So you probably want to know about the aforementioned best new years eve ever, right?
New Years Eve 2008... 2009? It was turning into 2009, so whatever that means.
I was at the tail end of a 3 month lease with a lovely artist from Marin County. I was subletting her son's room in her cutesy little Mill Valley (Tam Junction, to be exact. That's right, eat your heart out, Kerouac) townhome. Move out day was January 1, 2009. I was to move in to another sublet on Ocean Beach. (For those of you who have been following- I finally made it into the city!!!)
Mill Valley is known for stroller moms, overpriced coffee, and obscure film festivals. There's also a fair amount of runaway hippies living in the woods. It is not known for fun things twenty-somethings can do in their free time.
Enter my first real friend in the Bay Area. Sonja was a Marin County native, and I loved her instantly. We laughed a lot at work, and we hung out sometimes in San Rafael, the hippest digs in the North Yay.
Naturally, I headed up to San Rafael for New Years', expecting an early boring night because New Years' Eve is amatuer night at the club and it always blows chunks.
After a preliminary brew at a friend's unreasonably messy apartment we began the walk down to 4th street, where the only agreeable bar was. (is? probably)
On the way, we passed an apartment that normal people would have walked by as they jokingly said, "Man! They're having a party in there! We should see if we can crash it!"
Spoiler alert! We left that party at 5 am.
Andrew, our ringleader, opened the door of this townhouse to a rousing chorus of Salsa music and laughter and cheering. We were hastily ushered inside and fed stereotypes like burritos and tequila.
We spent several hours salsa dancing and shooting back tequila before I realized... there is no way I'm ever leaving this party.
No one there spoke English. None of us spoke Spanish. who... cares?
That's when they started gambling.
"Oh, no, I don't have any money... thank you"
"Here, take! I pay for you to play!"
"Oh no, no. Really, I don't know how to play or anything."
"Take the dollar, you play, I show you."
Every time someone bet out, someone else would put money into their hands. Never any more than a dollar bill. It was just a giant circle of circulating money that never ended, because it was impossible to loose.
FOUR HOURS LATER:
The game was clearly never going to end.
How are these people still gambling? I have no freakin idea what's going on. I somehow have made $50, lost $78, gained it back, and lost it all again. I never put any of my own money on this table.
How much money is on the table?
What...is...happening?
I walked away with $20, and the phone number of a man who called me "Sausalito Anna" and was going to teach me how to salsa "like a real Mexican".
Sonja and I left the party at 5 am. The rest of our group soldiered on.
A few days later at work I learned that one of the girls walked away with $250. Two hundred and fifty dollars worth of other people's money that they had no objection to random strangers who didn't speak their language taking.
Wait... what?
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Harlem Renaissance
No, the car wasn't stolen or on cinder blocks. No, we didn't get stabbed or mugged. In fact, we didn't see anyone or anything of note in Harlem at all.
Where we did see something of note was that day in Times Square.
Surprised?
While waiting in line for last minute, discount, student TKTS to 42nd Street, Lindsay and I darted a few blocks away to go to the bank.
We were intersected by at least 600 men, dressed to varying degree and aunthenticity as...
Santa Claus.
If you're from New York, or watch the Today Show or anything like that you probably know about the Santa Marathon.
I didn't.
Naturally, we joined them for a short while, until a particularly overweight and avant-garde (read: unclothed) Santa showered us with candy of many varieties while kissing us and exhuberantly wishing us a Merry Christmas.
Enraptured, we skipped back toward our group.
INTERCEPTION!
This time... jews? A cult? A jew cult?. Naturally.
"REPENT! THE TIME IS NEAR! THE PROPHECY KING MOSCHIACH IS UPON US!"
Now, I admire anyone who is of such great faith that they preach to the unwilling and caustic masses. But after being assaulted by the Big Gay Al of Santa Clauses, it was admittedly hilarious.
We walked off with a pamphlet, and a haze of confusion storming around our heads.
