Pedagogical Peregrination

On Sunday we packed the van with his clothes, computer, and other Very Important Stuff and headed south. Destination: the campus apartments at UC-San Diego, where our sophomore will rest his weary head between the classes which he will attend, study hard for, and pass with flying colors.

Parenting, like second marriages, is the triumph of hope over experience. Disappointment is our constant companion, and we become more practiced than political spinmeisters in the weaving of fanciful tales to explain our offspring’s behaviors. When something good does happen, for example when they win a scholastic award or get accepted to a decent college, we thank our lucky stars and cross our fingers that the run will continue. For those who lament that their child isn’t old Ivy material, we know parents who would trade places in a heartbeat. These folks are watching carefully for the first signs of substance abuse, not the fat acceptance envelopes.

We averaged 75 mph on Interstate 5 and arrived in San Diego 7 ½ hours after we left, a record time. It was still daylight after we deposited our bags at the hotel, so we had time to survey his future digs. They were spacious: four sophomores share a furnished two-bedroom one-bath apartment, complete with living room, dining nook, and kitchen. At an average cost of under $900 per student per month, including the meal plan, the UCSD room-and-board is a good value.

The refrigerator, although filled, is bereft of nutritional substances.


After only a day the bedroom already has that lived-in
look. Note the study aid propped up on the left.

Although I saw opulence, the sophomore’s mother saw only hardship. The next day we stopped at Trader Joe’s, Sav-on Drugs, Linen n’Things, and Costco to load the larder for the annis arduous ahead. Our van groaned under its burden, foreshadowing the sounds we would emit as we sherpa’ed the provisions upstairs. Together we broke bread---more precisely, a pizza---for the last time, hugged, and bade him goodbye.



Our reluctance to leave delayed our departure to 4:30 p.m., which meant that we had to fight the traffic into and out of LA during the ironically named "rush hour". On the previous return trip to the Bay Area I hadn’t had much luck on Interstate 5, which cuts through the heart of Orange County, so I tried the western route, the 405, which goes past the airport and rejoins Highway 5 north of LA. We were able to use the carpool lane, which improved our time only slightly because it was filled with cheaters undeterred by the $271 fine.As we sat in the traffic I thought about how a lot of wrong choices in my life were more than compensated by the one big correct decision to point my old VW north after I was done with school nearly 30 years ago.


We ate dinner at this In-n-out Burger off Highway 5
around 9 p.m. The parking lot had only two cars--
the emptiest In-n-out I had ever seen.

We pulled into our driveway at 1 a.m. Summer was over. © 2004 Stephen Yuen

Time, like an ever rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.
--Isaac Watts