Bezerkley

If there were a QS world ranking system for the most “crazy, activity-laden, hyperactive, happening university,” I’d definitely put my buckers on UC Berkeley taking top honours. Since moving into Berkeley, it’s been a perpetual state of go-go-go. There’s always someone to meet up with, always an activity (or several million) on, and every night’s a party. In some ways, Berkeley seems to be stuck in a time warp- particularly when it comes to the infamous prolific ganjaweed. When it comes to marijuana this place is still stuck in the 60s/70s and the cops seem to turn a complete blind eye. Our neighbours at Oakland University have even been coined ‘Oaksterdam’. Protesting is considered obligatory- every day it seems some students begin a mini revolution just for shits and giggles, with the justification that is ‘tradition’. Here, if you don’t have enough credits/points you can even make up points by taking ‘deCal’ classes run by students. 200 options, some on the menu include:

We are who we eat: Living in an undead world..with ZOMBIES!!

James Bond: Politics, Pop Culture, Hero

Star Wars Galaxy

The Life & Legacy of Tupac Amaru Shakur

Now that's a quality education.

Everything constructed at Berkeley has been built with grandeur and opulence in mind. The architecture style is ‘Modern Ancient Romanic’- slightly oxymoronic I know, but that’s the best way I can describe it. The main Library- Doe Library- is gargantuan, and is apparently is the 4^th largest academic library in the US. It rivals the Victorian State Library in terms of bookage volume and impressiveness. And, as all my Melbournite friends know, the State Library is no walkover. The Valley Life Sciences building bears a striking resemblance to the Parthenon, and has ‘Zoology,’ ‘Psychology’ inscribed across its tiers in enormous letters. The new sports stadium currently being erected is a fusion of a mini ‘G and the Colosseum. All the buildings are awesome, however the ironically enough, the ugliest building of the lot is the Art Gallery. Its a geometric grey monstrosity that the Soviets would have been proud of. It's the sort of ugliness that one would find at Monash Uni, and it's definately an eyesore at Berkeley. Needless to say, the campus massive, about 3 times the size of Monash, 4 times the size of Melbourne Uni. Classes on the other side of campus require a campus shuttle, or otherwise legging it like-a-mad-bitch up some intense hills. A segue would definitely be handy right now.

I’ve moved into International House, yet another impressive building with many shoebox rooms that house about 600 students. I absolutely adore the place and the people in it. Most of them are foreign postgraduate students, visiting scholars or exchange students. There’s a ‘Great Hall’, Dining Hall, an auditorium, 8 floors of awesomeness- all a bit reminiscent of a modern Hogwarts only without the wands. Since coming here I’ve become well acquainted with Norwegians. I-House conversations would regularly start like this-

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“So, where are you from?”

“Norway.”

“Oh cool! What do you study?”

“Sociology.”

-REPEAT X 50.

The Norwegians have taken over with shear number power, no mean feat for a nation of only 4 million people. It is wonder that there are any Norwegians left in Norway itself, as it appears they have all moved to Berkeley. Even my roommate- Rita- is Norwegian. She is lovely and half and threatens to blind with her blond hair and blue eyes every morning.

There is also a fair Australian contingent that has gathered at Berkeley, and we’re doing our utmost to spread the Australian language and boganist culture. Kat (from Uni of Melb) has taken it upon herself to get the entire I-House saying ‘sweet as’ before she leaves. She may just kill herself if she fails. I have also come to the realisation that we are a very politically incorrect people, as using the term ‘gayyyyyyyyy’ to describe something that is crap is not as accepted here. For that reason, Ray (a Perth-ite also from Uni of Melb) and I have taken to explaining in great detail just what we mean when we say ‘That’s gayyyyyyy’. We’ve also taken to using the negative version of this term to describe things that are good. For example, in a message I wrote to Morten (a Norwegian), I taunted him about the amazing snow conditions at Tahoe, describing the situation as being: “definitely NOT gay”. Morty’s caught on well, and has diligently decided to be the first Norwegian indahouse to speak Australian, as opposed to British or American. Hence I feel my efforts at imperial expansion are taking root.

