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To California from the New York Island ... a journey from coast to coast Yeddanapudi Radhika Part II Mesa Verde is a high cold place in the Colorado plateau. Mesa, in Spanish means table (who can explain the similarity with mez in Arabic?) and describes the appearance of the land-- flat and high, sometimes averaging 7,000 feet. Seven centuries ago, the Indian tribes, that lived here, decided to build homes on the cliffs of this plateau. These homes, that are still visible, were built out of clay and are often called pit homes. First, a pit was dug and then a roof was built on this pit, with a circular entrance for moving in and out of the home. The result was a home that resembled a tandoor in its ability to warm the inhabitants -- toasty indeed! These ingenious people had another opening built into the house on one side -- their chimney -- which released noxious gases and allowed entry of fresh air. As a lay tourist, I have often observed how the greatness of any civilisation is most apparent when the objects they created can appeal to us across the centuries... by the care the people took to craft an object, in its detail, colour, symmetry. And most of all in depicting ideas and daily life. The Mesa Verde Indians created pots, and their magnum opus is the celebrated wedding jug -- with two spouts -- so that both husband and wife drink life-sustaining water from the same source. Flashbacks to patterns and designs in India, are inevitable. I couldn't resist buying these jodas, a pair of beautifully carved white and red diyas for myself and a pair of white matkas decorated with black animal motifs for a friend in Washington. In the Mesa Verde museum, I found this book on American Indian design and decoration, some of which had an amazing resemblance to Ikat motifs, South Indian temple sari motifs, and motifs found in north-eastern India's art and crafts. Like every potential immigrant, I tried to be as American as possible, only after six years of living in America. The only Americans, whose work, art, and philosophy, I find the least bit interesting are the mostly unacknowledged, native Americans. Take this design for example, a fierce bear fending off two equally ferocious sharks on each side -- an eloquent depiction of wild nature! Or this simple, Araucanian Indian love poem: Because they called you a good woman I came for you, little sister. I galloped four days, aye, little companion, because of your good, shining face. San Francisco In high school, I spent some years in Santa Barbara. Centred in my adolescent angst, I hardly noticed anything about the city -- its beauty passed me by, its inhabitants charmed me less, and a subsequent visit in 1993 intensified my disappointment and dislike of southern California. A tawdry commercialism, glittery malls, lustful men and women, had left me with a distaste for California... until I met San Francisco. Nothing in the previous experience had prepared me for San Francisco. We entered the metropolitan area on US 580, going past Oakland and Berkeley, finally reaching a relative's house in San Jose, 'Silicon Valley'. Ashraf, my friend whom I had not seen in four years, arrived within the hour, to take me to his house. Hugs, animated discussions and much mutual admiration followed by dinner, led us to the question of what I wanted to do that evening. Living in Washington, without a car, starves one of the desi influence. So I begged a visit to a local temple of their choice, whereupon they chose to take me to Bhadrik Ashram. Situated in a modest two level, house with a charming Spanish red roof in the San Leandro hills, Bhadrik Ashram is the first temple in the United States I saw that was small yet intimate. Small winding steps lead to the open central square courtyard from which we entered the room that served as the prayer hall. As I entered, I was pleasantly surprised at the mildness of the decor and the authentic details on the deities, their clothes, the incense, silver plates and the priest who was from Bangalore. Despite repeating Ashraf's name several times, this charming priest insisted on addressing him as Ashwin! Not wanting to cause any religious incidents, I refrained from insisting after a few minutes. But I couldn't help grinning at the conditioning of the priest who heard only Hindu names despite being given a Muslim one! The delight of the evening was our good fortune in receiving prasad or holy offerings from Satyanarayana puja. The next morning we spent in Berkeley. Upon seeing the International House, with its distinctive chapel, I immediately knew that Mooli would have a great time. No doubt intellectual pursuits dominate, but the leisure time pursuit in Berkeley is definitely people watching. Hippies, new age clothing and jewellery, charms and handmade objects are some of the attractions of this street. Walking down Telegraph avenue admiring and being admired is enjoyable. We spent a good hour in the Berkeley bookstore looking at books on South Asia -- breaking away for huge burritos at a Mexican place at the corner and spent the afternoon strolling down, peeping occasionally into the numerous Indian stores that abound in the Berkeley area, with even some very homely names such as the Krishna Copy store. The one department, that I could not visit and hope to visit again, is the Berkeley Film Archives building where one can while away many a pleasant hour watching silver screen gods from the 50s through today. I later found out that Telegraph avenue is a happy hunting ground for directors when they need to film sequences, showing life from the hedonistic 60s and 70s, replete with mantra chanting, drug inhaling, long-haired flower children! Around 4 pm we finally found a place to park near Golden Gate bridge. Shivering with cold and delight at the breeze -- that was lifting up and throwing my long black flowing skirt in all directions and the warm sun that gave a wonderful sheen to my metallic blue shirt -- I walked up beside my friend Ashraf to the centre of the red Golden Gate bridge. Have I told you about Ashraf? Part engineer, part lover of good poetry, admirer of women, sceptic, perfectionist and family man, passionado without wearing his heart on his sleeve -- perhaps I wax lyrical because I was seeing him after four years and perhaps because he is a friend... I was exhilarated then, drunk on the combination of the beautiful bay and the sailing ships, the elegant houses built on impossibly steep streets and the beautiful people of San Francisco. When a place is so blessed by the weather and natural beauty, who could help but smile? A place for dreams indeed -- I would be less than truthful if I didn't admit that I thought, why don't I get married to one of those men that my father is constantly finding for me... only condition being a house in San Francisco! New beginnings Well, from San Francisco, after we left Mooli in her home for the next four years, we came back driving furiously, upto 800 miles a day, to reach home as soon as we could. Some decent photographs, my beautiful diyas and pots, a bright red bag with an Indian print, a wonderful design book and some big bills from my aunt have come my way as reminders of this trip. But in the new spirit that I found on my way to San Francisco, I am learning to savour my adventures: taking the beautiful and the ugly, the east and the west, bittersweet, all in my stride... Back Tell us what you think of this feature

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