I am ready to go home
My feet, legs, hips, and shoulders (for whatever reason) are killing me. I have been standing, walking, and conquering San Francisco’s epic hills all week. I have been eating excellent food, drinking good beer, and closing bars. I have met very cool people and reunited with good friends. I have battled crowds, dodged crazy bums, and worked three jobs at the same time. I have seen beautiful new panoramas, revisited sentimental locations, and admired a lot of fine looking ladies.
But today, while climbing the Powell Street incline for the umpteenth time in the past couple days, I thought, “All I want to do now is go home.”
It is time. It has been a long week and I plan to spend the last night of my trip in the comfy confines of my hotel room. I am chilling three cans of beer with ice in a plastic bag (which is surprisingly serviceable), listening to John Digweed’s Bedrock (which is surprisingly bad), and dreaming of my room and bed at home, as well as the day of rest and decompression I plan to allow myself on Tuesday. I do not plan to go anywhere, at least by foot.
Oh shit. I just remembered: I have no food at home and will need to walk to the store. Grr.
My third visit to San Francisco has, I think, been my most thorough exploration of the city. Though I was cooped up at the hotel for most of the week, I was able to visit new districts on impromptu trips and explore with Zee German und seine Frau. We wandered where the cable cars do not go. And though it is hard for me to gauge how much the city has changed since my visits in 2001 and 2009, I have gotten a completely different impression. Perhaps I have changed more than San Francisco has.
First off, I could never live here. I have been here a week and am already fed up with the unrelenting stream of tourists, the stark contrast between decadence and decay that can be seen on the exact same street corner, and the population density. Tonight I stood in line for ten minutes at Trader Joe’s. Just looking at the three- and four-story apartment complexes and homes packed shoulder to shoulder just feet from the street makes me feel claustrophobic. There is no room, no space to breathe. Living on top of forty other people does not appeal to me at all anymore.
There are parts of San Francisco that are grimy as fuck. I knew that already and experienced it in the past, but never before did it make such a strong impression on me. The crazed vagrants, the open drug use, and piles of vomit and puddles of piss on the sidewalk have really fazed me. None of it is new to me, but this time it has tarnished my impression of the city. Why? I have no clue. Part of it may be the fact I have not encountered hardcore vagrancy in a couple years. Sure, Iowa City has its own homeless and transient problem, but it does not even register compared to this. Another factor may be my sense of helplessness and puzzlement. I am not one to give money to street beggars, but I feel compelled to help in some way. However, I always wonder how and whether it would be useful and receptive. Much like with the bums in Iowa City, I feel torn: I do not want my kindness and sympathy to subsidize addiction, and I am unsure how to help people who (in some cases) do not want to be helped.
Speaking of open drug use, I have never smelled so much marijuana in public in my entire life. I have probably “smoked” more weed in the past couple days than I have in the past couple years — and I never directly hit a joint or pipe. I first caught a whiff Wednesday night outside a bar. People were sitting outside, smoking and enjoying the live music from inside. It mingled with the cigarette smoke (a friend observed that a ton of people smoke here, which I agree with), but it is very noticeable and unmistakable. I even saw a woman carefully roll a joint while sitting at one of the sidewalk tables. Marijuana’s usage was open and very frank, and I am unsure the police care about it at all. How could they? I have no problem with it, but it was a surprising difference from the last couple times I have been here. I may have caught a whiff or two in the past, but nothing like this.
The tourists must be a constant nuisance. I asked Zee German if the inundation ever abates, as it did in Orange County over the fall and winter months, but he said it never does in San Francisco. There seems to be a constant stream of people from all over the world who want to ride and take pictures of the cable cars. (That must be a real pain in the ass for locals because I finally realized, while staying in a hotel on Nob Hill, how useful the cable cars are. Holy Christ, those hills are steep! But at the cost of $6 a ticket, it seems less like public transit than an amusement park ride.) Which is another reason why I wonder how anyone can live here. In some places, San Francisco is more of a tourist attraction than real, functioning city. People live and work here, obviously, but that dynamic seems to be overshadowed by the fact this is a worldwide destination with globally recognized symbols.
I’ll admit it: I have taken zero pictures. Why should I? In the past I have been both over and under the Golden Gate Bridge, have crossed the Bay Bridge, have ridden a cable car, toured Alcatraz, and done all other sorts of touristy whatnot here. And I have pictures to prove it. (Maybe not the cable car, though.) Why take any more?
San Francisco is, I will frankly admit, a city with a lot of nice booty. While we relaxed in Huntington Park, watching the fine women walking by, my hotel roommate (a fellow conference worker) said, “There’s just tons of nice ass.” “It’s California,” I said, somewhat proudly since I lived here. “It’s the hills,” he said. He may be partly right. Another part of it, though, is no doubt the fact we are in Nob Hill and near the best hotels in the city. Yet another part is the fact there are lots of fine looking women here. A feast for the eyes. Period.
