The Long and Winding Road

 Doesn’t that picture make me look crazy?  I mean, who tows a sedan behind a ten-foot U-Haul?  No one.  Except for me.  Because I’m insane. 

But for the past three years I’ve seriously considered moving to the Bay Area from Southern California, and finally, I couldn’t sit on my dream any longer.  So many people asked me why I was moving.  After all, I’m close with my family, and we all live in LA.  I have a wonderful job, and I work with great people.  It’s hard for public school teachers to find a good gig, so when a teacher lands a plumb position at a stellar school, educators white knuckle precious tenure.  Finally, a move to the Bay meant leaving a supportive network of friends who had sustained me through the deaths of my parents, along with the lesser griefs of life.

Despite all the reasons to stay in SoCal, the Bay haunted me.  I frequently returned for vacations, and one summer, I even taught at an elite school for five weeks.  Finally I could no longer ignore my desires; in other words, the dream could no longer be deferred.  I managed to secure a new teaching position, and I rented a U-Haul truck with a camel’s head blazoned on the side panel.  (Aside: This design choice both pleased and horrified my Egyptian family.)

So, on an unseasonably cool Saturday in July, I found myself charging up the Grapevine at a record thirty miles an hour, praying that my truck wouldn’t overheat or that my sedan wouldn’t slip off the hitch and barrel into oncoming traffic.  In the truck cabin was my sidekick Susan, who took pity on my trek and volunteered to accompany me through the wilderness to the Promised Land.

At the time of our adventure, Susan’s father, who also lives in the Bay, was undergoing surgery to receive a pacemaker.  Our conversations on Highway 5 were punctuated by frequent phone calls to the hospital.  In between medical updates, we dreamed about my future, discussed Susan’s screenplay, and psychoanalyzed Susan's love life.

As the desert flashed past our windows, we frequently saw cars sidelined on the road.  Each time we saw a stalled car I clenched my steering wheel more tightly and muttered a frantic, unintelligible prayer.

Our mantra throughout the trip was, “We’re not in a hurry,” but I secretly felt the pressure of time.  I had arranged for two college friends to help me unload the truck, and I didn’t want to keep them waiting.

About halfway through the journey, Susan’s father received his pacemaker, and she cheerfully spoke to her father.  Since Susan’s father is hard of hearing, Susan yelled her medical advice through the mobile mouthpiece: 

            “HOW ARE YOU FEELING?”

            “YOU SHOULD NOT EAT THAT FOOD.  IT’S TOO GREASY!”

Three hours after the phone call, we pulled into U-Haul facility.  One customer asked me if I was moving to the Silicon Valley.

“Yup!” I happily replied.

“Are you working at Google?” he asked.

“No, I’m a teacher.”

The U-Haul employee, who overheard our conversation, laughed.  As he inspected my truck he turned to me: “The guy in LA who hitched your car to the truck didn’t do it right.”

Here’s to new beginnings…

These Boots Were Made for Walking...

 **Note: This entry was written in February, 2010; I just never posted it!**

In their efforts to improve our health, my employers recently implemented a walking program. The premise is simple: participants join teams, and each team member receives a pedometer. The team that walks the most steps wins.

While I was supportive of the cause, I am by nature non-competitive. Maybe I’m a big wuss, but I like to think that we’re all winners. Or maybe I just watched too much Sesame Street as a kid.

During one lunch one day, Sandy casually walked by and asked if I wanted to join her team. Joining a team of middle-aged women doesn’t necessary scream COMPETITIVE, so I shrugged and said, “Sure, why not!”

And just like that, I had been jumped into a gang.

Sandy, my team captain, and formerly sweet lady, had designs on first place. She was bound and determined to win. At first I didn’t recognize her peculiar brand of crazy, but I slowly recognized the signs.

First, Sandy (hereafter Psycho Sandy) wanted us to purchase team shirts. Unfortunately, my size wasn’t available, so I was given a triple XL. When I put it on, it reached my knees. As I looked in the mirror, I thought that my shirt would be appropriate for a demonstration on the school dress code. (Girls, note that your hems should just be at knee length.) However, when other colleagues saw my untucked t-shirt, they called me Gangsta Afram. Apparently, my flowing t-shirt screamed Thug Life!

Second, Psycho Sandy wanted me to e-mail her my steps. Daily. When I asked if I could submit my steps on a weekly basis, she quickly shot that idea down. “No. I need your data every day.” Not only does our gang have terrible fashion sense, but we’re disciplined. And anal-retentive.

