Strange Things and Weirdos VII

Today has seen perhaps the strangest Berkeley occurrances that I have ever witnessed. It began early.

I received a call at 8:30am this morning from the national lab, telling me that they were working on getting my fellowship together but some paperwork was holding them up at the university. They asked me to check with the administration at the university about payment, etc.

This was pretty incredible: someone in the administration department was going out of their way to track down my problems and get them resolved.

I went into the administration offices and got a normal occurrance: the person I was supposed to talk to was not there. I came back 15 minutes later, and there she was. I braced myself for ignorant run-around, rudeness, and/or complete lack of brains. The next strange thing hit me then: the adminstrator in charge of the graduate fellowships was nice and very polite. She explained to me what I needed to do, and asked if there was a contact number for the administration at the national lab. I told her the name of the contact, but told her I needed to go look up the phone number and that I'd bring it back down.

I had to run to class, so I went to class, then retrieved the contact number for the national lab. I was about to run it downstairs to the administration offices when I got a call--from the national lab. Apparently, the administration official downstairs had looked up the number for the contact person on her own. I couldn't believe it. The system was working for me. This was definitely weird.

The national lab told me that they had already spoken to the administration at the school and they had everything worked out. I was stunned. I haven't had this much ease in dealing with the department since... ever. Everything with this department is an uphill battle, even if I'm trying to pay them for something. I dread going down to the fourth floor where the administration offices are kept. Walking into the administration offices on the fourth floor is like being a naked 10-year old boy walking through a NAMBLA convention--you know you're going to get fucked. But not today. I don't know what happened, but everyone was nice. They were helpful. They knew what they were talking about. I'm a little creeped out by it all, even though everything has been good. I'm waiting for the bubble to burst, waiting for everything to come crashing down around me in pieces; maybe they won't pay me for 6 months; maybe they'll forget to deduct tax and I'll owe $3000 at the end of the year; maybe they'll mix up my social security with an INS number and when I try to walk past the big men with machine guns at the gate, they'll grind my face into the pavement thinking that I'm Rico the Columbian drug runner.

If all goes as planned and I am not confused with an illegal immigrant, I will start at the national lab on Monday. Then you all will get to talk to the nice men from one of those alphabet agencies sometime soon.

This is by far the strangest day that I have had here yet.

Strange Things and Weirdos VI

On campus there is a night ride shuttle system that will take you from campus to your door within a limited service range after it gets dark. It's a fantastic service and probably has saved the university thousands of dollars in lawsuits because of the crimes against the students that would otherwise be comitted. I got on tonight at 9pm to go home. I expected to have Habib, some middle eastern or indian guy whose name I don't know and who is incredibly difficult to talk to. He's the worst driver, unfriendly, and isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. He's also a driving instructor in his home country.

Fortunately, I got Duane, the awesome driver that used to drive Habib's route before they got switched. Duane's awesome, friendly, lives in downtown Oakland and drives like it (meaning the bus does about 105 and I get home early). He also takes me all the way to my door, which lies a little outside the service area, a nice thing considering I don't live in the best area of town. So, I get on and there's an older lady on the bus who's talking with him. He's friendly, so he asks if I know her, and I say no, and he in introduces us. She's a librarian from the bay area working at the university, and he says that I'm from St. Louis.

Ann Marie, the librarian, looks like someone who would live in North Berkeley, but I give her the benefit of the doubt considering that she is actually talking with Duane and not being a bitch. She's about 60, has poorly overdone makeup, and is wearing a tweed jacket that doesn't match her sweater or pants. She starts talking about how much she loved St. Louis when she was there, so I figured she just had no fashion sense. The conversation began normally enough.

"My friends and I went to the arch and then to St. Louis university, one of the old buildings there, and we went up to the roof and watched the thunderstorms blow in. I've never seen storms like that before, it was amazing."

"Yeah, the thunderstorms are great. I love the summer when you can see them roll in from miles away."

"Oh yes, I liked watching them roll in over the Gulf of Mexico."

"Um."

"Yes, it was great, those storms would roll in right over the ocean."

"I'm from St. Louis, Missouri, not St. Louis, Louisana." (There is a St. Louis, LA)

"Yes, that's where I was at! The storms coming in over the gulf were amazing."

"Um. The gulf is around 600 miles away."

"Well, you can see the storms coming in."

"Uh-huh."

"St. Louis is a nice place, but too hot in the summer. Very damp in the winter, though."

"You mean freezing and icy?"

"Very damp and wet in the winter there. Rains a lot."

Thank god it was time for me to get off the bus at this point. I said bye to Duane and waved politely at the woman. For anyone reading this blog who has never been to the Midwest, our summers are hot, it is true. But our winters are not damp. They are not wet. They are incredibly dry and super-fucking cold. There is no 'wet and damp' like it's a costal area; it doesn't rain. It snows and ices, and there's a bitter wind. You also cannot see the Gulf of Mexico. No way, no how. Visual range on the ocean is 25 miles due to the curvature of the earth. Inland 50 miles, much less 600 miles away in St. Louis, there is no way that you could possibly see the Gulf of Mexico unless you are watching TV. There is a reason that Katrina didn't do any damage to St. Louis, Missouri. That is because St. Louis, Missouri is NOT ON THE FUCKING GULF OF MEXCIO. If she hadn't said that the went to the arch and to St. Louis U, I would have thought she was talking about a different town.

Kalifornia is a different country. Berkeley is a different planet.