Not a soccer mom

It won’t have escaped the notice of my readers (cherished people that you are) that I am posting less and less frequently.

I believe “Not A Soccer Mom” may have reached its natural conclusion. The fact that I set out to write about my “first impressions” of life in California, after moving here from London in the summer of 2005, says it all. By definition such an endeavour had a shelf life.

Still, I find myself reluctant to call it a day, much less hit the delete key. I may have more to say, whether on the themes already explored in this blog or on another subject. So I trust you will bear with me while I demonstrate my inability to be resolute and just hit pause for the moment. Thank you.

“I’m already against the next war.”

In Berkeley Bowl, woman to her male companion:

“I need some organic dates.”

Him to her:

“An organic date — just like you!”

You may have heard of the “wild parrots of Telegraph Hill”. There’s even a movie been made about them. This flock of colorful birds can often be spotted in San Francisco and are very much part of the fabric of the city.

Well now we have our own avian wildlife in Berkeley. For the past few months we have been encountering on a fairly regular basis a group of wild turkeys who, it appears, have decided to take up residence in the Claremont neighborhood. (I’ve seen these birds, as well as deer and raccoons up in the hills, but not until now in the “flats”.)

There are five of them and they like to travel en masse. They are definitely not the top-heavy variety which are bred for the dinner table. These birds are both fit and fearless.

They cross busy streets, often in an orderly line, seemingly oblivious to the cars thundering around them. They explore people’s front gardens or decide to potter in the middle of the road. The other day my son had to be dispatched from the car to chase them onto the grass verge. And last week one hopped off a fence and landed in front of my car without so much as a glance in my direction.

We like having them around though. They may appear a little imperious but I admire their self-possession. The neighborhood has happily adopted them — they keep us entertained and remind us to drive a little slower.

In Cafe Trieste, Berkeley:

“My bio-rhythms are out of sorts.”

“The best things in life aren’t things”

Anyone remember Jean-Luc Godard’s “Weekend“? (pictured above). I sometimes feel I’m living in — or too close for comfort to — that movie.

Dana Fields no longer does the morning traffic reports on KQED. Her inappropriate chirpiness and “smiley” voice (you could just hear her permanently fixed grin) will not be missed by me.

Instead we have the more measured tone of Jo McConnell. But the news he imparts is just as bad. Jams and break-downs of course, but, more distressingly, dozens of critical-condition accidents and, it seems once or twice a week at least, a fatality. (Someone woke up, set off for work and never got there.)

To me it seems there are an extraordinary (as in not ordinary) number of serious car crashes every day around the Bay Area. I hear about them too often, sometimes first-hand, and see them too. But, since the last time I commented on this, I have had time to think about why that is and how some might be avoided.

First off, the powers that be should reconfigure what must count as some of the most poorly designed freeway interchanges in the world. (The junction leading to the Bay Bridge from Berkeley is lethal.) Changing lanes at speed is never fun but when everyone on both sides is trying to change lanes too, it’s a recipe for disaster.

Which brings me to my second suggestion, and one that would take some getting used to by US drivers I grant you: ban overtaking from the right. After driving most of my life in Europe, I find it absurd that cars can be overtaking me on both sides, often at the same time.

Thirdly, raise the age at which you can get a driver’s license. Don’t tell me the average 16-year-old — particularly male — is ready to take the wheel. I was a teenager too and I remember my bouts of daredevil driving. I drove fast — far too fast — and very dangerously. I was going on 18, but didn’t know any better. I also remember teenage friends who died in car accidents.

Perhaps what is most worrying is the sense I get from people here that there is an expectation, an inevitability, about car accidents. They are not seen as exceptional which is how I remember it in England.

It couldn’t have been more Berkeley really. Maybe I have “gone all the way” — shed my British skin and become a Bay Area babe. Or maybe not.

I was buying a yoga mat at Lulu Lemon. Because, yes, I have started doing yoga. The mat is eco-friendly of course — it will biodegrade when it is told to. The sales assistant was being charming and chatty and I was helping myself to complimentary green tea while she processed my purchase.

I asked her whether she was sure the mat was “sticky” enough (”in the know” terminology for a good grip don’t you know). Yes, she responded, as long as you don’t sweat a lot when you exercise. I raised my eyebrows to answer and she said, “But no, you don’t look the type — too dainty.”

Dainty? I can’t believe someone used that word in relation to me. What a lark.

When Lulu Lemon came to “our” part of College Avenue we were all a bit sniffy about it in my family. “It’s all going to pot” we bleated — the old soda fountain and hardware store are closing down and being replaced by useless home accessories and gift shops. All this gentrification was bringing the neighborhood down.

But, once I actually went there, I decided I (secretly) like Lulu Lemon (founded in Kitsilano, Vancouver, “one of the healthiest places in the world” apparently). It provides a thoroughly pleasant retail experience. The interior is tasteful with nice wooden fixtures and floors and well-arranged, fashionable but not flashy clothing. (The same cannot be said for the exterior whose loud presence in a nicely preserved Victorian corner building does clash with its surroundings.) They give you natty reusable totes to take away your goodies in.

And, of course, the best part is that as you buy another soft and cuddly sweatshirt or deep V organic tank, you can kid yourself that you’re one step further to fitness nirvana.

I’ve been feeling a little nostalgic for London recently. Not for any particular part of it, but rather the familiarity of even the most mundane aspects — a streetscape or a shop I patronized regularly.

So it’s good to hear that people who should know have decided that Berkeley is one of the “25 amazing places in the world that everyone should see”.

The founders of the Lonely Planet travel guides, Tony and Maureen Wheeler, who recently sold a majority of their company to the BBC, put it this way:

“Bezerkeley” has been described as “the only city in America with its own foreign policy” and we lived there for a year in the mid 80s. It’s only a short drive across the Oakland Bay Bridge from San Francisco (or a quick ride on the BART, San Francisco’s high tech tube system), but it’s another world. This is a city which nearly took its police force off the roads because the city council couldn’t find petrol they could buy with a clear conscience.

With a university where, so the urban legend goes, there are parking spaces reserved for Nobel Prize winners. Furthermore you can combine protest with stylish cuisine; Alice Waters’ Chez Panisse is consistently cited as one of the best restaurants in the US.

Apart from questioning whether BART is really that “high tech”, I agree with their summation. And given that others on the list include Lizard Island, Australia, Kathmandu, Nepal and Okavango Delta, Botswana, Berkeley should be holding its head up high. But I would wager the Wheelers would notice some changes since they lived here 20 years ago.

I feel so special.

In the past few weeks I have been receiving personal emails from Hillary Clinton, Bill Clinton and, just yesterday, John Grisham.

I must be the chosen one.

In a missive entitled “you, me a TV and a bowl of chips” (he’s so mischievous!) Bill wants to know if I would like to “share the excitement” with him of watching his wife in a televised debate. He tells me he gets “all fired up” when he sees his spouse debating the issues that matter to “our” country. So why don’t I join him in front of a big TV with a big bowl of chips, watch the debate, and talk about the race?

John Grisham says he’ll also be there, and — get this — he’s heard I might be be joining them. He’s a Clinton fan because “Hillary once told [him] that she reads [his] novels for relaxation”.

In another message, Bill asks “Having fun yet?” and says he hopes I enjoyed the Sopranos spoof he and Hillary shot for the campaign (and my downloading of which I realize is responsible for all this “personal” attention I’m getting.)

Finally the presidential candidate herself has been in touch, several times. She is more to the point: come see me in Oakland, she urges, and send me money — lots of money.