However being underage again is definitely something that is gay. I spent the first Thursday night at Berkeley searching desperately for venues that were 18+ as opposed to 21+. I finally found one, a place called Asheknaz- a brilliant World Music venue that just so happened to have a fully sick Brazilian-Afro-Funk band called Sambàda playing on Friday evening. The place was packed, the atmosphere electric. It was pretty much a mini Carnaval, in Berkeley. There was a group of Brazilians at the front leading a flash dance mob that eventually had the whole crowd moving in sync. I danced so much my feet nearly fell off. If course, the night wasn’t complete there was the obligatory mob high on ganja, and from what I could discern, they were attempting to do their best attempts at a tree-growing-interpretative-dance.

The weekend was punctuated by the Spring Retreat, over at Walker Ranch in Marin Country, which is just across the Bay. It’s a beautiful spot, kind of like the Scottish Highlands of California. The food was delish and there was much bonding between moi and the 65 other residents that attended. Highlights included night hunting for raccoons, a journey that was highly unsuccessful. An invisible species perhaps. Though deers and bambis with evil eyes were plentiful.

I capped off my first week in Berkeley with a taste of some true American Culture-by experiencing the infamous frat party. We are always encouraged at I-House to engage in ‘cross-cultural experiences,’ and this was the perfect opportunity. I entered the massive 3 storey Greek houses thinking that it all those TV shows and movies had been grossly exaggerating what frat parties were really like. But I can now assure you, there is no exaggeration. It is exactly like the movies and the TV shows. Beer pong coming out of your eyeballs, people grinding, making out on the dance floor in a truly carnal manner. It was almost as if they were waiting for people to educate them about the fact in order to actually do the mcnasty nasty, you generally have to take your clothes off. I thought people at Berkeley were meant to be smart. Anyhoo, after some Lady Gaga dancing, I decided it was time to call it quits. Also factoring into the quitting equation was the fact that the cops pulled up and started busting all the frat parties in Greek circle. See, just like the movies! In conclusion- the American frat experience: amusing, but suboptimal.

So that’s your first introduction into the craziness that is Bezerkley. Next time- tales of the awesomeness of skiing at Lake Tahoe, Australia Day parties and my near deportation from America after an interesting encounter with cops who failed to understand the meaning of cricket.

The Beginnings of Life in the Northern Hemisphere

Incheon in winter is a desolate place. The city is clearly at the forefront of development- high rise buildings spring up everywhere I look, and cranes seem to outnumber people at a ratio of 10:1. The city is anxiously preparing for the 2014 Asian Games, and have coined themselves the 'tomorrow city'. Whether they will ever reach tomorrow is another issue. But I think they will, for Koreans- from what I have gathered from my-ever-so-brief stay- are ambitious. Long overshadowed by their neighbours Japan and China, they're really looking to come into their own.

As I walked through the empty streets I pretended I was the last survivor of a nuclear holocaust. The bubble was burst by the occasional bus and luxury car that would roll my way. Sometimes I would imagine that I was in North Korea, as the whole place seemed desolate and ambitious enough to pass for it. However I suppose if I were actually in North Korea, there wouldn't be people in luridly coloured North Face puffy down jackets, there would only be peasants holding sickles practicing Communism.

The snow is beautiful though. 4 metres above sea level, and there is a layer of powder that Mt Buller would die for. Why don't they just cross country ski everywhere in winter? Now that's what I want to see. A city where only form of transport is cross country skiing, where everyone must wear those condom-like suits in order to increase aerodynamic efficiency. And for the old, decrepit or crippled folk, they have can have segues with snow tyres. Picture that in your mind. People in condom suits skating whilst retirees hoon around them on segues. Now that's a cool city.