A haze which was broken by Christmas Carolers. Giving out religious tracts? The crazy kind of religious tracts that expel women as lecherous demons and remind you that celebrating Christmas makes you a pagan nonbeliever who deserves your place rotting with Judas? I didn't stick around to see what exactly they were signging about, but I took some literature. *See earlier note.
I mean, all that happened in like.. 15 minutes.
After 3 days we decided we were grossly underprepared for New York, and also we had only booked the hotel for 2 nights. At sun-down we headed back to Tallahassee via Asheville.
Five years later I returned to New York City with my sister, her two BFFs, and my BFF for the second best New Year's Eve ever. (A holiday which is never fun, because it is always ruined by amatuers) While we missed Ludacris, Cristina, and Meatloaf in concert, we were kissed by every single person in Red's bar in Queens. We even finally got to eat some real fuuuucken brooklyn pizza. And salsa dance? Probably. We definetly shared a bed in a flat in Queens with the best cat I've ever met.
Where we did see something of note was that day in Times Square.
Surprised?
While waiting in line for last minute, discount, student TKTS to 42nd Street, Lindsay and I darted a few blocks away to go to the bank.
We were intersected by at least 600 men, dressed to varying degree and aunthenticity as...
Santa Claus.
If you're from New York, or watch the Today Show or anything like that you probably know about the Santa Marathon.
I didn't.
Naturally, we joined them for a short while, until a particularly overweight and avant-garde (read: unclothed) Santa showered us with candy of many varieties while kissing us and exhuberantly wishing us a Merry Christmas.
Enraptured, we skipped back toward our group.
INTERCEPTION!
This time... jews? A cult? A jew cult?. Naturally.
"REPENT! THE TIME IS NEAR! THE PROPHECY KING MOSCHIACH IS UPON US!"
Now, I admire anyone who is of such great faith that they preach to the unwilling and caustic masses. But after being assaulted by the Big Gay Al of Santa Clauses, it was admittedly hilarious.
We walked off with a pamphlet, and a haze of confusion storming around our heads.
A haze which was broken by Christmas Carolers. Giving out religious tracts? The crazy kind of religious tracts that expel women as lecherous demons and remind you that celebrating Christmas makes you a pagan nonbeliever who deserves your place rotting with Judas? I didn't stick around to see what exactly they were signging about, but I took some literature. *See earlier note.
I mean, all that happened in like.. 15 minutes.
After 3 days we decided we were grossly underprepared for New York, and also we had only booked the hotel for 2 nights. At sun-down we headed back to Tallahassee via Asheville.
Five years later I returned to New York City with my sister, her two BFFs, and my BFF for the second best New Year's Eve ever. (A holiday which is never fun, because it is always ruined by amatuers) While we missed Ludacris, Cristina, and Meatloaf in concert, we were kissed by every single person in Red's bar in Queens. We even finally got to eat some real fuuuucken brooklyn pizza. And salsa dance? Probably. We definetly shared a bed in a flat in Queens with the best cat I've ever met.
New Jerk
As a native of the sixth borough of New York, which is Ft. Lauderdale, I've come in to contact with my fair share of crazed... yankees?
(Note: I heard recently that "yankee" historically only refers to folks from New England, and that it was only after the Civil War when Southerners began referring to everyone north of the Mason Dixon line as malicious life stealers that the term migrated to include Staten Island. Which means Babe Ruth and all of his proteges are really just big liars. )
Let's be honest here, everything above North Carolina is all a blur.
You know what? Having said all that, my friends from New York can actually stop reading now. I'm not trying to get stabbed.
With that in mind, my best friends and I decided the day after finals was the perfect day for a road trip to see some snow. While we're at it- lets just go all the way to New York City. It's not that far, right? NYC at Christmastime?! What a dream! Five girls in a car? What a great idea! We'll switch off driving and make it there overnight! We'll stay in Hoboken! Frank Sinatra! How romantic!
Lindsay was born in New York so she was delegated (without her consent and probably without her knowledge) as the ringleader. She would brandish us with her street smarts! This plan is flawless!
Emily, Cristina, and I all grew up on the beaches of Florida. I didn't even own a sweater. To me, Tallahassee was as cold as I'd ever been, so New York City in December couldn't possibly be that much colder, right?
