Five Moments.

Here are five isolated moments I can't figure out how to work into a proper blog post. Think of them as soundbites. 

1)      I climb a tree to watch the Chinese New Year Parade

This was a while back now, admittedly, but the Chinese New Year parade in San Francisco is tipped as being one of the top ten parade events in the world. I went up to town with the Laconic Australian and the Irish Aristocrat . Stepping out of the Montgomery Street BART station the first thing I heard was a sharp rat-tat-tat, and, in a moment of extreme paranoia, thought it was machine gun fire. I hit the floor, dragging the boys with me, but they were less than impressed with my life-saving ability, and only pointed out the sight of firecrackers hitting the tarmac. 

The volume of people lining the streets was extraordinary, and there was no way of seeing anything happening on the street. We wandered along helplessly until the Irish Aristocrat had the genius idea of climbing a tree: we found one sturdy enough to support the three of us, and soon we were drawing almost as much attention as the dragons. The parade was spectacular, despite the relentless advertising, which often dwarfed the performances (since when was the Coca-Cola Polar Bear a fundamental aspect of Chinese tradition and culture?). We stayed in the tree for two and a half hours, before limping back to Berkeley on dead legs.

2)      I see a giant

Co-op parties carry a very different vibe to the Frats. They are less predatory, but druggier and rather more naked affairs. The Laconic Australian potato-sacked me to a ‘Willy Wonka’ night at the effete Oscar Wilde co-op, where I stood in the middle of a packed dance floor and watched lithe boys in nothing but their underwear turning themselves upside down on the two poles flanking the DJ decks and wave their pointed toes at the ground. I’d been standing on the balcony with a complete stranger who was smoking a large pipe and talking to me about the theatrical production of Billy Elliot. Drying our tears half an hour later we parted ways, and when I re-entered the room, through the haze of dancers and, dwarfing everyone else in the place by at least a foot, I saw A Giant.

I don’t mean a ‘really really tall guy’, I mean a giant. To my alcohol-fuddled brain he was about ten feet tall, and broader than feasibly possible: bizarrely dressed in an open waistcoat, no shirt, and cut-off trousers. It’s true that America breeds a strange species of superhuman who play football at college, but this guy was truly extraordinary. . Or perhaps it was just that I was up close.  I spent the rest of the night trying to dance as close to him as I could without looking a little bit weird- just so I could feel what it was like to be a child again; but he must have left the party at the moment everyone got distracted by the completely naked boy cavorting behind the DJ decks, because I couldn't find him again all night. I've been keeping an eye out for him on campus ever since, but no luck yet. 

 

    3)      I get hired by US News and World Report

       My first piece: tips on making the transition to an American College workload, can be found here.  I am very, very lucky. 

    

     4)      I attend an evening of Japanese Rope Bondage

I was writing an article about Bay Area erotica for my journalism class, and had one of my interviewees- a fine artist who specializes in kink and bondage- invite me along to her gallery opening at the Wicked Grounds cafe. The models from her paintings would be there, and were going to give demonstrations. Why not, I thought. When in San Francisco...

The portly and slightly balding model chewed gum and complained about the bad traffic as his colleague tied his arms behind his back, wound him in some heavily knotted rope until he was trussed like a raw turkey, and winched him up until he was suspended  from a hook in the ceiling, about a foot off the ground. He revolved on a slow axis, still chewing his gum, and revealed that his leather thong was, in fact, backless. 

“My goodness” the Laconic Australian said, through a mouthful of strawberry waffle.

5)      I make it to Spring Break. 

Where I'll be if anyone needs me this week. Ta-ta. 

     Berkeley has been evacuated as thousands of students return home or go storming off on road trips, wreaking havoc across the state of California and beyond. I've stayed behind to save money, and to look after the Irish Aristocrat, who worked himself into early-onset pneumonia and got ordered to take it easy. 

     I rather like a quiet Berkeley. The seventh floor is so deserted I can walk around in my underwear and no-one comments. The campus carries the air of a fatigued parent after all the kids have finally left home; a weary peace has  descended on the buildings as everyone regroups for the last big push through the next five weeks. I  have seven days to recharge, go swimming, and sleep. Lots of sleep. It's hard to  believe there are only five weeks of class left. Where has the year gone?