Stacey Nguyen

As I lamented over upcoming research papers at 3 a.m. one night, it hit me. I didn’t want to be productive anymore — not when it cost my health and happiness. I stared at a vintage desktop Mac that ran Internet slower than a sleeping snail, trying not to wake my roommate. Sticky notes, which contained revised versions of my weekly to-do list and research ideas, plastered my cheap Goodwill desk. I crumpled up half the sticky notes, flicked off the lights and sprawled on my frameless mattress. After surviving three all-nighters, I was done.

My encounters with Oakland, for the most part, have consisted of fleeting glimpses from inside BART. Up until a month ago, the city appeared to me in a series of disconnected snapshots — small, old houses, a gathering of ships by a port, the giant gray structure of the Oracle Arena. I experienced Oakland half-asleep, lulled by the train’s dull buzz.