WRONG.
We left after our collective last final, piling into a car after dark and making our way to Courtney's home in Asheville, NC.
I mean, it was only 8 hours out of the way.
I'm not sure if it's necessary to mention at this point that we were Freshmen in college. Did that already come across? It should have.
We spent the... day? night? Whatever. We slept at her house and got back into the car after dark the next night. We checked in to an Econolodge in Hoboken, NJ at 11 am. Right on time!
Get on the ferry and lets get to romancin!
HOLY SHIT IT IS SO COLD OUTSIDE
I wore all of my clothing the whole trip. That was three pair of JEANS, four long sleeved shirts, and a... sweater? Hoodie? Whatever it was, it was absolutely not warm enough.
And that was before it started raining!
We darted into Macy's 5th Avenue, which was an absolute holiday dreamland. Until we crashed out and fell asleep on the couches.
Five girls, ragged and dirty from having driven all night, wet and dressed like homeless sheep, lumbered into Macys and fell asleep in the home section.
And no one bothered us. Macy's was not even phased.
We woke up and stumbled over to a nearby coffee shop just to get our hands on something warm before deciding to check out some reeeaaall fucken Brooklyn pizza. But not in Brooklyn. yet.
We touted around Times Square, saw the lights of Broadway, the giant tree at Rockefeller center, watched couples ice skate in the rain! Who cares about the weather! We were newly rested, a little bit of rain couldn't stop us!
And so at around 2 am, we decided it was time to head back to the Ferry and book it to Hoboken.
Instead, we had a Subway adventure. Not the restaurant! Silly.
Around 2:30 am, when we still had not reached our desired location, we prepared to exit the train and regroup. Remember when you were a kid, and your folks called you in to the room and gave you that look that made your heart sink all the way to your b-hole? That's how I felt exiting the station. I mean, New York isn't known for any sort of cleanliness (sorry, Guiliani- you did your best), but there was something exxxtra dirrty about this.
Seeing this look in my eyes, an uncharactaristically dapper young man stopped us in our tracks.
"You must be lost."
"No, no, we're fine... we've got it under control. We're just... switching... trains?"
"Where are you staying"
Ashamed, we offered up.
"I want you to cross the street and go down into the other station. Take that train to whatever stop, and then take the next train back to the ferry. Do not look at anyone, stay tight in a group, and move quickly."
DONE, SIR.
No, I don't know where we ended up. It made some pre-hipster white dude in a fedora sktech out. It was probably just Brooklyn, but on the not yet gentrified side. I DON'T CARE. None of us wanted to be there.
The next day, Lindsay decided to drive into the city. She was from New York! She could handle the pressure! She knew where we could park safely all day!
Here's how the conversation went the next night:
"Hi... we're a little lost. We're just looking for our car, we parked on xth and xxth"
"YOU MEAN HARLEM?!?!"
Tune in next week!
(Note: I heard recently that "yankee" historically only refers to folks from New England, and that it was only after the Civil War when Southerners began referring to everyone north of the Mason Dixon line as malicious life stealers that the term migrated to include Staten Island. Which means Babe Ruth and all of his proteges are really just big liars. )
Let's be honest here, everything above North Carolina is all a blur.
You know what? Having said all that, my friends from New York can actually stop reading now. I'm not trying to get stabbed.
With that in mind, my best friends and I decided the day after finals was the perfect day for a road trip to see some snow. While we're at it- lets just go all the way to New York City. It's not that far, right? NYC at Christmastime?! What a dream! Five girls in a car? What a great idea! We'll switch off driving and make it there overnight! We'll stay in Hoboken! Frank Sinatra! How romantic!
Lindsay was born in New York so she was delegated (without her consent and probably without her knowledge) as the ringleader. She would brandish us with her street smarts! This plan is flawless!
Emily, Cristina, and I all grew up on the beaches of Florida. I didn't even own a sweater. To me, Tallahassee was as cold as I'd ever been, so New York City in December couldn't possibly be that much colder, right?
