I had forgotten how much of coming home is an act of mapping. Of saying, there’s the library where I learned to read, there’s the way I walked home, there’s where the arcade was, there’s the bar where Jenny’s dad went to drink. It’s fun, I’ll go on: there’s the rental car kiosk where Donna Ewing’s mom worked in after her divorce (Donna was an elementary school friend, though I French kissed her once at a party in eighth or ninth grade, her tongue was rough like a cat’s); there’s where Kelly Maroney beat me up for no apparent reason; there’s the convenience store where I bought cigarettes in high school – before that it was the service station where Hank’s dad worked when the airline went on strike, and now its empty; there’s the Baskin Robbins where that girl Lauren Hunter worked, though now it’s a window-tinting place.
I went to Berkeley today, too, and suddenly needed to go photograph this fountain; here’s where Tracy and I met for our first date, in 1988. She was late, I wound up following her for a few steps, she was wearing boots (with a skirt!) and talking to herself. I thought that was charming. We walked around Berkeley, traipsed through the JCPenney, and somehow wound up back at my house to drink root beer. The fountain remains, sturdy stone, it’ll probably last at least another century, protected between Wheeler Hall and Sather Gate, in the most hallowed stretch of the campus.Posted by dbrown at November 25, 2004 02:39 AM