Ninth Street

I have too many floral skirts to count, so I’m always more than prepared for spring. Then again, the lines between California’s seasons have blurred, with each season proving to be unusually warm and dry. Most experts agree this isn’t a good thing. Nevertheless, spring in Berkeley means squinting in the sun on the walk to Philz via Ninth Street and drinking a large iced coffee before dinner. The coffee was accompanied by a couple chapters of Persuasion, and I must say, I may have unknowingly saved the best for last. It is heartfelt, sophisticated, and Anne Elliot is by far my favorite Austen heroine. I love that Anne and Captain Wentworth are the couple to watch, yet they hardly interact with each other, and it is the peripheral conversations and events that push the story of their relationship forward. This makes even the most distant, civil remark between them feel electric and full of meaning.
I enjoyed an abbreviated spring break of three days in San Diego, where relaxing and indulging is easy if not natural to do. The weekend included wine tasting, Indian food, strolling through Coronado, gin and tonic at the bars in North Park, fish tacos, and playing with a chihuahua. March was a fast one, though I suppose they all are. I’m aiming for April to be a productive one, which includes figuring out what exactly that means to me. Away we go.

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Sense and Sensibility

“Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton’s behavior to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all. Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without knowing what it was to be satirical; but that did not signify. It was censure in common use, and easily given.”

Sense and Sensibility, p. 67
By Jane Austen
Published 1811
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Currently Reading: Persuasion

Persuasion is the last of Jane Austen’s books that I plan to read before taking a breather, and fittingly so, as it is her last completed novel. The timing is especially perfect because having just finished her first novel, Northanger Abbey, I am very curious to compare the bookends of her life’s work.
Anne Elliot is 27-years-old, noticeably older than Austen’s previous heroines. She is the middle child of widower Sir Walter Elliot, a vain man who describes her as “haggard.” This is not the story of a giddy young girl flirting her days away, but of a sweet and elegant woman whose life demands heartache and patience. At 19, Anne falls in love with Frederick Wentworth, but rejects his marriage proposal due to her family’s insistence that he is beneath her. Frederick goes off to sea, Anne remains unmarried, and the main drama unfolds when he returns, now a captain in the Royal Navy and an embodiment of the self-made man, another new type of character for Austen.
There is something striking about Persuasion being Austen’s final novel before her death at 41, as if it is some kind of culmination of all that she has written, of all that she has experienced. Persuasion is Austen’s all too soon farewell, written even in the face of illness, and I am eager to pay my respects.

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Slow Coast

One year ago, I shared thoughts on saying goodbye to 25, and now I bid farewell to 26. The time in-between happened very quickly. My request for the occasion was a drive down the coast, so James navigated a trip from Berkeley to Santa Cruz, which took us down the Slow Coast, the 50-mile stretch between Half Moon Bay and Santa Cruz. The temperature reached well over 80, but the ocean breeze cooled us down just enough to make forgoing the AC and rolling down the windows the most sensible thing to do.
Our first stop was Verve in the Seabright neighborhood. Though I’ve recently cut back on coffee, choosing to regard such caffeine as a treat for the weekends, I’m quickly developing an appreciation for espresso, and whether that will spill into the week is yet to be seen. I indeed had a shot of espresso at Verve, followed by the perfect cappuccino. For lunch we grabbed sandwiches (plus jalapeño potato chips and speared pickles) from an Italian deli and headed to the beach. Summer has arrived far too early in California. The sun was bright, the sand was hot, and the crowd was quiet, drained and subdued by the heat. I was ill-prepared, without a speck of sunscreen, and it wasn’t until my skin began to tingle that it dawned on me that this was a problem. It felt like pure summer, and though I am sure my vision of winter has become overly romantic due to its absence, there is much to be said of the seasons. However, the summer uniform – a sleeveless top, skirt and Birkenstocks – offers an undeniable lightness and ease. A few more hours and adventures later, including a meander through Porter Meadow on the university campus, we headed out just as the sun was setting and arrived home at 9.
Thank you for the beautiful start, 27. I feel a change on the horizon, or perhaps it is a hope for change, and either one of those sounds promising to me. Here’s to the excitement of the unknown; to the new music I will discover, to the classics I will finally read, to the cities I will visit, to learning a tad bit more, to fine-tuning the dream, and to making things happen. 27, I hope to make you proud.

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Labels: Notes, Personal,

Post-Reading: Northanger Abbey

I was warned by a reader that the book slows down once Catherine arrives at Northanger Abbey, and she was right. While Catherine is in Bath, we get to experience its buzzing social scene starring the entire cast of characters. Three sets of siblings – Catherine and James Morland, Isabella and John Thorpe, and Eleanor and Henry Tilney – find themselves in a web of friendship, flirtation, and ultimately betrayal. It’s actually surprising just how awful a few of these characters turn out to be, namely Isabella. She is so outlandishly self-serving and fake, that she is tolerable only because she provides friendship (admittedly short-lived) to a character we do like, Catherine, and because a villain’s antics are generally entertaining.
Northanger Abbey is not a sweeping or particularly striking story. But it is Jane Austen’s first finished novel and contains bits and pieces that I love. Upon arriving at Northanger Abbey, Catherine sees and hears everything through the lens of a Gothic novel, going as far as to suspect Henry’s father, General Tilney, of murdering or locking up his late wife. No matter how many times her wild imagination is proven wrong, she is relentless, until Henry offers a strongly-worded reprimand and presents what is a clear and beautiful testament of the rational mind: “Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you” (p. 165).
There is also a letter that James writes to Catherine, expressing the end of his engagement with Isabella, who has heartlessly left him in hopes of attaching herself to a wealthier man. He painfully writes, “Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned with her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and laughed at my fears.” The final line reads, “Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart” (p. 169). The letter is so heart wrenching that it leads Catherine to cry that she wishes to never to receive a letter again. It is very much worth reading.
Austen ends Northanger Abbey’s primary love story, that of Catherine and Henry Tilney, on a terribly unromantic yet realistic note. After Catherine and Henry assure each other of their love and commitment, Austen admits that Henry’s knowledge of Catherine’s infatuation with him had been originally “the only cause of giving her a serious thought” (p. 206). Indeed, how many relationships are forged simply by the flattery and pleasure one receives from another’s obvious affection? Jane Austen gets it.

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