Los Ladrones

Wednesday night I stayed late in Berkeley to talk about El Amor en Los Tiempos del Colera, then smoked a joint with Peter and walked home from the MacArthur BART station around 11 pm. Ten blocks through the hood (and incidentally past one of the houses immortalized by Robert Bechtle). I’m not particularly nervous about it but found that I was cautioning myself to be alert—“para los ladrones,” as I put it mentally. Ahead a light that partially illuminated the sidewalk blinked off, bushes and buildings suddenly sinister. But it was nothing. I passed solitary across MLK Boulevard and down a neighborhood street. And then they were there, stepping out of the shadows and crossing the street to block my path.