Sacramento Press / Whither Oak Park? Part 1
I am year-and-a-half resident of Oak Park. I have lived here that long, at first very reluctantly, then somewhat ambivalently, and now, finally with great enthusiasm.
The initial reluctance I blame more on myself, my circumstances in moving here, and my sluggish, even inert, bare involvement in the actual moving process. My then-boyfriend and I had been served notice by his landlord, that they were selling his townhouse in midtown Sacramento soon; we had very, very little time to find a new, comfortable, and appropriate place to live.
We are both underpaid freelancers of a sort; he is a bartender/house painter/will be-something-more-fulfilling later in life. I am an avowed, diehard, almost lifelong freelance journalist. I have lived and worked abroad, primarily in Africa, and never, ever expected to come back to my hometown, Sacramento, for any great length of time - other than the obligatory holiday and family visits. But a serious of vehicular accidents that I was involved in and seriously injured in, the first in a motorcycle accident in Uganda in 2004, then a near-death car accident at 11:30 am on December 26th, 2006, in the suburban neighborhood of my mother’s house in El Dorado Hills, left me, on both occasions, crippled, though temporarily, both physically and emotionally.
Whither Oak Park? Part 2
Continued from part one....read part one here
Well, things didn’t quite work out that way. We married then quickly divorced, but not before my husband got his green card; I worked for Wired magazine in San Francisco, then left the magazine after two years to work full time as a freelancer once again. It was a rough life, made even rougher by my crazy landlord of seven years plotting to find “legal” ways to evict me. I was in the midst of fighting her insane legal efforts, when I got word that I had been awarded the Knight International Press Fellowship to Uganda in 2003. I promptly dropped my counter-suit against my loony landlady, Manuela, moved back to Sacramento, met my long-time boyfriend while was tending bar at my new, local favorite hangout, Joe Marty’s, and proceeded to prepare for nine months in Uganda, and beyond.
Well, we already know what happened next - the bad motorcycle accident and broken ankle which dumped me back in Sacramento. Except that I made one more run at Africa in 2005; I tried to go to Zimbabwe as a foreign journalist, stay under the radar of President Mugabe, who had banned all foreign journalists, and spent most of my short time there travelling back and forth across the border to South Africa, to renew my “tourist’s” visa every two weeks. I was ignominiously kicked out of the country after less than a month.
I am year-and-a-half resident of Oak Park. I have lived here that long, at first very reluctantly, then somewhat ambivalently, and now, finally with great enthusiasm.
The initial reluctance I blame more on myself, my circumstances in moving here, and my sluggish, even inert, bare involvement in the actual moving process. My then-boyfriend and I had been served notice by his landlord, that they were selling his townhouse in midtown Sacramento soon; we had very, very little time to find a new, comfortable, and appropriate place to live.
We are both underpaid freelancers of a sort; he is a bartender/house painter/will be-something-more-fulfilling later in life. I am an avowed, diehard, almost lifelong freelance journalist. I have lived and worked abroad, primarily in Africa, and never, ever expected to come back to my hometown, Sacramento, for any great length of time - other than the obligatory holiday and family visits. But a serious of vehicular accidents that I was involved in and seriously injured in, the first in a motorcycle accident in Uganda in 2004, then a near-death car accident at 11:30 am on December 26th, 2006, in the suburban neighborhood of my mother’s house in El Dorado Hills, left me, on both occasions, crippled, though temporarily, both physically and emotionally.
Whither Oak Park? Part 2
Continued from part one....read part one here
Well, things didn’t quite work out that way. We married then quickly divorced, but not before my husband got his green card; I worked for Wired magazine in San Francisco, then left the magazine after two years to work full time as a freelancer once again. It was a rough life, made even rougher by my crazy landlord of seven years plotting to find “legal” ways to evict me. I was in the midst of fighting her insane legal efforts, when I got word that I had been awarded the Knight International Press Fellowship to Uganda in 2003. I promptly dropped my counter-suit against my loony landlady, Manuela, moved back to Sacramento, met my long-time boyfriend while was tending bar at my new, local favorite hangout, Joe Marty’s, and proceeded to prepare for nine months in Uganda, and beyond.
Well, we already know what happened next - the bad motorcycle accident and broken ankle which dumped me back in Sacramento. Except that I made one more run at Africa in 2005; I tried to go to Zimbabwe as a foreign journalist, stay under the radar of President Mugabe, who had banned all foreign journalists, and spent most of my short time there travelling back and forth across the border to South Africa, to renew my “tourist’s” visa every two weeks. I was ignominiously kicked out of the country after less than a month.
