Kaylee lives on a sailboat in the Berkeley Marina. She has two beds and so offers me a place to lay my head down. I’ve never slept on a sailboat before, so I am excited.
Kaylee and her sailboat
We talk for a few hours and I find her to be fascinating. She tells me of her close friends who are being held hostage by the Iranian government in a Tehran prison. It has already been a year of captivity for these three young Americans, who are being used as pawns in a political struggle between Iran and the United States.
Here is the latest news: http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2010/aug/3/alas-tehran/
The two boys are being held together in one cell and the girl is in isolation Kaylee told me. They are not being tortured and the girl can see the boys for one hour per day. One of the boys has been in a relationship with the girl for four years now. He recently made a cloth engagement ring from his shirt and proposed to her. They will be married once they are released.
They were taken by the Iranian police under the pretense that they had illegally crossed the border into Iran while hiking. However, they were adamant they had not, and witnesses that saw the nabbing concur. A worldwide movement has emerged to free them.
Kaylee and Tom are two of those truly wonderful souls I was fortunate to meet along my journey. I feel blessed to have spent time with them. Hopefully we will cross paths again someday.
Kaylee
As the sun is rising and peaking through the fog, we walk to downtown Berkeley. I head out on my own and come upon the local farmer’s market. I can’t really afford anything, but I do buy a $2 taquito.
I notice a stand with some delicious Indian food, one of my favorites. I watch the lady cook up some pancakes with utmost care. All of a sudden she looks up at me and says harshly:
-’What do you have in your hand?’
-’Nothing, why?’ I ask startled.
She looks down at her money change purse sitting on the table and looks through it. I feel violated.
-”Wow, you thought Istole from you! That’s funny,’ I say, trying to play it off.
She doesn’t look back at me. I know becoming angry would not have been the right response. Yet taking the casual one didn’t feel right either. Maybe I could have said simply ‘bless you’ with love. I wonder how she would have reacted.
I am sitting behind the food stands taking a breather wondering what my next move will be. A homeless man walks up to me:
-’I heard they’re serving food at People’s Park. I think they have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and some other stuff. I’m headed there right now,’ he says.
-’Wow cool, thanks,’ I respond. I love that homeless guys are so friendly with me. ‘I’ll probably see you there then.’
The walk to the park takes about 30 minutes. It’s a big open, grassy field, bordered by trees, with bathroom facilities decorated with colorful murals. I see groups of homeless people strewn about in small groups.
A family of Indian people is serving free food: rice and veggies, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, an energy bar and Capri Sun juice, a veritable feast. I grab a plate and sit down in the grass, eating contentedly next to a young guy named River.
-’I've been here a couple months now,’ River says. ‘Great place to be. You’d have to be really dumb to starve here. You can eat for free three times a day in various spots.
‘You can get free showers every other day in two spots. One even has private stalls. The other one you shower in a big room with a bunch of other guys. And you can go there, but showering in a room with a bunch of naked homeless guys is not good you know,’ he says smiling.
We talk of politics, travel, capitalism in this country… River strikes me as if he could be a college kid or a bartender, anything but homeless according to my preconceived notions. He’s intelligent, articulate and interesting.
-’Do you sleep in the park? I ask him.
-’Not allowed,’ he says. ‘Cops will find you at 2am, run your name and kick you out. I sleep on the sidewalk over there. When the trash truck comes through, I know it’s time to get up. No one messes with you though. There’s not much violence in Berkeley, not like in the City.’
-’So is that all your stuff?’ I ask pointing at his guitar and skateboard.
-’Yep, that’s all I need. I own the clothes on my back, this skateboard and guitar and that’s it. When I first hit the road, I was like you with a big backpack, then I realized I didn’t need all that stuff. Now I’m free,’ he says smiling.
-’Yeah I know, I have way too much stuff still,’ I say.
-’This society has been brainwashed into thinking it needs more and more stuff. It’s never enough. Latest this, latest that. And still people are unhappy. It’s a never-ending cycle,’ River says matter-of-factly.
I nod in agreement.
Another young guy comes sit down in our group. He opens a small briefcase and shows us the jewelry he makes. He finds precious stones in mines, stores, at conventions and creates channel sets that hold the stones in place. They are intricate, precise and unique. He wraps different types of wire around the stones, weaving them in and out. I sit and marvel at each one for a while.
I notice another guy show his drawings to a friend. They are discussing the colors, the intent, the designs. I feel like I am back in art school. I haven’t been around so many artists since then. It feels great to see so much vibrant, creative energy.
Someone walks over and lets us know everyone is going to kick out a guy relaxing in the far corner. Apparently he snitched out another guy to the cops. They both ended up in jail and now he’s back. A group of about 25 homeless guys and girls walk over to him and tell him to leave, that he is no longer welcome in the park.