But I digress. I put my Mandarin to good use with a Chinese family (who have immigrated to Auckland) and are on their way back to New Zealand. Their 2 young sons are delighted to see snow for the first time, and are going nuts. I tell them they must visit the South Island and we heartily agree- "Nan dao hen bang!" On my way back to the hotel to take up my free lunch, a car pulls up next to me and a Korean jumps out with his puff jacket and yells at me. What have I done?! Did I accidently walk into the DMZ? No, he's just lost, and I can't help him, because my knowledge of the Korean language extends to 'hello' and 'thankyou'.

I make it back to Incheon International with plenty of good time until boarding. The airport itself is massive, and resembles a modern alien spaceship. It's quite new as far as airports go, and has apparently been voted the world's best airport/ world’s best hub for a few years running now. I can see why. It's not exactly a warm, welcoming place- airports never are. However it is amazingly efficient and stress free, and there’s even a girl in a traditional Korean hanbok (kimono like thing) playing a gayageum (I think)- a pretty funky stringer instrument.

My flight to San Francisco is fairly uneventful. I finally get to see District 9- an awesome, awesome movie. I also discover that I am losing my gift of enjoying aeroplane food. The beef served for dinner has the texture of a rock. However the omelette in the brekky is not half bad.

As we descend, I get my first glimpse the Northern Californian coastline. Amazing. Mountains galore and glorious white beaches to boot. I can even see the snow-capped Sierra Nevada in the distance. The Golden Gate Bridge comes to view, but it looks teeny tiny, made out of leggo. Nonetheless, I heartily congratulate myself on picking such a good corner of America to come to.

Given the recent hoo-ha that has been thrown in the US regarding security (due to Nigerian bomber man) I ready myself for a battalion of inspections and interrogations regarding whether I am a terrorist or not. The carousel spits my baggage out and I march proudly towards the customs area with my declaration form in hand. The dude waves me through without so much as a word. What?! I can proceed straight to the exit?! I am gobsmacked. All that preparation I’d put into coming up with smart arse comments, all that training to resist interrogation and torture- wasted! I felt the faint urge to turn around and yell, “BOMB!” but a wave rationality comes over me. Damn you, reason.

I am picked up by my Dad’s old high school friend, Bill, and his wife Ava. They drop my luggage off at Kitty’s (another of Dad’s old school friends) place, which is tucked in the Sunset district of San Francisco, a stone’s throw away from the beach. Despite my jetlag, I am determined to fully appreciate this ‘taste of San Francisco’ tour. First stop- the Golden Gate Bridge. Teeny tiny and leggo-like it may look from the sky, but from the ground, it is not. It is gargantuan and the sort of thing that any totalitarian dictator would be truly proud of. In typical Frisco-style, our walk back to the car is punctuated by some protestors dressed in pink, remonstrating against the War in Afghanistan. Right in front of the Golden Gate. I applaud my good luck in a)arriving on a day where the Golden Gate is not completely fog covered. And b) arriving on a day when the liberal hippies have come out to play in front of San Fran’s ultimate icon. Bring on the happy snaps.

We drop by Starbucks so I can revive myself with coffee, then onto the Palace of Fine Arts which looks like it’s been taken straight out of Ancient Rome. I manage to take in Coit Tower, Fisherman’s Wharf and Chinatown- which is significantly larger than Melbourne ‘s Chinatown. It apparently is the closest rival for New York’s Chinatown, which I can believe as it spans several blocks in width and length.

We go up and down Lombard St- possibly the world’s steepest and wonkiest street. It involves a fair few switchbacks. Hilly is definitely an appropriate way to describe San Fran in general- it is not uncommon to find one’s self walking/driving up inhuman slopes. Definitely not a place for L-Platers in manual cars. I can say one thing about San Fran- if you own a car, it better have damn good brakes, else you’re stuffed. We end the day at a very nice Hong Kong style restaurant that serves excellent food- dare I say it, possibly even better than Melbourne’s. And, to cap it off, the place 2 doors down does Italian gelato. I wolf down some of the guava and coconut flavours and life is gooooood. San Fran is goooooooood.

