Oakland, My Sweet Home

Yesterday I took my older son with me to San Francisco to a salsa dance class. We took the train to the Mission district, got off and got our bearings, and started walking. We passed a street bible meeting conducted in Spanish by hoarse men in suits, a Latina midget hooker, a phalanx of jittery drug addicts of all colors and some muscular teenagers. Halfway down the block, the man in front of us was knocked to the ground as a bottle materialized out of nowhere and loudly exploded against his head. Time to cross the street! We got to the other side, looking back to see if the man was OK. He slowly wobbled up, rubbing his head, and limped away (he looked homeless).

We kept walking, and passed a toothless young pregnant woman begging. "Mommy, did you see that?" my son asked. In Spanish, I told him to save his comments until we got home. But then at the next block, a man took off from the gas station on his Harley Davidson wearing assless chaps and nothing underneath. "Oh my God, did you see that?" I laughed. "His booty is naked!" my son said. "Gross!" "Looks kind of uncomfortable," I said.

Once we arrived, we saw that the class is actually in a gorgeous renovated building with vast wood-floored studios, skylights and a comfortable sitting area for congregating.

When we got off the train later that afternoon at our own little barrio station, I couldn't help but say to my son, "Isn't Oakland beautiful?" Sometimes I tire of the street scene where I live, and my brother likes to make it seem so dirty and urban compared to his McMansion development in what used to be farm country. But yesterday, my lovely overgrown bungalow in a quiet neighborhood was downright idyllic.