Entries Tagged 'San Francisco' ↓

This week I went for drinks with Ian and Peder during happy hour at Kennedy’s Irish Pub and Curry House, a strange amalgamation of bar and restaurant with some seriously sketchy decor. But they have $2 Guinness pints, when they remember to chill the keg, plus two-for-one drafts til 7 or so, makes the trek all the way up Columbus worth it. Following several beers and some deep fried foods, we hailed a subsidized cab, paid for by one of two of my companions, Peder.

We asked him to take us to Bernal Heights, and off he went. Peder asked our driver, who had a super thick Caribbean Islander-type accent, if he had any paper receipts. The man said that he did, then laughed a hearty laugh. He asked if Peder’s company was paying, and when he learned that he did he began talking at a break neck pace about his experiences behind the wheel.

“That reminds me of this man I used to drive, who would call me up regularly. His company paid for everything. He would let me fill in whatever I wanted for the amount. This was back during the dot-com time, when they had all the money and no sense. That is why they are no longer in business. He would call me and I would pick up him and his girlfriend. I would drive her to her office. He would get out of the car, all nice in his suit, and kiss her before she left. Then he’d get back in the cab, change his clothes, and ask me to drive him to the Castro where he would meet up with different guys. He did this all the time. I never could quite believe it.”

What came next was an assortment of tales so terrific, so hilarious, that I’m sorry I couldn’t better understand the man through his accent. He regaled us with stories of drug dealers, who asked him to drive them to Stockton, the town not the street, and how they arrived with 2 briefcases, and after they left the house “after talking to some guys,” they’d return to the vehicle with a single, different briefcase. He said he never asked any questions.

“You can’t be arrested for something like that, can you?,” I asked the driver, who was moving toward our destination quickly, but not as fast as he was talking.

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes. There was once a cab driver who had a man ask him to take him to the bank. He did, and the guy went in then came right out saying they wouldn’t cash his check. He then asked him to take him to a Bank of America. He did, and the customer came out with the same story. So, he drove him to a Washingston Mutual. While he was waiting for the man to come out of there, the police pulled up on him, gun drawn, telling him to, ‘Put his hands on the wheel!’ The driver had no idea what was going on. It turns out the man was robbing each bank, then taking the cab to the next one.”

We all sat dumbfounded. Some guy hailed a cab then proceeded to rob banks and use it as his getaway car? This was not your average taxi driver chit chat.

He told us also about a very rich patron who spent the entire day in his cab, going from Golden Gate Park to the Haight to North Beach and then out to the ocean. He spent hours in the car taking a driven tour of the city. At the beach our driver stopped, meter running, so his guest and his friends could dine at The Cliffhouse.

“You hungry?,” asked Mr. Money Bags. “You want to eat?”

“If you are paying I want to eat,” replied our cabbie, and with that he was whisked away for a fabulous meal on his patron. But not before locking the door, making sure the meter was still ticking away.

He finished out our ride by answering my, “Does anyone ever do drugs in your car?” question with, “Oh yes. Rock and weed, whatever. People who smoke rock are the best tippers.”

He dropped us at the top of Bernal Heights, just feet from the doorstep. Peder got his receipt, no doubt cabbie got a great tip, and with that he drove away from us, off down the hill.

“What is your name?!,” I called after him. “Will I ever see you again?” But it was too late. Best cabbie ever had gone, off on another adventure.

Comments on Continuing Culture Shock

I moved to California nine months ago from Nashville, where I lived (well, in and around) from birth until the age of 30. I moved to take a job in San Francisco, arguably one of the most liberal cities in the country, if not the world. Despite working in the Financial District, I moved into a city that just might win the afore mentioned argument: Berkeley, the city that manages to take San Francisco’s liberalism and ratchet it up a notch. Or two. Life here for me is faster and foreign but beautiful. The past three-quarters of a year has been one immense blur. I can barely keep up.

I am often stopped where I walk. I am struck still by a brand new experience almost every day, some as tiny as a speck of glitter. But, oh my, do they shine. They are made up of elements I’ve seen before, but each behaves in a way that I am completely unfamiliar with. It’s kind of been like being on vacation for a long time (and just as expensive!), save for all the working and chores and washing your own towels stuff.