Initially, Psycho Sandy doesn’t appear diabolical; in fact, she’s more of a soccer mom. And that’s part of her insidious strategy: she’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Her peppy e-mails are rife with smiley faces and exclamation points. I didn’t realize this when I was “jumped” into the group, but we are the Gang of Cuteness. Our goal is to walk all over the enemy, smiling along the way.

More recently, others gang members have started to question our leader. One of our members, for example, fell ill. Since she wasn’t able to walk, Psycho Sandy quickly cut her from the group. Apparently, she wasn’t pulling her weight.

Since I was curious about life on The Outside, I talked to my former gang member.

Me: “I heard you got cut.”

Disgruntled Former Walking Gang Member: “This is bullshit. This is a fucking walking group. It’s supposed to be fun.”

Me: “I’m sorry.”

Disgruntled Former Walking Gang Member: “I’ve spent so much money on this thing. First, I bought that butt-ugly t-shirt, and then I purchased a new pedometer. At least I’m now free.”

Me: “Take me with you.”

Not everyone gets cut from our gang, though. Sometimes we’re just sharply reprimanded. Recently, Psycho Sandy scolding a team member for not having enough steps. Several staff heard my team member plaintively cry, “I’m sorry, but I’m trying the best I can!”

 * * *

I recently had a conversation with my mother when I expressed my regret over Sandy’s fascist tendencies. Mom was unsympathetic. “Mark, let this be a lesson. You should have researched your team better.”

I can’t believe my mother. Since when do people need to conduct a background check on team captains for walking groups? If this is true, society has reached a new low.

If I ever make it out of this gang, I will enter public service, speaking to children about the dangers of gangs and how they destroy a person’s life.

Until then, I’m gonna keep on walking. Until my feet bleed.

The Bay vs. LA

I can hardly believe that my stint in the Bay is over! No sooner did I arrive, I found myself leaving! Over the course of six weeks, I had an awesome time of urban exploration and hanging out with friends.

Throughout the summer, people asked me a common question: What’s the difference between the Bay and LA? Ah, what a loaded topic! Since it’s hard to make one general statement, I’ll divide my response into the following categories:

Food – I had some pretty phenomenal meals over the summer. The Bay, along with Napa and Sonoma, is known for leading the country in organic, sustainable, and locally grown produce. And believe me, I could taste the difference. This movement has also led to the growth of a pretentious population subset: the foodie.

Along with foodies comes snobbery. On one occasion, I went to a hipster bakery in Oakland’s Temescal neighborhood. My GPS directed me to the correct intersection, but once I parked, I couldn’t find the store. There was no sign, street number, or any indication of “bakery”. I later found the shop, but only after I tentatively stuck my head in the door and asked a clerk. The clerk, while polite, expressed surprise that I had never been to their bakery before. I proved further appalling when she learned that I’D NEVER SAMPLED THEIR TREATS, EITHER! Eventually, I won her over with my immeasurable charms, and she provided me with two additional treats – for free. Still, I had the distinct impression that if I didn’t know where the shop was, then I didn’t belong!

Racial and Ethnic Diversity – LA wins this category, hands down. Even though I sublet on the Peninsula, I trekked to San Francisco and the East Bay fairly often. All the time, I kept wondering, “Where are the Latinos hiding?” In some communities, I also found myself wondering, “Heck, are my Asians?”

The other day, when I visited my ninety-six year old grandmother, she specifically asked me if the Bay was diverse, and I shared my observations. “That’s too bad,” she replied. “When I go to the Yorba Linda supermarket with your mother, I only see white people.” Grandma, I love you – at ninety-six, you are more thoughtful and observant than so many others I know!

Friendliness – One afternoon, I met a former roommate and his wife for boba. As we were comparing the Bay to LA, his wife noted, “Don’t you love how people here are friendlier?” And she was right.

I especially noticed this courtesy on the road. Yes, people rushed from place to place, but cars didn’t speed as often, and I when I merged into a lane, drivers would always grant me entry. If anyone’s ever been on the 405 in rush hour, they’ll appreciate my experience EVEN MORE!

Materialism – This is definitely a tie. Both the Bay and LA are materialistic, but the focus on money takes different forms. With the Peninsula, for example, friends were always talking about the up-and-coming start-up that was courting venture capitalists and preparing for its impending IPO. In addition, folks frequently boasted about their high-tech contacts at Google/Apple/Facebook.

