Fisher’s surprise outing turned out to be on a peninsula north of Berkeley called the Albany Bulb. “Apparently, it’s just called the Bulb, though,” he explained as I drove over the narrow road leading to the park area. Compared to the foliage I was familiar with up north, it wasn’t nearly as pretty. The ground was broken and barren with low scrub mottling the landscape like an old man’s patchy skull. It was far from deserted, though. Several cars passed us as we entered, and the parking area we found had nearly a dozen vehicles already in it.
“What’s so special about it?” I asked.
An impish smile played on Fisher’s lips. “It used to be a landfill.” The look on my face must’ve said exactly what I was thinking. Fisher burst into laughter. “It’s not anymore,” he continued. “It was abandoned
