I think that even the 40 days and 40 nights had a break. Like when did Noah dash out to get two of every kind? Had to be a break. So today was one of those. And this happily coincided with a 2 PM matinee of the San Francisco Symphony. So, who would stay home?
Well, Jane, for one. Not actually home, but down the Peninsula to Menlo Park where her three grandsons reside. If three rambunctious little boys, one year old, three years old, and five years old, can be said to reside anywhere. In any case she wasn’t here. So, after lots of phoning, I came up with a concert companion. Cary from my library book group. And off we went through the inexplicably clear San Francisco skies to the Davies Symphony Hall.
It occurred to me that seasonal affect disorder might be mine. What else could account for the downright ebullience I was experiencing rolling out of the BART (subway) elevator at the Civic Center, tilting my joystick forward and barreling across the curious open expanse of concrete and topiary that constitutes United Nations Plaza? Even in daylight, I feel exposed and vulnerable and vigilant during such an outing. The entire endeavor hinges on a smooth electro mechanical experience, vis-à-vis my wheelchair. And there is that other thing, my failing vision, vis-à-vis cataracts. But what the hell. Both Prokofiev and Tchaikovsky had problems of their own, but that didn’t stop 2000 people from turning up to hear their works this very afternoon.
The feeling of vulnerability is based on both physical and neuromuscular realities. I keep losing basic capacities, like getting in and out of bed when I want to. The current situation is marginal, by the way. But let’s not go there. Let’s go to Berkeley
That’s where I have to turn up on Monday morning because the Australian government says I have to. That’s right. You heard that correctly. Under current rules, when the Queen Mary 2 docks at (variously) Darwin, Brisbane, Airlie Beach, a.k.a. Great Barrier Reef, and Sydney, I have to prove that I am a standup guy. And not a standup comic, by the way, which inwardly is the best I can manage in the face of current Australian Immigration Authority guidelines. Anyway, being an astonishing 76 years old, I have to go get a physical. The silliness of this is beyond comprehension. I just had a physical. A very competent doctor at Kaiser looked me over, and, for once, didn’t even order blood tests. Congratulations, he said, without an ounce of irony.
Messrs. Aussie Immigration are, in other words, subjecting me to the sort of thing that we in the USA subject everyone else to. My special “medical visa” requires that I go to see a “panel physician” and, you guessed it, that physician is in Berkeley. Oh, and did I mention that this medical visa costs almost $500, and that’s on top of the $150 standard visa I already have? It’s enough to make any person pull out what’s left of their hair.
This particular entity, Berkeley Family Practice, handles such visa matters for all of Northern California. To put this in perspective, if you live in, say, Redding, you drive 3 ½ hours south. Eureka? Five or six hours south. So I really shouldn’t complain, should I?
This requirement does remind me that I am an old guy. No, it doesn’t seem that way when I am barreling under battery power through downtown San Francisco to a symphony concert. But that’s simply not realistic. 76 is 76.
And there’s another thing. The Fool on the Hill sees more than the sun going down, because the eyes in his head see the rain rolling off the slopes of Twin Peaks. Which is a lovely thing. Even in San Francisco, others cannot say as much. The Mission District, a particular favorite of mine, has a lower area around 14th St. that was inundated just last week. The subway system has been slowed by wet tracks, believe it, or not. And more credible, at times it has been brought to a standstill by trees blown over. Which makes me very grateful for Thomas Edison, and all he has wrought. Lots of people in this flooded state have lost electricity.
And I have Jane. Poppy, the dog, too. And when all this ends, there won’t be wildfires. At least not for a while.
And interestingly, the current atmospheric rivers, a term that no longer needs to be put in quotes, were predicted. Throughout the autumn, pundits recommended battening down the hatches. I gave these warnings little mind. Look at what happened to me. Not much. But there’s been a lot to watch. Videos of flooding in Santa Barbara, where we were supposed to go last week. And there’s more tomorrow. At least there is a tomorrow, which at 76, should not be taken for granted.