It feels cliche, I have to say, to write about my fish-out-of-water experiences in this transient city, where surely every one else sings the same song. But I should get them down for me, for later, because this has been an exhilarating ride so different from just about everything I have ever known. I’m also afraid it lends itself to stereotype, which I want to try desperately to avoid. Kind of. Hyperbole is funny, and I’m a cheap whore for laughs, so we’ll see what happens.  Also: These are not judgments, these are merely personal observations. (Okay, there might be a little judgment, but I’m gonna try to dish it out to both sides of the coast.)

It’s going to be a series of posts, as this shit is way too long to be trying to write at 11:30 on a Tuesaday night:

Ways in Which This Place Is Not Like the Other, Part One:

• When people told me they were the outdoorsy type in Nashville, which were relatively few, I always presumed they meant hunting, fishing, boating or hiking. I never really knew many campers, especially the type of camping where you had to shit in a hole you dug yourself in the woods, then bury the pile. People around here? They love to shit in a hole in the woods. They’ve got their North Face (Social Climbing)* gear all ready to go, complete with Nalgene water bottle and compression packs and headlamps. The number of people who own kayaks skews very high. It’s insane. When people in Nashville talk about their gear they are talking about their guitar and their amp. Around here when people talk about gear they are talking about their rock climbing gear. Because they are going to scale some cliffs this weekend, brah. It will be really extreme. Also, if you don’t ride a bike around these parts you ain’t shit. And there better not be any brakes on that motherfucker.
• The panhandlers, they are experts in their field. One of my favorites is a guy who sits at Battery and California. He’s always on time for his shift. He doesn’t sleep on the street, at least not there, because if I’m there beyond 10 p.m. he’s gone. I’ve never seen him so much as nod off. I don’t think this guy drinks or does drugs. His cheeks are full, and his demeanor is friendly and relaxed. He has a little boombox that he listens to, but I can never hear it. The other day a couple were walking along, a to-go box inside a bag in hand. The bag must have read Tadich Grill because Mr. Battery & California yelled out, “I love Tadich Grill!” It took all I had to not laugh when the man got his wish: tasty high-quality restaurant food that cost probably $20 or more per plate. It’s a whole different scene than panhandlers in Nashville, who I always found to be a slightly scary. They were persistent, would follow me, then call me names if I declined. Here, there is “no,” and that is the end of the conversation.
• Sorry, Nashville, but it’s true: Y’all did not condition me for same sex kissing in public. Still surprises the shit out of me. Then I love it. I wanna be all, “Kiss some more!” But that would be seen as pervy, and not an outburst brought on by the awesomeness that in the Bay Area lovers of all kinds get to express affection without risk of violence or scorn. Still, when an adoption agency rents out all the ad space on BART with large posters of gay couples with their young kids, everyone all smiles, and there isn’t a single letter to the editor I have to wonder, “What the fuck kind of place is this? Some kind of magical tolerant Disneyland where gay love is not only accepted, but downright celebrated?” I’ll take it.

Stay tuned for upcoming installments that include such unique and astute observations as People Here are Really into the Environment and Summer in San Francisco is Cold.

*Stolen joke.

Nick Douglas, he of Too Much Nick and Blank White Cards, asked me via Facebook if I planned on attending SF Beta 2.5. After a quick Google search to see what this event was all about I determined that no, I hadn’t planned on going. The kind Mr. Douglas hooked me up with a pass, there was mention of sponsored adult beverages, and so it was on. I was going to SF Beta 2.5.

I had plans later in the evening, so I arrived at the event at 5 p.m., right when it began. There was already a line snaking out the door at 111 Minna of people waiting, print outs in hand, to get inside. After about five minutes the line moved. Once I made it into the front door rotund security guard huffed past me, almost pouting.

“Are you okay?,” a well dressed event official asked him.

“Yeah,” he whined. “Those people just went right in!” He sounded like a four-year-old in a giant sumo wrestler’s body.

