Episode 2 – A “Typical” day on Telegraph Avenue – Part 1 – morning has broken.

It's 9:54 am. My car, (my girlfriend's car, to be more precise) is madly hurtling through the streets of Berkeley. The lottery is in 6 minutes. Damn! The Dominoes semi is unloading, blocking the right lane. SWERVE!





Some hippie driving a VW van in the left lane is going 3 miles per hour, trying to juggle his pot pipe & his cell phone. SWERVE!





The right lane is closed for road repairs by the Ashby BART. SWERVE!


More trucks unloading produce at Berkeley Bowl. SWERVE!


Four minutes left as I squeal around the curve on to Shattuck. Bicyclists run stop signs & cross in front of traffic, completely unconcerned that they're crossing Berkeley's busiest main drag. They don't even bother to glance at the oncoming vehicles, causing everyone to slam on their brakes.

This is Berkeley. You expect that. Cars are anathema here. Most streets are actually blocked off to anything but bikes by large white concrete barrel-like flower planters.






Two minutes left as I come up the south side of People's Park, zipping past some folks from Food, Not Bombs who are unloading big flat boxes from a van to feed to the scores of the park's homeless denizens.

The homeless, the students, the hippies, the yippees & tons of other locals took it upon themselves to build People's Park in 1969 after the university had failed to develop the property. They had no permits - no authority other than their own volition, and the socialist zeal that is the hallmark of the citizens of Berkeley. "We're using the land better than you used it; it's ours!"



With one minute to spare, I pull into a parking space right across from where the group of Telegraph artisans are gathering along the north side of People's Park. I bound out of my car and run across the street as Lee greets me with a “good morning.” and a piece of paper on which she's scrawled my name. I crumple it strategically, and sidle into the gathering. Some people are talking about the BRT, the latest threat to our existence, and how we all have to be at the planning meeting next Wednesday night to have our voices heard. Twig comes sailing up on his bicycle, long gray beard blowing to the side of his face, just as Lee yells out, “Last call!”, and the clock tower begins to chime.


Everybody drops their paper into a Semifredi's Bakery bag that Lee is holding out in front of her. It was probably liberated, full of bread, from Semifredi's dumpster recently.


Each of us is trying to be the last one in the bag. Last in – first out, they say. It doesn't really matter. This is a busy day, and there are only about 30 artisans here for the available 300 or so spaces. It's more about preference, but people usually get their favorite spots, anyway. At one time, there would have been hundreds of artisan vendors here, but those days are long gone. It's just the die hards here now, and the few newbies, like me, who were persistent enough to work through the Berkeley bureaucracy to get the cheap ($240) one year permit to vend their artwork on Telegraph Avenue.


My number today is 23 – not so good. After 22 others choose their spots, I go to the sign-in sheet, a map of Telegraph Avenue with various sized spaces plotted out on the 4 blocks to the south of Cal Berkeley's campus. My favorite space, number 229, right in front of Blake's on Telegraph is still open.





Blake's is a Berkeley institution, with excellent burgers, a full bar, and live music downstairs most nights, I sign into the spot & head over to Blake's to set my tables up.






Most mornings on Telegraph begin slowly – the proverbial calm before the storm. Ernest greets me, resplendent in his reflective orange vest as he sweeps up leaves, cigarette butts & various bits of revelers' debris from the night before in front of Blake's as a few people stride by with purpose on their way to work. A few curious early-bird European tourists watch us set up, wondering what exotic American treasures they will find here. Sam and I exchange good mornings as he wheels past with his shopping cart stacked high with all his worldly possessions.



He's skinny and pale with tousled blond hair & beard, a kind face and a sadness behind his eyes – a stark contrast to the bulk of Berkeley's homeless population. A large percentage of Berkeley's homeless consist of backpackers passing through, and a fair number of kids from well off families rebelling against their parents' materialistic lifestyles and the tyranny of societal norms like school, work & grooming. With Mohawks or dreadlocks, backpacks, and their pets, they camp out in People's Park, and hang out in small groups, panhandling & smoking weed, following the philosophy that the universe will provide with an unwavering confidence. After all, if the universe doesn't come through, there's always mom & dad.


The volume has been increasing gradually throughout the morning as the streets steadily fill with people from all walks of life and from every corner the globe.. The Telegraph artists have shaken the dust off and had their morning coffee from the Noah's Bagels on the corner, and we've begun engaging with the first shoppers.

The day is on.