LA’s materialism is about the ostentatious display of money. For women, it’s about carrying a designer handbag or wearing expensive sunglasses. For men, it’s about driving an expensive car. Yes, I observed these tendencies on the Peninsula, but Los Angeles is all about flaunting wealth.

Appearance – Yes, it’s a no-brainer, LA has more attractive residents. This is, after all, the center of the entertainment industry, and we’ve all been duly influenced. The Peninsula, by contrast, is mainly comprised of engineers and computer programmers, who don’t stereotypically go for plastic surgery or personal trainers.

That said, I did not notice any obese Bay Area residents, while I DO see overweight Angelenos. In general, the Silicon Valley appeared fit and in-shape. Countless uniformed cyclists rode down my street on a daily basis, and on the weekends, their numbers only increased. When I mentioned this to an SF biker, he wryly noted, “Well, it’s because LA’s air quality is so bad!” Thanks a lot, buddy.

* * *

Despite all the categories I’ve mentioned, the best contrast between the Bay and LA is captured in this anecdote:

This morning, I went to Ralphs in South Pasadena. I only had to pick-up one item, and I was at the check-out line within a few minutes. After greeting the clerk, she boldly asked me: “Are you an actor?”

And that, Gentle Readers, is the most significant contrast between the Bay and LA: obsession with celebrity!

For a split second, I thought of telling her that the pilot was going well, but I smiled and said “Sorry, I don’t act. But I do want to buy these paper napkins!”

* * *

Thanks to everyone for reading! It’s been fun to read your comments and receive your phone calls and e-mails. ‘Til next summer, my friends…

Don't Stop Believin'

Over the past two years, the band Journey has been stalking me. Or, to be more specific, their rock anthem “Don’t Stop Believin’” has stalked me.

It started when my senior students voted to make “Don’t Stop Believin’” their class song. I figured that a ballad about a tawdry one night stand wasn’t necessarily the best selection to characterize high school, but everyone sang the chorus with such gusto, that I bit my tongue.

Later, my friend Susi noted that TV shows like Glee had resurrected the popularity of “Don’t Stop Believin’”.

“Oh, no!” I said. “Don’t kids know what the song’s about?!”

“You’re such an English teacher!” she laughed.

Yes, I am, Susi. Yes, I am.

My final battle with Journey came last week at Super-Duper.

Let me explain: In order to teach the principles of literary analysis, I designed a song analysis project. The assignment requires students to research their favorite song and present its meaning to the class. Everyone takes a turn, and it’s actually a lot of fun. Students unearth background information about the artist, provide the class with copies of the lyrics, and then we listen to the song. Later, the student presenter leads the class in discussion. For many students, it’s their favorite part of the course, and I’ve loved both the depth of discussion and the diversity of music.

You all know where this is going.

SOMEONE BROUGHT IN “DON’T STOP BELIEVIN’”.

When Tom (not his real name) started distributing the handouts, my eye landed on the title of the song. “Oh, Lord…” I muttered.

As students received their copy of the lyrics, a murmur of excitement buzzed across the room. “Oh, I LOVE this song!” a girl squealed. And from another: “This is my FAVORITE!”

Perhaps the best comment, however, came from Super-Duper’s all-star football player: “I say we all sing this song TOGETHER!” Everyone eagerly agreed, and I nearly died as thirty students in remedial English sang a rock ballad about anonymous sex: “A singer in a smoky room/ The smell of wine and cheap perfume/ For a smile they can share the night…”

Before long, however, the kids’ enthusiasm won me over, and after the first verse, I JOINED RIGHT IN.

“Look, Afram’s singing, too!”

Somehow, my participation encouraged them to sing even louder, and the chorus was practically deafening.

“Close the door!” I yelled. “I don’t want to disturb the other classes!”

In the midst of the earnest head-wagging and fist-pumping, someone shut the door.

Who says school has to be dull?

Back to Basics #3

Since arriving North, I’ve had some great runs. My sublet is literally steps away from the Stevens Creek Trail, which has some beautifully maintained paths. I’ve also ventured farther to San Antonio Park in Los Altos.

San Antonio is one of the larger nature preserves on the Peninsula, and in my opinion, one of the most beautiful. The first time I arrived, I literally believed I was in a promotional commercial for California. The park’s sylvan setting, with its dried golden grass and oak-studded hills, is perfect. And after every bend in the trail, I wanted to take a picture.