The line of us waited to enter, watching the exchange. Finally, he turned to us.

“I.D.,” he demanded.

I held up my CBS badge, a photo I.D. “Will this work?,” I asked. He didn’t answer me. Just shook his head. “No?,” I asked. Again, he shook his head. I fished my driver’s license out of my backpack.

I overheard something about coat check while filling out my name tag. I stuffed my jacket and bag into the closet and made my way over the bar. The party was filling up rather quickly for having a 5 p.m. start time. The bartender in the GlamNetwork room seemed unprepared for the people, however, despite there being only 2 or 3 of us vying for his attention. A young man in front of me ordered a vodka tonic, which he got, but was charged $6 for it.

“I thought drinks were sponsored,” said Vodka Tonic.

“Not those, man. Only what is on this list.” He pointed to a short list printed out on a white sheet of paper. I saw wine on the list, and readied myself for a sauvignon blanc.

“That’ll be eight bucks,” the bartender informed me. Uh, what? Is sauvignon blanc not an approved wine? Annoyed, I pulled out a ten and handed it to him.

“Here you need one of these,” a woman informed me. She was with the GlamNetwork, and my magic ticket to free drinks was one of their colorful stickers. I attached it to my shirt, and vowed to make up that eight dollars with subsequent rounds.

The party was an interesting mix of people, none of which I knew. Besides Nick. We talked like a couple of old grannies about the Good Ol’ Days of The Internet. Back when you had to walk both ways uphill to post on a BBS and The Well accounts were homemade, never store bought. It was a great opportunity for web heads around town to hook up and mingle about their recent exploits and self-promote their personal projects. But mostly I just talked to Nick. Who, by the way, introduced me to the founder of SF Beta, Christian Perry (CEO of Zaptix). At first I thought Nick said Christian founded SFGate not SFBeta, and was like WTF? Was he even born? Quickly I was corrected. Still, CEO at 23 ain’t a bad record.

The party began to pick up as the time wore on. I finished my 8 dollar glass of wine, and headed back to the bar for something sponsored this time. My GlamNetwork sticker in plain view I ordered a sauvignon blanc. He poured it for me. Then he told me it would be eight dollars.

“But, I have my sticker!,” I told him, jutting my chest in his direction. He shook his head at me, a cocky grin on his face. “You have to have a ticket.”

Let me pause here, people, to say that the bartender knew what I was trying to do here. He was working a party where there were sponsored beverages, and he knew very well my intentions were to acquire one. Instead, he had to make things difficult. He was standing right next to me when the nice GlamNetwork lady told me that my sticker would get me free booze. But, alas. It was obvious the man hated his job, and he was going to take it out on these party goers. (Or maybe just me, but I don’t think I’m unique enough to get special sh*tty treatment.) I wasn’t interested in groveling for a free drink, but I wasn’t interested in paying $8 plus tip for a glass of wine with too short a pour, either. So, I simply slid the glass of wine back to him, picked up the dollar I’d already left as a tip and left.

“Sorry!,” he called out to my back. But, he wasn’t. There was pure pleasure behind his voice.

So, overall the party is a neat idea. Geeks and bloggers mingle and talk tech projects in a pretty atmosphere while (supposedly) slurping comped alcohol. Two out of three ain’t bad, I guess.

[cross posted at Eye on Blogs]

The hilarious Beth Spotswood invited me to a Nintendo Party thrown just for women. There was promise of free booze and snacks, and getting to meet Beth was high on my list of things I’d been wanting to do. Of course I said I would go. It was at DogPatch Studios in what their website calls the “hip and creative side of Potrero Hill.” It was a neighborhood I’d never been to before, and all I knew about it I learned from Google an hour before I was to leave for work. I decided then and there that I wasn’t spending ten or more dollars for a taxi to take me three miles, so I called up Google Maps’ “take mass transit feature” (love it). It told me that I could take the 12 Folsom bus to pick up the K @ Embarcadero and Folsom, and that it would take around 45 minutes (and cost $3). [Why I didn’t just walk to the Embarcadero station and take the K directly there is beyond me. I’m still trying to figure this MUNI shit out.]