WRONG.
We left after our collective last final, piling into a car after dark and making our way to Courtney's home in Asheville, NC.
I mean, it was only 8 hours out of the way.
I'm not sure if it's necessary to mention at this point that we were Freshmen in college. Did that already come across? It should have.
We spent the... day? night? Whatever. We slept at her house and got back into the car after dark the next night. We checked in to an Econolodge in Hoboken, NJ at 11 am. Right on time!
Get on the ferry and lets get to romancin!
HOLY SHIT IT IS SO COLD OUTSIDE
I wore all of my clothing the whole trip. That was three pair of JEANS, four long sleeved shirts, and a... sweater? Hoodie? Whatever it was, it was absolutely not warm enough.
And that was before it started raining!
We darted into Macy's 5th Avenue, which was an absolute holiday dreamland. Until we crashed out and fell asleep on the couches.
Five girls, ragged and dirty from having driven all night, wet and dressed like homeless sheep, lumbered into Macys and fell asleep in the home section.
And no one bothered us. Macy's was not even phased.
We woke up and stumbled over to a nearby coffee shop just to get our hands on something warm before deciding to check out some reeeaaall fucken Brooklyn pizza. But not in Brooklyn. yet.
We touted around Times Square, saw the lights of Broadway, the giant tree at Rockefeller center, watched couples ice skate in the rain! Who cares about the weather! We were newly rested, a little bit of rain couldn't stop us!
And so at around 2 am, we decided it was time to head back to the Ferry and book it to Hoboken.
Instead, we had a Subway adventure. Not the restaurant! Silly.
Around 2:30 am, when we still had not reached our desired location, we prepared to exit the train and regroup. Remember when you were a kid, and your folks called you in to the room and gave you that look that made your heart sink all the way to your b-hole? That's how I felt exiting the station. I mean, New York isn't known for any sort of cleanliness (sorry, Guiliani- you did your best), but there was something exxxtra dirrty about this.
Seeing this look in my eyes, an uncharactaristically dapper young man stopped us in our tracks.
"You must be lost."
"No, no, we're fine... we've got it under control. We're just... switching... trains?"
"Where are you staying"
Ashamed, we offered up.
"I want you to cross the street and go down into the other station. Take that train to whatever stop, and then take the next train back to the ferry. Do not look at anyone, stay tight in a group, and move quickly."
DONE, SIR.
No, I don't know where we ended up. It made some pre-hipster white dude in a fedora sktech out. It was probably just Brooklyn, but on the not yet gentrified side. I DON'T CARE. None of us wanted to be there.
The next day, Lindsay decided to drive into the city. She was from New York! She could handle the pressure! She knew where we could park safely all day!
Here's how the conversation went the next night:
"Hi... we're a little lost. We're just looking for our car, we parked on xth and xxth"
"YOU MEAN HARLEM?!?!"
Tune in next week!
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
All of the women in Marin County eat their young
That's an acutal line from an actual song I heard a homeless man singing on the ferry dock in Sausalito.
This story takes place in that very harbor.
Sausalito, CA is a beautiful little town who's residents are consistently ready to tell you is "much more European and progressive than the rest of the country". It sits right on San Francisco bay, looks directly across to the city, Angel Island, and Alcatraz. Just a hop over the Golden Gate Bridge, it is peppered with adorable cafe's and quaint shops that sell overpriced pastries and surrealistic sculptures of anthropomorphized animals. Oh, and tourists.
They also do not have any public transportation into the city, because then the poor people would come over. But they won't tell you that.
There is exactly one homeless person in Sausalito, and his name is Bo, and everyone knows him. They keep him around for the same reason they hire hispanic nannies, listen to hip hop (not rap! fuck you, that's too mainstream.), and eat with chopsticks.
But this is the Bay Area! Home of dissention from the man and all that other bullshit hippies stood for! Enter Gate 6, the houseboat cooperative(you read that right) where all the real hippies live. Of course, I wanted to live there.