Not only did the scenery move me, but the diversity of animals impressed me, too. On my first run, I saw hawks, quail, rabbits, deer, and squirrels. The animals appeared quite used to visitors, and the fauna never flinched when I jogged by. At one point a bluebird even flew three feet in front of me.

After the bluebird incident, I literally asked myself “Where am I?” Everything appeared so idyllic that I wondered if I were in heaven. If I wasn’t in heaven, then I was in some sort of Disney feature, like Snow White. Maybe Disney can make a movie about me. We’ll call it Half White, and I’ll sing to woodland creatures as I jog.

I’m not sure I’m Disney appropriate, though. I love to blast my iPod on the trails, and my musical library isn’t exactly scrubbed and wholesome. I’ve decided to chronicle today’s run based upon my iPod’s shuffle feature. Please note that I’m just presenting highlights, and if a song doesn’t immediately move me, I skip it. (Today, for example, the only two Sarah MacLachlan songs I own popped up. FYI, Sarah MacLachlan is NOT music to run by. I only listen to her when I’m deeply depressed, longing for a time when I was young, innocent, and beautiful. Or at least young and innocent.)

Here are some highlights:

“TiK ToK” by Ke$ha – What a great beat, and what a catchy song! Of course, I fully admit that Ke$ha is ridiculous, and her lyrics are sloppy. I find it hard to believe, for example, that she will “kick [a guy] to the curb unless he looks like Mick Jagger.” Really? If Mick Jagger is her ideal, then perhaps she needs to aim a bit…higher.

“Let ‘Em In” by Billy Paul – After Ke$ha’s hedonism, Billy Paul’s ‘70s social commentary filled my headphones. Ironically, a high school track team left me in their wake, and I found myself wishing that I could keep up with them! Let ME in, guys!

“You Rock My World” by Michael Jackson – At this point, I passed Dear Hollow, a small farm operated by the City of Mountain View. The farm supports a surprising number of goats. Contrary to MJ’s tune, the goats did NOT rock my world, but the babies were pretty darn cute.

“Step Into Christmas” by Elton John – I love that even Christmas music pops up in my random shuffle! How completely fun and unexpected!

“Empire State of Mind” by Jay-Z and Alicia Keys – One of my favorite songs – ever. Last summer, my brother and I were obsessed with this song, and we’d randomly sing key verses to each other. This time, when the song played, I said a little prayer for Andrew.

“Show Me What I’m Looking For” by Carolina Liar – The lyrics are so heartbreaking and poignant: “Save me/ I’m lost/ Oh Lord, I’ve been looking for you.” I have no idea what these guys are looking for, but I hope they find it. (And pass that memo to U2!)

“Whatcha See is Whatcha Get” by the Dramatics – I especially love this line: “Baby, I’m for real/ I’m as real as real can get.” At this point, my shirt was sopping, my breathing was heavy and rhythmic, and I was feeling pretty real!

“Misery” by Maroon 5 – When Maroon 5 came on, I was definitely enjoying the runner’s high. “Misery” has such a great, upbeat tempo, that even though the lyrics chronicle an obsessive heartbreak, I was FEELIN’ this song on Rogue Valley Trail.

“Girls on the Dance Floor” by Far East Movement – I’m embarrassed to admit I even own this song. The lyrics are hilarious. At this point, however, I realized that I had passed the high school track team, and I felt a sweet sense of victory. Here’s to old guys everywhere!

“Stronger” by Kanye West – Say what you will about Kanye, but he’s brilliant. Anyone who can sing about Nietzsche, Klondike Bars, and unrequited love gets my vote. A great cool-down song.

Back to Basics #2

Today I ventured to the land of my alma mater, Berkeley. As the day progressed, I joined some friends for lunch in the hills of Tilden Park. Despite my love of Tilden, I can never figure out how to get there. The roads leading to the park are narrow and circuitous, and even though I’ve visited Tilden a million times, I’m always surprised when I find the entrance. This is not a criticism of the park’s general location; rather, this is a reflection of my absentmindedness and complete lack of directional sense.

Lunch was an enjoyable affair until my friend’s three year-old declared that I am NOT his favorite adult. Thank you, Johnny. Now I’ve experienced rejection on so many fronts that I can now add Alienation from Toddlers to the list.

The criticisms continued on the Berkeley campus.