So, I head to the bus stop at Battery and Broadway, as Google has instructed me. I note that there are two points marked as stops on the map, but only one bus shelter with arrival times. The electronic sign says the 12 Folsom is 12 minutes away, so I waited. About 14 minutes later the 12 Folsom showed up, passed me and stopped across the intersection to pick up about three people. There was no shelter where they stood or sign designating it a waiting point. That was where I was supposed to be. I’d just missed my bus. I fished out $15 and hailed a cab.

Once in the cab I couldn’t figure out why we were getting on the freeway if we were only going 3.3 miles. I was sure the taxi driver had misunderstood my directions. Still, I don’t know my way around SOMA or Potrero Hill, so I just rode along silently, hoping he was going to 20th and Tennessee and not 40th and Hennessy, or whatever he’d thought I said. Then, just off the freeway, there we were in a pretty, but quiet part of San Francisco. There were homes, but few people out on foot and not many cars. No eateries or little retail shops, either. Just warehouses and lofts and work/live spaces. Because I didn’t need the full hour to travel since I ended up in a cab, I was the first person to arrive at the party. I hate that.

I made my way to the second floor of the DogPatch studio since there was no bar nearby where I could tie one on while waiting for 7 o’ clock. Inside was a gorgeous space set up like a large, large living room with couches and lounging chairs and it was all very modern with clean lines. Five young, fit and pretty women, all dressed the same, greeted me when I walked in. The whole setup was creepy and artificial, and I felt awkward when one with super long curly hair gave me this charm bracelet, with Nintendo bling already on it, and told me when I finished each game that I’d get a new charm. Then she asked if I wanted champagne. All at once I got a little more comfortable with the situation.

Beth arrived soon thereafter, and she’s just as fabulous and funny in person. No shit. I was even more thrilled to learn that Melissa, she of The Sweet, was coming, as I’d met her awesome ass before. Knowing that she and Spots are BFFs let me know that I was in for a few laughs. They did not disappoint.

“How long do I have to play this game before you’ll just give me my jewelry?,” Melissa asked the Nintendo gal. Melissa is a whip smart attorney who breaks down city codes and Supreme Court rulings for her readers like it’s something fun to do. But apparently the anagram game was kicking her ass. Knowing Melissa, I’m pretty sure she got her charm anyway.

I played Guitar Hero on DS, or rather Guitar Hero: On Tour. This was my first Guitar Hero experience, and it was highly satisfying because every real guitar I’ve ever picked up has hurt my delicate girl fingers too much to keep playing. It was very hard for me not to bust out some cock rock moves, but I was trying to reign in the dorky amongst new acquaintances. I also owned at Mario Kart on DS, but I have mad experience under my belt from marathon Murfreesboro Mario Kart sessions, so that was to be expected. It was the Brain Age game that really left me feeling defeated. I had to look at a 5×5 grid of numbers and memorize them all. I think I got 8 right. My brain age was evaluated as 39. As a mere 30 year old I find this displeasing. So, I drowned my pain in more champagne. Seemed a good solution.

There was brie, which is my weakness. There were water crackers and strawberries, too, and little sandwiches made from fresh basil, tomato and mozzarella. Then, all at once, I was standing with a champagne flute in one hand, a little plate full of fancy cheeses resting on top of it, in a fancy pants loft in a part of San Francisco I’d never been to before, mingling with writers and editors from the Chronicle, and I thought: where the fuck am I? Me in that kind of situation sounded in my head like the setup for some kind of sitcom, but no. Brittney Gilbert, this is your life. And I wasn’t entirely out of my element, either. I had a great discussion with the foul-mouthed, super sharp Eve who Beth mentions regularly, because Eve is Beth’s editor at The Newspaper. What was really weird was that Eve knew who I was. I didn’t even know what to say to that. We talked Emily Gould and web branding vs. web creating and how women are perceived and reacted to online and Japanese hair straightening techniques. And dogs. The lady is fascinating.

Because I got there early and had a long BART ride ahead of me I decided to jet around 9:30. But not before Beth and Melissa and I discussed how that Bay Area man who said he’d been attacked by a mountain lion. Somehow Beth had not heard this tale.