So I met a dude who lived on a sailboat in Sausalito Harbor. Not quite gate 6, but after nearly a month without a consistent or guaranteed place to sleep, my hair was looking particularly terrible and my pants smelled like peanut butter and old cheese. $400 a month for a bed on a sailboat?! I'll take it!
Jerry was in his early 50s, and seemed nice enough. Mostly, he was willing to let me sleep in a bed, consistently, every night, for really cheap. I would have a shelf and full access to the microwave for food, and a half of a cabinet for my belongings. I would get the captains cabin, and he would sleep in the sitting area. The bed came with a parking spot and a key to the shower/bathroom which was on the dock.
Also, I couldn't tell anyone where I lived because no one was supposed to be living on the boats, but he had an arrangement with the dockmaster.
Oh, yeah, that all sounds totally reasonable. When can I move in?
I paid Jerry a $100 cash deposit (I was to pay him the rest in the morning when the bank opened, as he would only take cash and not a check- no red flag there) and we sat on deck of the sailboat for a few hours while he regaled me with stories of his youth, and I told him all of my youthful goals and aspirations. Jerry then took me on a walking tour of Sausalito, introducing me to various notable locals. Jerry seemed legit, and I was mostly excited about sleeping in a real bed that night! With sheets that I didn't have to return in the morning! And I would be guaranteed a bed for the next night! And the one after that!
I left Jerry to treat myself to a celebratory brew on Rodeo Beach.
As I mulled over my exciting new living prospect, I realized... I was going to be essentially sharing a room and all of my living space with a 50 some year old sailor who would only take rent payments in cash. Also, I was living there illegaly, as was he. Also, it was a 400 square foot sailboat. Also, it was a sailboat.
I don't watch a whole lot of slasher porn, but I feel like that's a pretty good beggining.
*ring ring* "Hi, Marin Headlands hostel? Do you have an open bed tonight?"
I called Jerry and told him that I found a more suitable housing prospect (LIE), but that I enjoyed his company and would love to meet for tea or a glass of wine in Sausalito some day. And also that I would like my $100 deposit back.
Shockingly, I never heard back from Jerry
When I got into my car to go to work the next morning, there was a note attached:
"Lady from Miami with the big eyebrows,
I am sorry I don't remember your name. Are you still looking for a place to live? I am looking to rent a room in my house in Mill Valley. I want to rent to someone with a Mini Cooper.
<phone number>, Mario"
Draw your own conclusions to that gem.
This story takes place in that very harbor.
Sausalito, CA is a beautiful little town who's residents are consistently ready to tell you is "much more European and progressive than the rest of the country". It sits right on San Francisco bay, looks directly across to the city, Angel Island, and Alcatraz. Just a hop over the Golden Gate Bridge, it is peppered with adorable cafe's and quaint shops that sell overpriced pastries and surrealistic sculptures of anthropomorphized animals. Oh, and tourists.
They also do not have any public transportation into the city, because then the poor people would come over. But they won't tell you that.
There is exactly one homeless person in Sausalito, and his name is Bo, and everyone knows him. They keep him around for the same reason they hire hispanic nannies, listen to hip hop (not rap! fuck you, that's too mainstream.), and eat with chopsticks.
But this is the Bay Area! Home of dissention from the man and all that other bullshit hippies stood for! Enter Gate 6, the houseboat cooperative(you read that right) where all the real hippies live. Of course, I wanted to live there.
So I met a dude who lived on a sailboat in Sausalito Harbor. Not quite gate 6, but after nearly a month without a consistent or guaranteed place to sleep, my hair was looking particularly terrible and my pants smelled like peanut butter and old cheese. $400 a month for a bed on a sailboat?! I'll take it!
Jerry was in his early 50s, and seemed nice enough. Mostly, he was willing to let me sleep in a bed, consistently, every night, for really cheap. I would have a shelf and full access to the microwave for food, and a half of a cabinet for my belongings. I would get the captains cabin, and he would sleep in the sitting area. The bed came with a parking spot and a key to the shower/bathroom which was on the dock.
Also, I couldn't tell anyone where I lived because no one was supposed to be living on the boats, but he had an arrangement with the dockmaster.