If all goes well and I manage to get out of Denver before Winter Storm Walda hits, I will be in my own room and bed at this time tomorrow. That will be nice.
But today, while climbing the Powell Street incline for the umpteenth time in the past couple days, I thought, “All I want to do now is go home.”
It is time. It has been a long week and I plan to spend the last night of my trip in the comfy confines of my hotel room. I am chilling three cans of beer with ice in a plastic bag (which is surprisingly serviceable), listening to John Digweed’s Bedrock (which is surprisingly bad), and dreaming of my room and bed at home, as well as the day of rest and decompression I plan to allow myself on Tuesday. I do not plan to go anywhere, at least by foot.
Oh shit. I just remembered: I have no food at home and will need to walk to the store. Grr.
My third visit to San Francisco has, I think, been my most thorough exploration of the city. Though I was cooped up at the hotel for most of the week, I was able to visit new districts on impromptu trips and explore with Zee German und seine Frau. We wandered where the cable cars do not go. And though it is hard for me to gauge how much the city has changed since my visits in 2001 and 2009, I have gotten a completely different impression. Perhaps I have changed more than San Francisco has.
First off, I could never live here. I have been here a week and am already fed up with the unrelenting stream of tourists, the stark contrast between decadence and decay that can be seen on the exact same street corner, and the population density. Tonight I stood in line for ten minutes at Trader Joe’s. Just looking at the three- and four-story apartment complexes and homes packed shoulder to shoulder just feet from the street makes me feel claustrophobic. There is no room, no space to breathe. Living on top of forty other people does not appeal to me at all anymore.
There are parts of San Francisco that are grimy as fuck. I knew that already and experienced it in the past, but never before did it make such a strong impression on me. The crazed vagrants, the open drug use, and piles of vomit and puddles of piss on the sidewalk have really fazed me. None of it is new to me, but this time it has tarnished my impression of the city. Why? I have no clue. Part of it may be the fact I have not encountered hardcore vagrancy in a couple years. Sure, Iowa City has its own homeless and transient problem, but it does not even register compared to this. Another factor may be my sense of helplessness and puzzlement. I am not one to give money to street beggars, but I feel compelled to help in some way. However, I always wonder how and whether it would be useful and receptive. Much like with the bums in Iowa City, I feel torn: I do not want my kindness and sympathy to subsidize addiction, and I am unsure how to help people who (in some cases) do not want to be helped.
Speaking of open drug use, I have never smelled so much marijuana in public in my entire life. I have probably “smoked” more weed in the past couple days than I have in the past couple years — and I never directly hit a joint or pipe. I first caught a whiff Wednesday night outside a bar. People were sitting outside, smoking and enjoying the live music from inside. It mingled with the cigarette smoke (a friend observed that a ton of people smoke here, which I agree with), but it is very noticeable and unmistakable. I even saw a woman carefully roll a joint while sitting at one of the sidewalk tables. Marijuana’s usage was open and very frank, and I am unsure the police care about it at all. How could they? I have no problem with it, but it was a surprising difference from the last couple times I have been here. I may have caught a whiff or two in the past, but nothing like this.
The tourists must be a constant nuisance. I asked Zee German if the inundation ever abates, as it did in Orange County over the fall and winter months, but he said it never does in San Francisco. There seems to be a constant stream of people from all over the world who want to ride and take pictures of the cable cars. (That must be a real pain in the ass for locals because I finally realized, while staying in a hotel on Nob Hill, how useful the cable cars are. Holy Christ, those hills are steep! But at the cost of $6 a ticket, it seems less like public transit than an amusement park ride.) Which is another reason why I wonder how anyone can live here. In some places, San Francisco is more of a tourist attraction than real, functioning city. People live and work here, obviously, but that dynamic seems to be overshadowed by the fact this is a worldwide destination with globally recognized symbols.
I’ll admit it: I have taken zero pictures. Why should I? In the past I have been both over and under the Golden Gate Bridge, have crossed the Bay Bridge, have ridden a cable car, toured Alcatraz, and done all other sorts of touristy whatnot here. And I have pictures to prove it. (Maybe not the cable car, though.) Why take any more?
San Francisco is, I will frankly admit, a city with a lot of nice booty. While we relaxed in Huntington Park, watching the fine women walking by, my hotel roommate (a fellow conference worker) said, “There’s just tons of nice ass.” “It’s California,” I said, somewhat proudly since I lived here. “It’s the hills,” he said. He may be partly right. Another part of it, though, is no doubt the fact we are in Nob Hill and near the best hotels in the city. Yet another part is the fact there are lots of fine looking women here. A feast for the eyes. Period.
If all goes well and I manage to get out of Denver before Winter Storm Walda hits, I will be in my own room and bed at this time tomorrow. That will be nice.