“Yeah, but there was no real evidence of any attack,” Melissa explained. “He was just dirty.”

I asked what happens to you when you falsely report a mountain lion attack. Apparently nothing was the consensus.

“Let’s do that tonight!,” Melissa squealed.

She lowered her voice into a serious-as-a-heart-attack tone. “I was attacked by a saber-toothed tiger. He came into my apartment, and he drank my beer.”

“No, no,” Beth said. “I was attacked by a dinosaur!”

By this time I was about to piss myself I was laughing so hard.

“And he raped me.” This is when I think I totally lost it. “And then he raped Melissa. And then he stole my couch and left.”

WHERE HAVE THESE LADIES BEEN ALL MY LIFE? When haven’t I wanted girlfriends who can joke about dinosaur rape without a second thought? Never, that is when.

I had to peel myself out of there before I got too wasted for a school night. It was then that Becky and I tried to take the T back to Embarcadero so we could get our bridge-and-tunnel asses back to the East Bay. We didn’t know what the fuck we were doing. We were looking for a machine to sell us out ticket to get on, but there wasn’t one to be found. We then opted to share a cab, but one never came, as the “hip and creative side of Potrero Hill” is a dead zone. I called Ian and asked if there was some secret MUNI ticket booth that maybe we were overlooking, and he said, “If I were you, I’d just get on. If they ask you for your ticket tell them you tried to pay.” This was good enough for me. We headed back to the platform. Becky had the balls to ask a stranger dude how we paid for our ride, and he told us you paid when you got on. Ohhhhh. Huh. Makes sense.

It took me a good hour and half to get to my front door from the time I left the party. I can’t wait to move into the City.

June was stuffed. I’m going to tell you about it, but backwards.

Yesterday I woke up in San Francisco in a bed I like very much. It’s a bed that bites my shins when I walk by it, leaving bruises for days, but I don’t mind. There is a soft blanket and it’s plenty big and when you sit up in it there is a window you can see straight out of. It’s a view of Twin Peaks and Noe Valley. Sometimes the crests of the dual mountains can be clearly seen, but yesterday there were no hilltops at all only fog. I put on a shirt and a cardigan and then a jacket on the day before July and walked to the train to go to work.

Later in the afternoon I went to see my therapist. Have I mentioned I’m going to therapy? Oh yes, girl, and why I didn’t go years ago is beyond me. I love it. I love her. My therapist is amazing; I want us to be best friends. My friend tells me this is called transference. I just think it’s strange to tell someone such intimate things about yourself and not want to know more about her, too. Anyway, it’s fantastic and I’m glad I’m going; I look forward to seeing her every week.

Then I watched the Bachelorette because that DeAnna chick embodies everything that is evil and wrong with pretty princess-types. It’s fascinating. You should see how often she blinks her eyes. It would reveal all you needed to know.

Sunday at around noon I went to Taza in the Misison for brunch with Ian MacBean. He’s enjoyable to eat brunch with because he is thoughtful. He’ll score two sections of the Chronicle from the community table, ask you which you’d like to read, then hand that section over to you. So, I like to eat with him. I ordered a veggie scramble with fruit instead of potatoes and whole wheat toast. I was very proud of my selection because a) baguette was another of my bread options and b) come on, breakfast potatoes are way tastier than fruit. I couldn’t go around feeling virtuous all day so I went to Mitchell’s ice cream on San Jose after that and bought an ice cream cake for a friend’s birthday. I selected a white cake with chocolate ice cream because Molly is allergic to mangoes and Mike is allergic to nuts. I was able to get writing on it even though I didn’t call ahead or anything, so I was very pleased. Plus there wasn’t a long line, which is par for the course at Mitchell’s apparently.

Then I watched two episodes of season 2 of The Wire (so good!) with Ian, who is introducing me to the series. We are also watching Twin Peaks (may the White Lodge treat you well, Major Briggs), but at a slower rate. After a quick lie down with McNulty there was gardening! The garden in Ian’s backyard is tended to by many hands. It is a fun sort of group garden, and for my part I harvested the collard greens and planted heirloom tomatoes. (With plenty of supervision, mother, I can see your face.) Later that night there was grilling and salad making and bread and cheese eating and wine sharing and general merriment. I have stumbled onto some phenomenal fucking people.

