West coast dreaming

I was certainly lucky to land in Berkeley. It’s one of those towns that revolve around the university. The radical edge that made it famous worldwide in the 60’s is still around. There are hundreds of students shamelessly wearing the blue-and-gold merchandise and there are spooky restricted-access buildings high up on the hills where the secret experiments are carried out. But there is something young and electric and slightly wild in the air. I’ve spent the last two weeks of lovely Californian weather with no plans and time in plentiful supply.

Leah is currently living at the Cloyne Court co-op. Co-operatives are a type of student accommodation that sit shoulder-to-shoulder to the Berkeley fraternities and sororities in the hills behind the campus. But that’s where the similarities end. Co-ops are student run and student owned and there are as few rules as possible. Through buying food in bulk, sharing rooms and weekly work shift for cooking, cleaning and other essentials, they’re hands-down the most affordable way of living. They’re not exclusive and will take anyone without demanding initiation rituals or family connections. But they end up attracting easygoing, open-minded kids who are as fiercely dedicated to partying as they are to studying.

The freedom that co-op living brings can be seen everywhere. There are giant art murals and literate graffiti on every wall. The open kitchen is buzzing at every hour of day and night. When dinner is served, there is no such thing as queuing, only a survival-of-the-fittest type rush with 150 kids elbowing to get a serve.

There are band nights, hula-hooping in the courtyard, drinking and dancing on the tables and bongs made from plastic flamingos and didgeridoos. There are also naked pizza parties, watching sunsets from the roof, flea outbreaks, broken crockery in the bathrooms and lots of happy hooking up. Leah reckons co-op living is the answer to Australia’s student housing situation. I think she’s right.

The other half of my time in California I spent on Frances’ couch in Oakland. I met Frances when I was a fresh-faced exchange student in Sweden in 2006. Only days after returning to Australia, I’d bought a ticket out of there, this time to the States. Exactly two years ago, my friend Nikki and myself spent three glorious weeks on the Cali coast.  2009 was the sequel.

And it was a blockbuster. We spent our time together raiding Berkeley’s thrift stores, eating Nikki’s baked goods, scoring free coffees from Frances’ work and drinking at student-discount prices. We occasionally took the train across to San Francisco for photo shoots, glitzy late-night museum visits and high-octane tourizm at Alcatraz. But all good things must come to an end. Nikki left for a conference in Niagara Falls and Frances has flown to Las Vegas to see Britney Spears with a hand-made “Toxic” costume in her carry-on.

And I have left the East Coast with a thwarted vegetarian burrito addiction, a worrying dependence on Mad Men and my heart in my mouth. I’m writing on the downward descent into La Guardia Airport, New York. My goodbye hangover has finally slithered off and I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve. 

I’ve waited two sweaty-palmed years to get back to New York. It’s a cliché, but it feels like the centre of the world – like everything is happening here all the time and anything is possible. I can’t wait to get outside and see what will slap me upside the head today.