Everyone mingles together in the park. There are ‘traveling kids,’ and homeless folks both black and white, male and female. I feel at ease and safe here. This is a peaceful, comfortable place. I don’t hear any talk or see any obvious signs of hard drugs. Some are smoking marijuana right there in public. No one seems to be nervous about it. It is common here.
One guy shares about his new business idea. He goes and buys booze and cigarettes for anyone who is too lazy to do it themselves. It costs them a dollar for each errand.
-’So it’s a trust thing then,’ I say looking over at him.
-’Oh yeah, I always bring back change and the receipt. I think it will work. I made $3.75 yesterday that way,’ he says proudly.
-’Yeah trust is everything. You don’t want to shit in your own nest,’ River adds, talking out loud.
I am fascinated by this world I am discovering. I hope I can remember every bit of conversation.
I have a friend of a friend who just arrived in San Francisco the day before. We have only chatted on Facebook, and haven’t met in person yet. I might go see him in the City.
-’How do I get to the City from here?’ I ask the guys.
-’Gotta take the bus or the Bart (subway),’ one says.
-’How much does the Bart costs?’ I ask.
-’$4,’ another answers.
I am broke and don’t want to pay out anymore money, if I can help it.
-’Wow that’s a lot,’ I say. ‘There’s no other way?’
-’Not really, unless you want to walk for miles. You can spange for it though,’ River says.
-’I don’t know,’ I say. Spanging in slang for asking people for money.
The guys smile at me. They can tell I’m new at this.
-’Yeah you could BEG,’ an old guy says. ‘You’ll see, it’s not so hard.’
The young jewelry artist leans over, hands me a dollar and says: ‘Here. To get you started,’ he says encouragingly.
-’Thanks,’ I say, half grateful and half guilty to be accepting money from a homeless person.
I don’t know about this. I don’t think I have the guts to beg for money.
On the way to the Bart subway station, I stop to listen to a young black, street kid with dreadlocks, strum away on his guitar on the corner, belting out soulful lyrics. I take out my camera, but he smiles and motions, no pictures. The people on the street don’t like their picture taken. They want to stay anonymous.
I walk on and see a group of about 10 young people sitting around singing a mellow punk song, a couple have guitars. Others come by and join in the singing. It seems like all the street kids know this song. What incredible camaraderie.
Further on, one guy has made an Aztec Indian mask by placing quarter and pennies on the sidewalk. It’s original, beautiful, yet simple.
I walk over to the nearest Bart station and notice another street kid. I sit by him and chat for a bit. A mother and four girl walk by holding hands.
-’Oh my god, it’s an estrogen ocean,’ he yells out. ‘Jeff Foxworthy, eat your heart out.’
The mother turns around and laughs. He turns to me and says: ‘I love kids.’ These guys never cease to amaze me.
-’Have you tried to get some money here?’ I ask him. ‘I don’t feel confident or cool enough to use the words ‘spange’ and much less ‘beg.’
-’Yeah, no luck though,’ he says.
-’Mind if I try?’ I say.
-’Help yourself.’
-’Cool, thanks,’ I respond.
I hesitate. I feel shy, and nervous. I ask a few people and don’t get a response.
I look at the guy after 15 minutes and ask:
-’Is it like hitchhiking where there are good and bad spots?’
-’Yeah, and this is one the best spots,’ he responds.
Damn, this is harder than I imagine. He leaves and I feel a bit more free without anyone watching me.
-’Excuse, can you spare a dollar?’ I ask a man walking by. He keeps looking straight and shakes his head no.
-’Excuse, can you spare a dollar?’ I ask a old woman. She looks at me like I’m crazy.
I feel extremely self-conscious. However I want to know what it feels like to be on the other side, to be the one asking for money.
I ask a few more people and get rejected. I’m not good at this. Not even one dollar. ‘Why should I even care what people think of me?’ I say to myself. When I hitchhike, I am also asking for something, a free ride. I can get turned down by hundreds of people in one day that way.
This feels a bit different though. Here the people are in my face. I have to interact directly with them. They are not in a car, whizzing by. They might be standing, waiting at the crosswalk, purposefully ignoring my question, my presence.
First off, I don’t want to give a reason to the people as to why I am asking them for money. I never believe homeless guys when they throw out random reasons. I’ll just ask, and if they ignore me or say no, then no big deal.
I remember what Laughing Dolphin said to me the other day in Mount Shasta: ‘Be in your joy. Ask specifically for what you want and the Universe will give it to you.’ It rings true. I feel somewhat ashamed to be asking for money right now and people respond to that. They feel uncomfortable when I ask.
I remember a girl I met in Mount Shasta. She was asking for money, but she had the most beautiful smile on her face the whole time. She was happy, she was putting out love and you could tell. People would stop and talk to her all the time. She asked for people’s names and remembered them if they walked by again.
