As I graduated college and discovered the world was my oyster, I met a unique and fascinating woman who took a risk and hired me over the phone for a job 3,000 miles away. She was (and is) so compelling I got in my tiny blue car and drove to San Francisco, California for a job I really knew pretty much nothing about, because I wanted to be friends with this person and all of her wacky San Franciscan staff.
That all was eventually met with great success, and ended in two incredibly fun and happy years, in spite of the insufferably bad weather of the pacific northwest.
That's not the funny part.
Job in hand, I packed all of my clothing (two whole suitcases because I'm terrible at being a woman) and a single box of "treasures" into my mini cooper and set forth in the pursuit of manifest destiny. I figured I would stay in hostels for a few nights until I found a sublet to rent- this was a big city with ample housing, or so I assumed from the plethora of listings in Craigslist.
One week later I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and pulled up to the stoop of the only hostel I had bothered to research, and hadn't even bothered to make a reservation at. Mistake #1. Surprisingly, the nicest and least expensive youth hostel (in the best part of town) in the summer in San Francisco was all booked up for the next week. Nice work, college grad. The lovely people at Fisherman's Wharf hostel handed me a list of other hostels in town that might have room. NO DICE, save one which was in an area of town labeled "Tenderloin"
If you've been to SF, I need go no further.
If you haven't, my explicit instructions from aforementioned mentor for newcomers to the bay were thus, "Just avoid anything that says "Tenderloin" or "Theater Disctrict". Call me and you can stay on my couch, but do not stay in that part of town." Not wanting to impose on my new friend before I even met her, I was defeated on my very first venture into adulthood.
Enter Mario, a chipper biciclyst (spelling?) who turned out to be a more than a little weird. But he rescued me on this day by telling me there was a naught often used hostel just on the other side of the Golden Gate in the Marin Headlands. Hold back the waterworks! Things are turning up! There were a mere 3 people staying in the Marin Headlands Hostel that night. I made a weeks' worth of reservations, and Mario cycled off. (don't worry, he comes back)
Night one at the hostel went off without a hitch. There was only one other woman there, an elderly adventurer who went to bed early and awoke before dawn.
Night two, I met my two other hostel mates. Devon was in his mid twenties, an oddly shaped new-zealander who had flown into Anchorage, AK, bought a car, and was making his way across the USA. He had a trunk full of microbrewed beers and wore chacos and cargo shorts. Christopher was from SoCal, probably a tri-althlete, and was primarily interested in showing off his pecs, drinking said microbrews, and coordinating a midnight hike through the headlands to the point bonita lighthouse. (Side note- this was really, very far away. And it was freezing outside)
Other side note- this was a dry hostel, and as it turns out, with good reason.
Travelers alike, we three made dinner and laughed and told stories of our adventures. I lamented over missing my opportunity at the fancy hostel, and regaled them with stories of its luxuries- continental breakfast in the morning, proximity to the bus line, group activities... a sauna. I WAS JOKING. No hostel ever has a fucking sauna.
Didn't matter. Christopher (who had begun to partake in those warm ass trunk beers Devon willing or not) declared, "This is a nice- ass hostel (It was). We deserve a fucking sauna." He sheperded us into the men's room where he intended to run all the showers on hot so we would continue our soiree in a sauna. It was hella cold, and we thought, "what the heck- this can't get that weird."
Big mistake, because apparently in LA "ghetto co-ed bathroom stall steam room" means "everyone wants to see me naked".
I mean, I guess we deserved it. After about 5 minutes of joke-telling and wasting water in the men's room, Christopher dropped trou and started dancing like a madman. It was like a trainwreck, except that by the time we realized we were staring slack-jawed at his junk, we exited the room laughing so hard we had to hold each other up. (Decidedly not how you should react to a train-wreck, and also not to a naked dude)
You think that would discourage a man.
NOPE
Devon and I decide this calls for a microbrew, because the only option at this point is to catch up (an objective we never reach). We retreat to the sitting room and start playing trivial pursuit or catchphrase or something.
"Hey, the hot water ran out. ...pause... WHY ARE YOU GUYS SITTING OUT THERE IN THE COLD? IF YOU DON'T LIKE THE SAUNA, LETS START THE FIREPLACE."
"Um... I just... there isn't any staff here and I don't think they want us to start any fires."
(New Zealand accent) "Also, you still aren't wearing any pants."
Christopher looks down. "Yeah... we should hike to point bonita. If I put on pants will you hike to point bonita?"
"Yes. Absolutely."
This went on for a good 15 minutes before Christopher returned to the men's room to clothe himself.
Needless to say, with the discovery we were not hiking to point bonita, those pants came right back off.
Oh and he started the fire.
Epilogue:
I followed Devon every time he went the bathroom, lest I be let alone with DJ Exhibitionist. Okay, it was only one time before he declared Christopher and I were both very weird, even for Americans, and it was time for him to go to bed.
I'm not sure what ever happened to Christopher or his pants, but I hope they made it to point bonita.
View of the Golden Gate Bridge from the Marin Headlands
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