Not only do we here in Berkeley decline to observe the Glorious Fourth, we prevent other people from doing so. Not intentionally, as might be thought by those familiar with our long anti-establishment history, but because of where we are. Berkeley is directly in line with the Golden Gate. The cool, moist marine breeze is drawn by inland heat through that narrow break in the Coastal Range, to curl softly against the Berkeley Hills, where it contentedly resolves itself into a pearl-grey fog, and goes to sleep in its favorite corner. And especially on the Fourth of July, when we visit friends in high places to watch the pyrotechnic night light up, only to be disappointed in our hopes.
Everyone else gets to watch our nation's birthday candles, but in Berkeley we just take the cake.
July 4, 1997
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