Oh, yeah, that all sounds totally reasonable. When can I move in?
I paid Jerry a $100 cash deposit (I was to pay him the rest in the morning when the bank opened, as he would only take cash and not a check- no red flag there) and we sat on deck of the sailboat for a few hours while he regaled me with stories of his youth, and I told him all of my youthful goals and aspirations. Jerry then took me on a walking tour of Sausalito, introducing me to various notable locals. Jerry seemed legit, and I was mostly excited about sleeping in a real bed that night! With sheets that I didn't have to return in the morning! And I would be guaranteed a bed for the next night! And the one after that!
I left Jerry to treat myself to a celebratory brew on Rodeo Beach.
As I mulled over my exciting new living prospect, I realized... I was going to be essentially sharing a room and all of my living space with a 50 some year old sailor who would only take rent payments in cash. Also, I was living there illegaly, as was he. Also, it was a 400 square foot sailboat. Also, it was a sailboat.
I don't watch a whole lot of slasher porn, but I feel like that's a pretty good beggining.
*ring ring* "Hi, Marin Headlands hostel? Do you have an open bed tonight?"
I called Jerry and told him that I found a more suitable housing prospect (LIE), but that I enjoyed his company and would love to meet for tea or a glass of wine in Sausalito some day. And also that I would like my $100 deposit back.
Shockingly, I never heard back from Jerry
When I got into my car to go to work the next morning, there was a note attached:
"Lady from Miami with the big eyebrows,
I am sorry I don't remember your name. Are you still looking for a place to live? I am looking to rent a room in my house in Mill Valley. I want to rent to someone with a Mini Cooper.
<phone number>, Mario"
Draw your own conclusions to that gem.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
hostile hostel part II
For the newcomers:
I'm terrible at planning and moved to San Francisco back in 2008 without a clue, and without a home. After a few days at the impeccably weird Marin Headlands Hostel, I found a two night cancellation at the Pacific Tradewinds hostel in the city. It was right in the middle of Chinatown! Score! My body was alive with excitement! I was living in the city now, just like I had planned! I was unstoppable!
STOP.
I won't bore you with the fiasco of finding a safe place to store my car which was loaded with all of my earthly possessions on the streets of San Francisco's Chinatown, which is famous for dirty restaurants, street trinkets, and David Lo Pan, and NOT for safe places to be alone after dark.
If there is one critical thing SF is lacking, its space. Humans, restaurants, brothels, bodegas, and the like are crammed haphazardly into increasingly tiny places for exorbitantly large amounts of money. The Pacific Tradewinds hostel is no different.
It consists of two floors, the first being a common room situation with a kitchen and sitting area, the second being a long hallway of sleeping decks with no separation betwixt them all, and huge locking rubbermaid containers to store your belongings in. Weird, but not overwhelmingly so. It's a hostel, it's in the heart of the city, I'm destined for greatness and I don't give a shit about whether or not some dude can watch me sleep or use a boxcutter to steal the only pair of jeans I own.
The man at the check in desk is an unreasonably attractive New Zealander ( I KNOW!) who explains to me the ins and outs of places I should avoid while looking for permanent housing.
Did I mention that whilst hostel hopping I was actually looking for a place to live and also had started my new full time job? Well, I was.
Fatigued, frustrated, a little more than depressed, definitely weirded out, but somehow still intoxicated with the romance of it all, I plopped down on the couch to dine on an extravagant meal of peanut butter and saltine crackers (my only source of sustenance for the past week and a half, it would continue to get me through for at least another month). I met a lovely German girl who was learning English, and had been instructed to read "Uncle Tom's Cabin" as part of her lessons. Have you read it? If you have, you know it's a terrible way to learn English. If you haven't, congratulations, that's a good 72 hours of life you have that the rest of us don't. Trying to explain religious allusions and the complexities behind the beginnings of the American Civil War to a German foreign exchange student was about as much fun as it sounds, so we gave up and asked hot New Zealand man to suggest something better to do.
