The Campanile

When I lived in New York, I always left the Empire State building unclimbed.  I have never lived in Berkeley.  Though I’ve clocked in six years in the Bay Area.  And what is Berkeley if not the Sather Tower staring down, signifying the university, pin pricking the name, up on the hill. 

A friend works at the university and we visited her office.  The suggestion was made:  Shall we climb the Campanile?  “Is there an elevator?” I asked, a bit too quickly. “Indeed.”  “Well. “  The promise of the view had already been lodged as something requisite. 

There was a line.  We’d need to wait but only for one cycle of the elevator.  A woman sat in a chair, operating the lift.   She took her role seriously and explained to us what was to be found on the intermediary floors.  I wondered what it was she was reading. 

The top is remarkable.  This is a view you know, implicitly.  Haven’t I seen this before?  Telegraph Avenue runs right down into Oakland.  “Is that the Greek Theatre?”  “No.  That’s the sports arena, the Greek Theatre is sunk down there.” It occurs to me how loud so many of those shows must have been.   Turning west the Bay extends out so broadly north and south, far wider that I’d imagined.

 

What time is it?  Perhaps we should leave before these bells ring.  Down and out to the plane trees in a line that look like they need to be watered.  The cedars smell so dry and fresh, an aromatic tinderbox.   The bells begin.