As I passed the picturesque Wheeler Hall, I asked three girls to take my photograph. The girls were very conscientious, and in broken English they inquired about the appropriate angle at which to hold the camera, as well as the amount of sky I desired above the roofline. I was impressed; clearly, English was not their first language, yet they asked many thoughtful questions about taking a nice picture. When people ask me for a photograph, they’re just lucky if I remember to remove the lens cover.

Later, as I wandered the campus, I saw the girls again. This time, however, the trio quickened their pace toward me. The leader, hereafter named Spinach – she had some salad in between her teeth – stopped short an inch from my face. As I stared at the glistening remainder of a salad, she boldly stated, “You do not speak English like a native!”

“Yes, that’s right!” said Glasses, her earnest friend. “You do not speak English like the other Americans!”

Meanwhile, Backpack remained in the distance, glowering. She scared me the most. With Spinach and Glasses, I knew where I stood. Backpack, however, was an unknown quantity. Who knew what treacherous thoughts she was thinking!

Ever the coward, I used humor to deflect the situation. “Well,” I laughed, “I was born here!”

Spinach and Glasses exchanged glances of disbelief while Backpack continued to stare.

In the midst of our icy standoff, I noted the irony of the situation: the Language Police was accosting me at the institution that had granted me a degree in ENGLISH LIT!

After a few more idiotic assurances – “Yes, I was born here,” and “Yes, I graduated from here,” – I extricated myself from the girls. As I left campus I wondered if I had misinterpreted their comments. Perhaps I had overreacted? What if they meant it as a compliment? Maybe they mistook my speech for that of William Shakespeare! Or possibly I mimic the sophisticated stylings of Snoop Doggy Dogg!

After all, even three year-olds have stuff to say about me!

Back to Basics #1

I'm writing a rather unconventional travel blog in that I've failed to mention much, if any, of the stuff I'm DOING. While no one’s expressed complaint, I do feel that a mid-blog correction is necessary, and I hereby dedicate the next THREE – count ‘em, 3 – entries to my travel ventures. I cannot promise that these excursions will be dramatic, but they will be uniquely Mark.

At the encouragement of my friend, Albert, I decided to head into San Francisco and bike across the Golden Gate Bridge. Once upon a time, when I was a young, virile man, I cycled religiously. I’d like to attribute this activity to my deep love for the sport, but this was primarily due to my lack of a motor vehicle. However, after I obtained said vehicle, I continued to ride the trails. Especially if they were flat, paved, and easy to access. I admit it: I was a fair weather cyclist.

But I didn’t find biking loathsome. If nothing else, it was a good workout! (Did I mention that I’m exceedingly practical?) For example, other sports, like basketball, only provide a workout. Cycling, however, provides a workout AND moves the rider from Point A to Point B!

Anyway, after a little research, I found a bike shop in North Beach, San Francisco’s Little Italy. The location was smaller and slightly farther from the other bicycle rentals, but it was CHEAPER! (Did I also mention that I love a bargain?) Even though I saved five dollars on the rental, I failed to consider where I would park my car. Since I couldn’t park on the side streets for more than two hours, I ended up paying ten dollars for admission to a parking lot. So much for my brilliant scheming…

The staff at Bike ‘N Roll were friendly and super-helpful. My only complaint, however, is with the name of their shop. The only time I connect “biking” with “rolling” is WHEN I ROLL OFF MY BIKE AND FALL ON MY FACE. And that, Dear Reader, is NOT a pleasant association. (I would make an amazing business consultant.)

Regardless of their questionable business name, Bike ‘N Roll quickly allayed my fears of biking eight miles, and I was off. No sooner had I hopped on my bike, I was sold on the experience. San Francisco is a beautiful city, and biking to Sausalito allowed me to pass numerous landmarks. En route, I passed the Palace of Fine Arts, Fisherman’s Wharf, Crissy Field, and the Presidio. My practical, aka cheapskate, side was pleased that the bike tour provided me with so much “bang for my buck.”

I wish I could brag about my athleticism and skills as an experienced cyclist, but the ride is mostly flat and very easy. There were a few inclines, but they were mercifully brief.

When I reached the entrance to the Golden Gate, I couldn’t pass my bike through the throngs of tourists, so I actually walked my bike for a third of the bridge length. Once the crowds thinned, I cycled the remainder of the trip.

Sausalito was, in a word, idyllic. One of the Bike ‘N Roll employees said it was nice, but a bit “yuppie.” I did not mention that I was raised in Orange County, and “yuppie” is my middle name. And, having visited Sausalito several times, I would say that it’s infinitely more charming than any OC subdivision.