Living on the Top Floor

A heat wave's descended on the Bay Area, and it's about 80 degrees in my apartment right now at 10:17 p.m. I live on the top floor of my apartment building, and the walls of my place are still radiating heat. My cat Canela - a Sao Paulo native - was in a coma when I came home tonight. He usually meows wildly to greet me when I come home. I was glad he was still alive.

The heat started yesterday, and I celebrated by driving out to the hottest part of the Bay Area, Mount Diablo, and going on a five-mile hike. I hadn't been out that way in four years, when I used to work in the area. Driving around, I was amazed by how much I still remembered of Contra Costa County. "That mini mall wasn't there four years ago," I pointed out as we drove by. "Clayton Road's another few miles ahead." And it was.

We got out on the trail and learned that an extreme Marathon was happening on the mountain. We saw lots of rather tired-looking people with numbers pinned to their chests struggle along the trails holding containers of precious water in their hands. One even held a whole gallon jug of water. From what I could gather, they were running 50 miles around the mountain. 50 miles! Culture shock again. I don't remember people doing that when I was last here. The oughts have been a masochistic few years for Americans, I thought to myself.

Speaking of masochism, we trekked up the mountain, through wavy fields of grass, past oak trees, along a weak little creek, and pleasantly, the heat stayed under control. Swept poured down my face, nonetheless, dripping down my sunglasses, mixing with my sunblock into a pungent glaze. A pungent glaze. 

On the way back home, we stopped at a gas station mini mart to snack up. I ducked into a High Tech Burrito. Inside, two guys in their early-20s were working behind the counter taking orders, wrapping burritos. A young woman also in her early-20s walked in and knew both the guys and they all chatted about something I couldn't quite catch. A middle-aged woman walked in and also knew one of the guys. I imagined the web of connections between these people - the schools, football games, pool parties, parents' friends. Suburban America. Another dose of culture shock.

By the time we got to the other side of the Caldecott Tunnel, with the bay misty on the horizon, I was glad to be back in this cooler, less insular, more anonymous world. That's how I felt the hundreds of time I drove through that tunnel and emerged on the other end during the years I worked out in the suburbs. Like taking a deep breath of fresh air.