Saturday my sweet Lisey met me briefly and brought me a delicious thing called a morning bun which is like a flaky, powdery pastry thing that I thought about for two days. I was grateful that she did; it was all I had before I left to play in my work league’s softball tournament. Back when in this interview process at KPIX the guy interviewing me asked if I had any softball experience. When I said plenty, I saw eyes light up. I knew this was my in immediately (not really), so I had to live up to the expectation once hired on. And so I played. To say that I suck at softball now, in my 30s would be pretty harsh, but I’m not so hot. I’m sporting a bruise on my ankle right now from attempting to play catcher in a playoff game. It is not pretty and neither is my swing. I’m probably selling myself short, and besides playing was always fun. Especially when we won, which was 8 times out of 14.

Friday night was pretty chill. I went to a blogger meet-up at Zeitgeist in the Mission. Met up with Valleywag writers and Curbed writers and Greg! from N-Judah Chronicles. It was fun, if not a little strange, as those events can sometimes be. I didn’t stay long, as I didn’t much feel like socializing, frankly. Otherwise my night was chill. I’m fairly certain using the word “chill” in such a manner is not something I would have done before moving to California, and seeing it in print has given me pause. However, let’s move on.

Thursday [REDACTED]

Wednesday I had a nice, long heart-to-heart with my CPA about what I (finally) owe for taxes this year. It should be noted that I just finished a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which is how it is going to be around here for mama for a while. For the same reason I like to eat with Ian, I also was able to score a free seat to the Phillies/A’s game that night. Because he is thoughtful. A big group of us went, and there were french fries and beer and all was well. I liked finding all the Phillies hats, as there were many. And one Schmidt jersey directly to my right.

I had some cupcakes that blew my mind with a cute girl with the name Caitlin. I have always liked that name. We drank milk with our cupcakes in the late afternoon sunshine, and it felt very wonderfully earnest. I had a neapolitan selection. The tiny ones tickled me the most. The strawberry one with the littlest pearl sprinkles on top was the best, and I wished I’d gotten that one as the big one. Rarely does a flavor trump that of chocolate on my tongue, so these strawberry bites were something extraordinary.

I broke my computer sometime this month. Sort of. I left a glass of champagne on the table where my laptop was sleeping. Cooper dog walked by and knocked the glass over with his tail, briefly spilling some beneath the computer’s undercarriage. It was enough so that it won’t even start again. NOTE TO READERS: Do not tell the Apple Geniuses. I’m playing dumb. Can’t think about the cost of the alternative.

I went to lunch with Lisey and we had bloody marys made with cilantro and habeneros. I got a nice fire in my belly while we talked. She is easy to talk to, and there are few women I’d rather have a drink and a chat with.

I went hiking in Bolinas, which is a tiny town in Marin County, north of San Francisco. Residents of the town take down signs so that their secluded wonderland isn’t overrun, so it can be tough to find. After two softball games Ian and I hiked about 2 miles to meet up with his friends who had arrived earlier. We hiked along the headlands, along steep cliffs overlooking a black Pacific Ocean beach. The water was a deep teal from way up there, and I was overcome by its beauty and vastness, but more than that by its proximity. I’ve never lived so close to the ocean, especially not this one. Now, I can see it or touch it or smell it every day if I want. We hiked to a lake further inland where friends were already floating. The water was cold but clear, and it felt amazing to swim out into the still, wet depths that sat in the bowl of those woods. The scenery was so foreign to me. I had never been to a place that looked like that. So, I swam in it. I floated in the middle and looked all around, and felt a little like a birth. I’m sure my friends will be thrilled to know that there was any birthing going on in that lake, but despite laughing at rope swing attempts and drinking beer in a float, I was also taking it all in. The lake chilled me that day, and I couldn’t stay very long, but it left a deep impression.