My second day in SF begins excitedly- I step off the MUNI (tram like system), walk out of the subway and smack bang onto a movie scene. I kid you not. There are San Francisco Police Department vehicles everywhere and fake SWAT teams with chisel jawed hot men dressed in the full garb. The security guard quickly shoos me out of the frame, but I manage to grab some ‘subtle’ pictures before I leave. However I’m whisked off so quickly that I get no glimpse of any movie stars whatsoever. Most of the day is spent exploring the Mission, a slightly ‘dodgier’ area of San Fran full of excellent restaurants, 2^nd hand books and vintage clothes stores. If you ever need clothes for 70s disco parties, this is the ultimate place to go. Everything is sorted by era, there’s 80s glitter, 80s prom, an ‘ethnic’ section and most interestingly, things are sold by weight. I cap the day off with a visit to Downtown and Union Square, full of the classic big brand stores but the ones we fail to get in Melbourne such as Bloomingdale’s, Zara, H & M and what not. So a 2 day whirlwind tour of San Francisco- a pretty sweet city I reckon. I gotta get back there. But in the meantime, I’ve moved into UC Berkeley. It is truly fully sick mate. However I’ll save my exposé on how fully sick it is for next time.

Thwarted by the Aussie Government, but welcomed by Korean toilets

So I left my family at the departure doors of Melbourne Airport. I was feeling somewhat sombre after a lovely hug farewell. They were no doubt feeling abandoned yet again, by their godawful daughter. These semi-long term departures are now occurring at a rate of once every 2 years. Anyhow, I am delayed at customs due to having a “common surname” which I have decided is a situation I must rectify. Please forward any surname suggestions to my facebook/email.

After customs, I am thwarted by the Australian government as I am unable to claim back $90 from the ‘tourist refund scheme’ as my flight is apparently boarding and they get antsy when TRS holds up flights. For flip’s sake, JUST GIVE ME MY $90. Of course, when I arrive at the gate, it’s not even open, and I could have had yonks to claim back my GST. I blame the overenthusiastic button presser at Korean Air who likes to make premature ‘final calls’. I also realise at this point that my excitement about being on an airbus is unjustified, as it in fact, not an airbus I am boarding but some ordinary plane not dissimilar to a Boeing 747. Why I thought it was an airbus, I do not know, I must have made it up. Probably a good thing too, seeing as all airbuses ever do nowadays is malfunction or disappear over Atlantic oceans and kill everyone on board. However to make up for making up my airbus, the 2 seats next to me are free so I had ample room to splash all my shiz everywhere.

I’ve realised that I must look vaguely Korean as the flight attendants speak to me in Korean. My blank looks quickly have them revert to English, even Chinese Mandarin on one occasion. I guess that’s what you get for being yellow. I also have something to admit- a deep, dark secret this one is- I LIKE AEROPLANE FOOD!! Yes I do. I am that 0.000001% of the population that actually enjoys the stuff. I love the way everything is compartmentalised into small, perfectly oblong/circular tray thingers. When travelling with friends and family I frequently steal the left over crackers and cheese, and take on the role of ‘human rubbish bin’. However my strange affinity for aeroplane food ceased on this flight- I was served a pasta with shrimp for brunch, and the shrimp looked uncannily like witchety grubs coloured in with orange texta with intestines full of poo still inside them.

Anyhow, I have now touched down in Incheon, an hour’s out of Seoul in Korea, where I will stay for a day before going on to San Francisco. The place is chockablock full of snow. It’s quite pretty. Korean Air have hooked me up in a sweet hotel with an amazing toilet that warms your ass. It's got too many buttons, all in Korean! I couldn't figure out how to use it, so I went a bit apeshit on the buttons, and it went a bit apeshit in response, but it's settled down now. AAnd I have two beds! Which one to sleep on? And that is where I shall leave you, to ponder over my dilemma.