It was Mid-December of 1983 and I was a freshman at UC Berkeley. I was reveling in my time away from home and family as I was not getting along with my new stepmother and just loved the freedom and independence of college life. I'd chosen to go to art school at CCAC...the California College of Arts and Crafts but my father wanted me educated at the University so a deal was struck. I could take two courses per term at the art school and four per term at CAL.
I needed permission to do this for my course-load was in excess of the eighteen credits permitted, but I was a good student, not very pressed by social distractions, had no boyfriend, and could concentrate on my studies. It was strange how things worked out. Berkeley was a highly prestigious school and it took a high GPD to enter, but my father was an important man, well known to the university. He had come with me in the fall and had demanded to see the Chancellor of the university. We were shown right in and my father's first words after introductions were "I want my daughter to be admitted to the art history department!" The immediate response was "Welcome to CAL." No transcript, no letter of recommendation, no portfolio of accomplishments, team sport or expertise with a tuba. Just a welcome.
As a late arrival I had the good fortune to be given a room in an old Victorian house owned by the school on College Avenue. My room was fit for two but I would be the only resident. There were eight other girls in the house but I decorated the room as if my own and simply had one unused bed. I put up some Beatle posters from Yellow Submarine and my father bought me a little vanity, a cushy chair, and a bookcase at a local thrift shop. I'd brought far too many clothes with me from New York, but one look around town that first day, walking down Telegraph Avenue with my dad, and I knew I'd be needing little beside jeans and tee shirts. The place was the height of dress-down, but I kept some girlie stuff just in case I met a boy I wanted to impress or was invited to parties...that sort of thing. And I kept all my lingerie, underwear and shoes. That I would not part with.
My first term was outstanding. In art class at CCAC I was learning to paint in oils and also to pot. I loved handling the clay and also to make Greek vase shapes like the ones I had helped to excavate all over the Mediterranean with my archaeologist father. Painting them was an added bonus for I took Greek Pottery at CAL with Professor Darryl Amyx, the most prominent scholar on the subject on the West Coast. He would help me choose my subjects and my drive was to make copies of famous originals, right down to aging them and making them into exact likenesses.
On campus I was very noticeable, alternating between cut-offs and tank tops and button-downs and short skirts. I wore make-up and shaved my legs; that alone tended to set me apart from the earthy types at CAL. But what really did the trick was the fact that I was five feet, eleven inches tall, slender yet busty, and heads turned as I roamed the campus. One year earlier I was hiding my figure beneath shapeless tops and baggy jeans but recently I had begun modeling and my self-image had improved. I wasn't a tease. I had no one to tease. Guys stared at me but no one approached me and I just went about my business without many friends although I did have a couple of girlfriends who were study buddies but they were often with boyfriends at mixers on the weekends. That was fine. I enjoyed my own company and usually just retreated to books or took BART to San Francisco to visit the De Young or sit in Golden Gate.
In the second week of December I was asked to come to the Dean's office and had a chat about the need to share my room with an incoming upper-classman from Delhi. She was an exchange student in biology, two years older than me and had never been to the United States. Her father was a doctor in India and evidently had close ties with the university.
"We have a couple of other places we could place her Becca, but we thought you would be the best choice."
"Why do you think that Professor?" I asked.
"Well...your familiarity with other cultures, your outstanding grades, your personal style. We just assumed you could be a great host and help her fit in."
I had no objection and asked if I could write to her and start a conversation before she came. The Dean picked up his phone and dialed an endless number of digits on his trimline, having a word with her father...a Dr. Patel. The phone was handed to me and the most beautiful musical voice answered. Sarika and I spoke for about ten minutes and the Dean kindly left the room to give us our privacy. She would be starting the winter term on January sixth, but would be coming via New York. I suggested she come a few days early so we could meet in the city and come west after the holidays. We agreed to meet at JFK on December 30
th
and I would be her host and have her stay in a guest room in our Upper West Side brownstone.
The Dean smiled when I told him of my plans and said he knew I would be the best person to help Sarika acclimate.
A week later I was home for the holidays and had my house to myself for several days while my father was in Mexico touring pre-Columbian sites with his new wife. This was the first time I hadn't gone to Rome for Christmas, the break being such a short one. I was on the phone quite a bit with my mom to make up for it. Since my parents' divorce when I was 13, I'd been shipped over to Italy three times a year, every year...summer, Easter and Christmas.
I spent some time researching India and found myself captivated with the ancient culture. So many of my generation and the one before had a fascination with eastern religion. Sarika, however, sounded very polished, very English. I had loved her voice and accent on the telephone.
Two years older than me
, I thought. I hope she doesn't think me silly and superficial. Where would I take her? I was so excited to show her around New York.
I wondered what she would look like; perhaps short and a little chubby if she was from a wealthy family. I imagined a very conservative woman more than a girl, perhaps veiled, definitely wearing a multi-colored sari, perhaps barefoot...definitely with a third eye painted between her brows. Hmmm...how mystical.
The big day arrived and Papa and I went to the airport and awaited her flight. We could see into the customs arrivals and watch all the passengers pass through passport control. Watching each and every woman who passed, I could not decide which would be my roommate. Then suddenly, there was a tap on my shoulder and I turned around and found a stunning, slender, curvy, dark haired girl with cocoa skin, red lips and wicked eye brows which slanted down. She was nothing like what I had expected. She was exotic, to be sure, but could have been Spanish or Italian, or Lebanese. She wore faded jeans and a button-down shirt She was so beautiful and gave me the most wondrous smile of white teeth, then hugged me tight and whispered in my ear..."I knew you would be beautiful Rebecca...I just knew you would be."
