Today was the day. We were going because I wanted to.

Kristina said, “I know you want to go to UCR, so we’ll go. Is there a special reason?”

“I want to meet the new Chancellor and shake his hand.”

“Dad, important people need an appointment. You can’t just walk in. He might not even be there.”

“I want to give him a copy of my book. I’ll inscribe it to him.”

“Hmph.”

We started early enough, before noon, and I only had coffee, because I knew we’d be eating something there.

210 Freeway East.

“Dad, you be the navigator.”

“Probably take the 605 South to the 10 or the 60, probably the 60, on into Riverside. It’s been so long since I’ve gone that way, and I don’t know all the changes.”

“So, off at University Ave., up to the campus?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Watching the cities and the landscape flash by, I tried to hold back the tears.

Shirley and I used to go everywhere and thought nothing of it. I would drive for hours because, you know, L.A. means driving, and you just go until you get there.

Those were the days when I didn’t worry about falling asleep at the wheel. And we had maps out to show the way.

This way was familiar, 605 South, but it was not the old way. We used to go down Rosemead, past the duck pens where they raised ducks for all the Chinese restaurants that sold Peking duck. We loved Sam Woo, iconic in the valley. We’d go to the location on Garvey and Atlantic at the end of Monterey Park, the restaurant in a little shopping center, the big window full of hanging roasted ducks, by the neck, heads turned to the side. You order, you get the duck chopped, watch out for the bones. That location was all local Asians, we were the only non-Asian customers and they always took good care of us. We had our favorites on the menu, the sautéed greens, and ordered them every time. Monterey Park was siphoning off customers and tourists from L.A.’s China Town, and sometimes we’d drive over to China Town just to support those businesses.

There are other stories about all that, but we were going to Riverside to see the Chancellor, so the other stories can wait.

“Are we near Whittier, Dad? Legg Lake?”

“Yes, Whittier Narrows. And on the left, Rose Hills, rival cemetery to Forest Lawn, where my Father’s ashes were scattered.”

“Were you there at the ceremony?”

“No, no ceremony. My Mother just arranged it to get it over with, the cheapest way to go.”

Then the turn-off to Hwy 60, so we missed the rest of the memories, Fullerton, eventually the beach.

East on Hwy 60, passing the Homestead Museum. “We used to go there sometimes.”

“What’s there?”

I described it briefly, the mansion, the gardens, the estate, and mentioned how Shirley and I met Ian Whitcomb performing there with his ukulele after he moved away from Altadena. More stories.

Central Avenue, Chino. That’s where we would get off to go to Centro Basco, the wonderful Basque restaurant that is such an important part of our lives.

Getting close to Riverside. Jurupa. The big dinosaurs on the left, a mastodon on the hill looking over the landscape. Another time, we’ll get off the Hwy so we can take pictures.

Then Freeway signs, Rubidoux, and Riverside exits, including one labelled University Ave.

I thought, but didn’t mention, how only a few years back, when Shirley and I were having trouble getting around walking, and we drove out to Riverside to see the Christmas lights on the Mission Inn. I was unfamiliar with the variations of new Freeway, was afraid I’d gone too far toward the desert, and got off at an exit that sounded familiar, but dumped us in Mordor, clumps of structures separated by bare dirt, nothing recognizable, nothing human.

That time, night, lights on the left, a gas station, a few cars coming and going. We stopped and I hobbled in for directions.

“What’s the best way to get to Riverside?”

“Where?”

A sinking feeling. A Troglodyte. This was worse than anything I remembered. Apparently, unknown to me, there are whole swaths of landscape that close down at night, intermittent oases of light, mostly gas stations, staffed by locals whose lives extend only a few blocks in any direction. I’m sure they’re still there today. I don’t want to know how they vote in elections.

The gas station guy on the night shift, looking too young to be up this late, said, “I think you take this road here for a few miles and it’ll lead you to a cross road, read the signs.”

“Thank you.”

That time, yes, eventually, we did get to recognizable civilization and actual Riverside. I never want to go back to those desolate hinterlands. I don’t know how I got there, and told myself to look at a map before starting a journey.

That was then, this is now, so we were off the Freeway at University Ave. right at the campus, parking lots, a little information booth, a young woman probably student very helpful took our money, pointed directions, and we took a campus map from the little holder on the side of the booth.

Turned right at the first turn, past a little old cottage I seemed to remember as campus security headquarters in the old days, now closed with a sign indicating some kind of renovation.

Probably a project for a graduate student in Architectural Engineering, I thought, and we drove around to the back side, a handicapped parking spot, we have a placard.

We were right across the street from The Barn.

In the old days, when I came to the campus in 1959, The Barn was just a real barn, reconverted as a hang-out for students, serving food and drink, and concerts of folk music.

Now it seemed huge, built for the influx of University students. A small building in the back was labelled The Stable.

We walked through the outdoor patio seating into the restaurant like a cafeteria with lots of tables and dining students scattered and eating, an older guy in a uniform finishing his lunch, with a name tag I couldn’t read that I think identified him as custodial staff, maybe groundskeeper.

