A Fish in Water

After a long flight back from Taiwan, I am home. I arrived yesterday afternoon, and because I didn't sleep on the plane, was in a daze for most of the day. It's just too surreal to be living close to a big Daoist temple on a mountain south of Taipei one minute and then a few hours later find yourself in the progressive capital of the United States, where the buses run on hydrogen.

So, after four hours of sleep last night (believe me, I tried to get back to sleep after waking up at four in the morning, but I couldn't), I got up, dressed, got on my friend Jono's bike and rode to my old neighborhood.

It's autumn, the air is crisp and in my bones, I can feel the many autumns I've spent here. Climate itself can be like Proust's "madeleines", you know, you bite into a cookie you once ate a long time ago, and the memories start flowing.

It's quite a contrast to Taipei's heat and mugginess.

Walking around my old neighborhood on this cool autumn morning, I remember moving to Berkeley around this time of year (a long, long time ago!), I remember what it felt like to live in my old, beautiful apartment (I walk by it this morning and see the name of the person who lives in apartment 103, my old abode), I remember my community of friends way back when, walking with them on Shattuck Avenue. It's all more than I can communicate in words, but I think you understand.

A fish is back in the water.

At five this morning, I find a bakery (the famous Cheeseboard) in my old neighboorhood that has some benches in front. Even though it's not open yet, the lights are on and the bakers are bustling about. So, I open the book that my dear friend bought me before I left (A Fish the Smiled at Me, by Jimmie), and what else do I do but, of course, study Chinese!

A baker in an apron is pushing a cart of flour on the sidewalk and we start chatting. "You have enough light?" he asks as he smiles at me. "Yes, thanks." I say. I explain to him that I just got back from Asia and am jetlagged, and so am back in my old neighborhood, reminiscing.

"Want a muffin?" he asks. "They're just out of the oven," he says. "Bran, blueberry millet, and I can't remember the other one."

"I'd love a bran muffin," I reply. I've had many of them in my years here, and I might be about to have my own Proustian bakery experience.

So, he brings me my warm muffin, and I get to work on Jimmie's story. It is beautiful, about real love and letting go.

It feels like a few minutes have gone by, but I look at my watch, and it's almost six. That means I can go to my favorite cafe and get a cup of tea. It's on the next block. I pack up my book, and walk to Peet's Coffee and Tea, the original store on Walnut and Vine.

There, I get (what else?) and pot of Tie Guan Yin tea. "I'll give you a big mug in case you need room for cream and sugar," the dian yuan/woman at the register says.

I smile ("cream and sugar?") and say thank you.

I sit down at a table, pour myself a cup of tea (who knows, maybe it's from Maokong!), and get back to work on my story of the man and his fish.

I finish the story, feeling inspired (and happy to learn some new Chinese). The sun is starting to come up, and I need to get breakfast.

I am back home.