The City of Berkeley was mainly situated between the San Francisco Bay and the hills. Rich people lived in the hills because smog pooled in the lowlands. Even the ocean breeze wasn’t enough to clear the air. Elevation made a difference. Up on those hills, in neighborhoods of huge trees and winding roads, one could almost remember the flavor of clean air. All of the architecture in the city was decent, whether modern or Victorian. All of the people dressed tastefully and all of the gardens were perfectly manicured. Each of the crazy bums had a clever and irreverent gimmick.
If you entered Berkeley from the south, from Oakland, you might have traveled along Highway 580, right along the coast. It introduced drivers to the beauty of the foggy bay and the horror of a gray-brown haze smelling vaguely of diesel and plastic-smoke. Parallel to Highway 580 ran Shellmound Street, a sprawling expanse of charming shops and malls. Shellmound street was named for the Ohlone burial ground it replaced. Driving north, one saw the bay on their left and a lake to the right. This lake was part of Aquatic Park, a lowland with a marshy odor. It was popular among joggers, cyclists, and exhibitionists. North of Aquatic Park, the Berkeley Marina was a sprawling peninsula of rugged scrub brush, yacht clubs, and walking trails.
Beyond the marina, at the northern end of town, was one final park: Golden Gate Fields. This park featured a track for horseracing, a massive public works compound, and a sports center named for a notoriously corrupt property developer. At the tip of Golden Gate Fields, the Albany Bulb, a small peninsula of shattered concrete breakwaters, was grown over with horsetail and juniper. The Albany Bulb was known for puzzling graffiti, labyrinths, weird faerie grottoes, and drug users. Continuing north, one would reach Richmond, a city known for industrial pollution and barren, apocalyptic streets. (In 2015, in Berkeley, the median monthly rent was $3,000, while in Richmond it was $2000.)
On the other hand, one might have traveled on San Pablo Avenue, a thoroughfare with a suburban vibe. Arriving from the south, one would pass exotic teahouses, a bakery selling “custard-like mochi muffins,” a “rustic alehouse,” a saloon, a few auto-repair shops, a cabinet company, a store that sells only cookies, a solar-powered carwash, several specialty grocery stores, a “wine merchant,” and a slew of cafes and restaurants. Much of this avenue was lined with shade trees. Since the rents were exorbitant, most of the businesses catered to wealthy customers. San Pablo avenue ran from the heart of Oakland, through Berkeley, through Richmond, and up north around the hills, where it could be used to access several important bridges. Built around the time of El Presidio Real, San Pablo Avenue was originally un camino real, a royal road, the property of the Spanish Crown. It was used by Gaspar de Portolá’s soldiers in their enterprise of genocide.
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Between San Pablo Avenue and Highway 580 was the land called West Berkeley. In the era of redlining, this area was marked yellow and red, meaning that poor and non-white people were allowed to live there. In 2015, it was mostly full of warehouses and workshops. The tapwater was milky-white. Property values were rising; poor families were being replaced by tech workers.
Berkeley’s main north-south thoroughfare was called Shattuck Avenue. It was named for Francis K. Shattuck, a wealthy prospector and landowner. Along this road, from south to north, one found cafes, plant nurseries, cannabis clubs, bakeries, parking lots, squat towers of stone and steel, and constant streams of cars and pedestrians. The University of California at Berkeley was only a few blocks from downtown, so of course students wandered through the streets in search of food, books, and art supplies.
Berkeley was the biggest small town in America. It was a land of exquisitely bland architecture, tastefully inoffensive punk-rock branding, humble and friendly simpleton millionaires, righteous spiritualist sociopaths, authentic righteous spiritualists, liberated bums and fantastic dodgers, and of course a good helping of angry, incoherent Republicans. Berkeley embodied the multiphrenia of America in a kind of muted, self-satisfied way. Berkeley was certain that its minor enlightenments and rebellions would someday crystallize into absolution or freedom.
