Wanderer of ages.

There was a time when I dragged my car across the country, life in back pocket, convinced the next great thing lay under one of those rocks out there.

My adventures took me far and wide, hemmed in only by this country's borders and the limits of my own imagination.

At the ripe old age of twenty-two, I ended up in Berkeley, CA, home of everything both weird and ridiculously normal at the same time. Buddhism, yoga, homeless people having acid flashbacks in the now-decrepit and dangerous People's Park, the crown jewels of San Francisco Bay Area wealth glittering with haunting illusion high in the Berkeley hills. The Ashby Flea Market, a hodge-podge of booths with knick-knacks for sale, set up every weekend at the local BART (or subway) station.

I looked forward to Sundays, when I'd get off work from my collectivist restaurant job in time to enjoy a delicious cassava pone sweet treat in the just setting sun.

This article appears in Dec 2-8, 2000.