As a Korean-American foodie who resides in West Oakland, I’m lucky that there’s a slew of fine eateries not too far from our home all along Telegraph Avenue in Temescal.
The crowd was ripe for people-watching, with its delightful mix of food-lovers, the tragically hip, the merely tragic (feel free to ask me about a certain alarming combination of silicone, facial reconstructive surgery, and a gigantic purse with a working clock face), lots and lots of gay men (I am very comforted by the fact that it’s become fashionable for us to eat again publicly), and a vast number of nice people looking to chow down for a good cause.
And then, of course, there were the roving hordes of foodies, who a twitter friend of mine once described as people who “would stand outside a mediocre sandwich place for two hours because of a Yelp buzz.”
I don’t much feel like being clever today. My thoughts are 3,286 miles away in Port-au-Prince– a city I have yet to visit.
Perhaps it is the fact that I live in a city that has been devastated by earthquakes in the past and will be, undoubtably, devastated again that the earthquake in Haiti has taken up so much of my attention. The thought of those people I love most in the world killed, or trapped alive by fallen concrete and steel is something I wonder if I would have the strength to bear.
Fortunately for us, we have strict earthquake-driven building codes. We have support and money and infrastructure– what little of that the people of Port-au-Prince had is destroyed or severely crippled.
Haitians need food, they need shelter, they need clothes, and they need medicine.
And, no matter what Mr. Limbaugh says, they need our sympathy and our money.