There were counters set apart by category, bakery items, then main entrees, then drink dispensers lined up where you fill your cup with your choice of beverage.

There were stanchions leading to cashiers. It was almost exactly like the café at Kaiser Sunset. Probably even the menu was similar, prominently displayed overhead with pictures, descriptions, prices.

I thought, is there a standardized global concession monopoly where all food and delivery is alike? Am I living in the future?

Kristina said, “What do you want to eat, Dad? You need to eat something to keep your strength up.”

There was a picture of some kind of sandwich with layered ingredients.

“I’m not really hungry yet, but I guess I should eat something. We could split one of those.” I pointed to the sandwich, we ordered, with two fountain drinks for which they gave us the empty cups to fill.

I tapped my credit card. The cashier explained, ”The campus is cashless.”

I sat at a table while Kristina took the cups and looked at the choices, came back with iced tea, little ice cubes floating on top.

The cashier had given us a round kind of thick coaster with a number on top. A lot of restaurants do that, and later the thing vibrates and lights flash to say, “Your order is ready,” or “Your table is available.”

Chaz came from a different direction, carrying a bowl of food at an angle that showed greens, vegetables, meat, an Asian salad offering because he knows what he likes. He started eating and it looked good, and Kristina took the round signal device up to the counter and came back with the sandwich cut diagonally on a plate. Apparently the sensor doesn’t go off, and you just exchange it by number for the food which was sitting ready on the counter.

Good sandwich. I drank half of the iced tea.

We looked at the campus map. Lots of new buildings that weren’t there before.

I pointed out Hinderaker Hall, the Administration building which was there from the beginning, and was very close to The Barn where we were sitting.

We walked past new buildings, courtyards with benches scattered with students many studying, and orange trees everywhere heavy with fruit, a bright crop ready to fall, some already on the ground and available, and a row of kumquat trees in full offering, bright orange and ready. We knew kumquats. Kristina had grown up with them. Loquats too. We had a tree at home by our Altadena house.

Chaz had never had a kumquat, and Kristina picked one that felt ripe and saved it for later.

Near the entrance to Hinderaker Hall, there was a table behind which sat two girls, undoubtedly students, promoting something which I don’t remember.

We stopped to talk. I told them I was from the before times, before their parents were born, the first big freshman class to open the campus, 1959.

“Wow!” they exclaimed appreciatively and I talked a bit about what it was like then, straining their credulity, referring of course to my blog which has a lot of UCR in it. That obviously led me to dig out my card, “Yes, please,” they said, and I handed over the very professional-looking card Kristina has provided me in packets.

Then we went inside the building, the Administration Building that has always been there at this end of the campus as if to guard or monitor the entrance.

As I expected, the directory showed administrative offices at the top on the fourth floor, and we headed for the elevator.

The elevator let us off at the end of a corridor of doors. The nearest was for a Vice Chancellor in charge of something.

All the way at the other end was a glass door surrounded by quality wood, and we headed down to what was the Office of the Chancellor.

The door was locked, the entry empty, so we went back to the first office by the elevator where there was a button to push for questions and information.

I pushed the button.

After a brief pause, a woman’s voice inquired, and I said, “I’m here to see the Chancellor.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I brought him something.”

“That’s not the concern for this office. We can’t accept packages. You might go down to the end of the hall.”

So we went back down to the locked door, which had its own button.

I pushed the button.

A brief pause, but no voice, instead a gentleman appeared.

He was tall, reasonably young, fit, friendly and obviously intelligent, and he opened the door. He introduced himself, “Michael Richards, Associate Chancellor.”

I explained, referenced my book which I wanted to give to the Chancellor and I would inscribe it to him. He ushered us in and motioned me to a chair and looked for a pen. I told him I had my own, fished it out, and started to write my inscription.

Dear Chancellor Hu,
We both love UCR!
Upward, onward!
Always,
Gary Sterling

With the date in the upper corner, I hope I got the date right.

I stood, ready to hand the book over.

Michael Richards gestured, I turned around, and there was Chancellor Hu himself in person.

I gushed, “I want to shake your hand, I’ve been reading about you, and what you’ve been writing, I’m from that first big freshman class in 1959 when they opened UCR as a general campus, and I love UCR which has made me who and what I am, and I’m so happy that now with you UCR is in good hands.”

We shook hands, talked. The Chancellor, on his way to a meeting, found time for me, I gave him the book and my card for my blog which has a lot of UCR in it, and he offered, “Photo?” and we stood side by side as Kristina got out her phone. I asked, “Are you one of the people who put an arm across the shoulder?” and he put his arm across my shoulder, I put my arm across his, and Kristina took the picture, twice.

We walked him down the hall to his meeting. Behind glass doors and windows is a room with the long table, chairs poised, the sign identifying “Chancellor’s Conference Room.”

My meeting with the Chancellor was a complete success. He is as I knew he would be.

That evening there were 17 views on the blog from Riverside.

The rest of this eventful day will be covered in another blog entry, the visit to the Library, and what followed.