A group of upstanding young gentlemen invited us on their pilgrimage to a bar around the corner called "Shanghai Kelly's". Racism is still funny! But only to me.
What do you need to know? The bouncer at Shanghai Kelly's is a 6 foot tall transvestite with a baseball bat and platform heels that Elton John would lose it over.
Welcome to San Francisco, you made it, girl.
I stayed at Pac tradewinds for the one other night before miraculously finding an opening at the fancy hostel in fishermans' wharf. For the next 5 or 6 days I was able to sneak in on a cancellation every morning and enjoyed their free parking, continental breakfast, social gatherings, and rooms with doors.
After that I moved to the Green Tortoise, back in North Beach/ Chinatown for two nights before resigning back to the Marin Headlands Hostel where I stayed for another week or so.
At this point, I was smelly, exhausted, lonely, and frustrated, and jumped at the first successful housing offer that came my way. Hint: it lasted 3 hours.
To be continued!
I'm terrible at planning and moved to San Francisco back in 2008 without a clue, and without a home. After a few days at the impeccably weird Marin Headlands Hostel, I found a two night cancellation at the Pacific Tradewinds hostel in the city. It was right in the middle of Chinatown! Score! My body was alive with excitement! I was living in the city now, just like I had planned! I was unstoppable!
STOP.
I won't bore you with the fiasco of finding a safe place to store my car which was loaded with all of my earthly possessions on the streets of San Francisco's Chinatown, which is famous for dirty restaurants, street trinkets, and David Lo Pan, and NOT for safe places to be alone after dark.
If there is one critical thing SF is lacking, its space. Humans, restaurants, brothels, bodegas, and the like are crammed haphazardly into increasingly tiny places for exorbitantly large amounts of money. The Pacific Tradewinds hostel is no different.
It consists of two floors, the first being a common room situation with a kitchen and sitting area, the second being a long hallway of sleeping decks with no separation betwixt them all, and huge locking rubbermaid containers to store your belongings in. Weird, but not overwhelmingly so. It's a hostel, it's in the heart of the city, I'm destined for greatness and I don't give a shit about whether or not some dude can watch me sleep or use a boxcutter to steal the only pair of jeans I own.
The man at the check in desk is an unreasonably attractive New Zealander ( I KNOW!) who explains to me the ins and outs of places I should avoid while looking for permanent housing.
Did I mention that whilst hostel hopping I was actually looking for a place to live and also had started my new full time job? Well, I was.
Fatigued, frustrated, a little more than depressed, definitely weirded out, but somehow still intoxicated with the romance of it all, I plopped down on the couch to dine on an extravagant meal of peanut butter and saltine crackers (my only source of sustenance for the past week and a half, it would continue to get me through for at least another month). I met a lovely German girl who was learning English, and had been instructed to read "Uncle Tom's Cabin" as part of her lessons. Have you read it? If you have, you know it's a terrible way to learn English. If you haven't, congratulations, that's a good 72 hours of life you have that the rest of us don't. Trying to explain religious allusions and the complexities behind the beginnings of the American Civil War to a German foreign exchange student was about as much fun as it sounds, so we gave up and asked hot New Zealand man to suggest something better to do.
A group of upstanding young gentlemen invited us on their pilgrimage to a bar around the corner called "Shanghai Kelly's". Racism is still funny! But only to me.
What do you need to know? The bouncer at Shanghai Kelly's is a 6 foot tall transvestite with a baseball bat and platform heels that Elton John would lose it over.
Welcome to San Francisco, you made it, girl.
I stayed at Pac tradewinds for the one other night before miraculously finding an opening at the fancy hostel in fishermans' wharf. For the next 5 or 6 days I was able to sneak in on a cancellation every morning and enjoyed their free parking, continental breakfast, social gatherings, and rooms with doors.
After that I moved to the Green Tortoise, back in North Beach/ Chinatown for two nights before resigning back to the Marin Headlands Hostel where I stayed for another week or so.
At this point, I was smelly, exhausted, lonely, and frustrated, and jumped at the first successful housing offer that came my way. Hint: it lasted 3 hours.
To be continued!
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