way over, so I didn’t think my return trip would be a problem. I just didn’t want to get home too late.

Wrong.

First off, just out of the hotel, across the street, down into the BART station, something ominous began to go on with my tummy. So, I dashed over to the guy in the booth and asked where the bathrooms were. I was stunned by his reply.

“BART doesn’t have bathrooms,” he said. “Not since 911.”

Let me tell you some other things BART doesn’t have. Decent signs in places where you need them, or maps, or very understandable conductors.

I didn’t dare sit, so I stood there, waiting, waiting, waiting, clutching my banjo and my gut. To interrupt my agony, two young girls with rasta locks and iPods smiled at me and the banjo and started talking to me about playing guitar and banjo and stuff. They were great, with big grins and lots of goofiness.

Our train finally came and I stood. The train roared and screamed along. Then it stopped. Then the conductor blurted out something about changing trains somewhere other than where Susan had told me to change and later he told us another place. Somehow, my stomach pounding, I made it, but I didn’t dare sit down.

At the next stop after the change, my rasta girls came on again. “Hey, Banjo Mama!” they cried and sat down by me. One told me she was listening to something from 1971, “before I was born,” she said.

“Way to make me feel old, “ I said.

“Oh, I was born in 1972,” she grinned. I was flabbergasted—they looked about 17 years old. Go figure. California of the Eternal Youths.

Finally made it back to Berkeley, where the magnificent Susan was waiting for me and drove me post haste to home and a blessed bathroom. Tummy was sore most of the night, but I still managed to get some pretty good zzzzz’s.