I see a man dressed casually walk my way. I smile warmly, he smiles back.
-’Excuse, can you spare a dollar?’ I ask, with a grin on my face.
-’Sure,’ he says. I now have a grand total of two dollars, just like that.
I do understand why many homeless around here prefer to sell art or perform to make money. It’s more fun and perhaps more profitable. This is a good exercise for me though. I mean why should I care what people think? Why should I care how they react to me? It doesn’t have to affect my internal state. I can choose to just be happy and smile at them anyway.
With my new tactic of being confident, smiling at people, connecting with them that way, I make the $4.35 in a half hour. It definitely helps to not feel needy, ashamed or upset when I’m doing this. Then again, anything is easier with a good attitude.
My friend Jean Marc calls. He’s coming to pick me up in his rental car at People’s Park. I can use the money for the Bart to get to the outskirts of town tomorrow.
Close to the Park, I see a well-dressed black man selling newspapers to help out the homeless. I have seen this program in other towns.
I stop to say hi to him.
-’Hi, how are you?’ I ask him. I really want to know. I didn’t keep walking like most people do when they greet someone that way.
He stops to take a breath, looks at me and says:
-’You know, I’m really frustrated. It pains me that so few people care about the homeless. It really hurts me you know,’ he admits.
I can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice.
-’Yeah it must be hard, but you’re doing a good thing,’ I reply.
-’You know I was homeless for 20 years living in that park. I would die for that park.’
-’Yeah I can see all that love in your eyes. They sparkle you know.’
-’Really? Wow. Wait let me show you something.’
He takes me over to a spot to the side of the park.
-’Here,’ he says, ‘back in the early 70s, even before my time, the National Guard tried to close this park, make everyone go away. There was a huge protest and a young woman was killed. She gave her life for this park. There is a lot of history here, man. You should go over and read those murals.
People's park protest.
-’The people built this park. The community got together, used its own supplies and money, without any help from the government, and built it. Used to be a parking lot back in the day. Now look at it,’ he says.
-’Beautiful.’
-’My name’s Lester. It’s real good to meet you.’
-’I'm Greg.’
-’Here take a copy. Right off the top. It’s yours. Read it, there’s some good info in there,’ he says, handing me one of the newspapers he’s trying to sell. ‘You’re my friend now, Greg.’
I shake his hand warmly. I feel a genuine connection to this man I just met. I’ve just made a new friend.
-’Do you know a place I can sleep tonight that is safe? I ask him.
-’I'll tell you of a place I slept at for four years. It’s safe, no one will even know you’re there, but you have to promise to leave no trace you were there, and you have to be gone before 7am.’
-’No prob. That’s usually how I do it,’
I know this type of information is sacred to a homeless man. Revealing it to the wrong person and his sanctuary could be compromised.
-’Thank you sooo much,’ I tell Lester after he gives me directions to his hideaway.
We hug each other and I’m off again.
My friend, Jean Marc, shows up. I’ve never actually met him. He is a friend of a friend, but we connect right away. He is laid back, positive and intelligent. We’re sitting in the park talking french. An Ethiopian man hears us and sits down, intrigued to meet some foreigners.
I am glad Jean Marc gets a peek into my world. The people I come across simply fascinate me. I’ve always wanted my friends to be able to get a first hand experience of the road this way.
Jean Marc, I soon find out, is a character himself. That night, we meet some french friends of his in a fancy Thai restaurant. He treats me to a wonderful dinner. Afterwards we spend the rest of the evening in a trendy cocktail lounge aptly named ‘Amelie.’ It’s a bit cheesy, but hey french expats get a dose of their own culture any way they can.
During the day, I was hanging out with homeless people, having a blast, and now I am in an expensive lounge surrounded by cool, french folks. It feels great to be talking french. The conversation is animated. At one point, Luc slams his glass down a bit hard to emphasize a point, and the glass breaks.
The wine is flowing, countless shots are mixed in. It’s an average night for these guys apparently. I don’t drink, but I enjoy the company, while marveling at the contrast in my life. The only constant is me. I feel like the thread that connects it all together. It’s not an egocentric statement. It simply means I come across all kinds of people in my travels, sometimes on the same day. That’s the beauty of it.
By the end of the night, I am the only sober one fit to drive. So the hitchhiker turns into the driver. It’s my first time at the wheel in a long time. I actually forget to turn on the headlights… twice. Somehow the police doesn’t notice. No harm done. It’s a bright, big city.
Of the money I made spanging, I give one dollar to a homeless guy and spend the other three on a slice of pizza. I know one thing: I won’t look and treat homeless people the same way anymore.
Posted in California
Tags: adventure, alaska, backpacking, berkeley, camping, greg clarke, hitch-hiking, hitchhiker, people's park, photographer, san francisco, the hitching posts