I made dinner one night as well. This is a nightly ritual for many people, but I can count on my hands the number of meals I have made for people other than myself. It was just a pasta dish, but it came out great. I’m proud of that lemon fettucine.

And with that, I wrap up the June review. All told, it was one of the very best Junes of my life.

I have been in the Bay Area over six months, and I still can’t dress myself. How am I supposed to be able to look nice when I have to change clothes four times a day depending on which side of the water I’m on, how close to said water I actually am, whether their is shade or not or if the sun has gone down? Heels — any dress shoes in general — are out, since I walk close to four miles a day to and from work. So, yes, I know: layers, layers, layers along with comfortable shoes. But I don’t have that. Where I’m from you have your summer clothes and your winter clothes. I’ve got big, chunky sweaters and teeny tiny tank tops. I’ve got heavy wool coats and sundresses, and ne’er the two shall meet. Slowly I’ve got to incorporate thin scarves, long sleeved t-shirts, thin undershirts, hoodies and light jackets into my wardrobe. My sneakers and boots are all in need of repair due to the tons of mileage they’ve seen while a dozen or more pairs of high heels, wedges and other impractical shoes sit prettily and ignored.

These days I basically wear jeans and two shirts, one t or tank under a long-sleeved something. I’m accumulating more skirts and layer-y type tops, along with wraps and scarves and other layers you can add that don’t add much bulk to myself or in my bag. And that’s another thing, since I’m never in a car I can’t keep things in there. So, while I’m changing four times a day I have to find a place to put those necessary layers, so they travel with me on my person. Therefore the thinner, the better, so long as the items are sufficiently warm.

Frankly, I’ve never had to think about clothes and shoes in such a utilitarian fashion before. I used to buy ewhat I liked — whatever was pretty and what looked good on me. I bought warm weather clothes and cold weather clothes, and never would I wear them on the same day, rarely even the same month. But here the climate is temperate, pretty much the same throughout the year without a lot of variance. However the variance in weather within a single day can be staggering, especially if traveling transbay. I’ve literally left my house in Berkeley in a tank top, sweating, only to arrive in San Francisco, atop one of its famous hilltops, in a backyard canyon, to find the wind whipping up such chilly air that I had to seek out extra layers.

“It never hurts to take a jacket,” is a pretty good mantra, and something I always try to do. But that jacket has to live somewhere on days like today when it was 82 at 7 p.m. in the city, where almost no one has air conditioning. This is why so many urban dwellers, men and women alike, carry big bags around with them. Who knew? I certainly didn’t.

I’m getting it figured out slowly, but I’ve still got far to go. One can’t up and trade in her existing wardrobe for a new, more-area appropriate one, but I’m getting there. Like today, I bought this dress. Perfect for warm days today, so long as there is a thin, but wind-fighting cardigan to go with it. And maybe a jacket on top of that for later that night.

I’m gonna be going back home for a week’s visit in either July or August, and after reading this note from a Bay Area friend, I kinda can’t wait for the reverse culture shock:

You’re still new here, but after a while you forget what life outside of CA is like. You go back home and visit fam & friends and wonder WHY everyone there is wearing chinos & polo shirts and why isn’t it appropriate to talk about dildos and butt plugs in a coffee shop? Hey, how come talking about the girl who has two mommies is a conversation-ender? And hey, how come I can’t buy booze on Sunday? It creeps up on you.

Like I said, can’t wait. I imagine going back will be almost as weird as coming out here in the first place.

Today I awoke to the sound of a pair of parrots. Their voices have become distinct to me, and I recognize them from the other birds who fly near here. Their squawks fill the air with a near demand to be heard. They are wild, so they say no words.

They have become a comfort. When the parrots are around I am reminded of all that is wonderful here. And different. Over time the differences have become little rafts to which I cling. Wild parrots, boys making out in the park, people openly smoking pot on the streets, the wind whipping through alleyways, skyscrapers that pierce through blue, the consistency of car horns, taxiing to and fro, sidewalks that turn into staircases, water on all three sides, walking everywhere I go, bike messengers, slides in the middle of hilly neighborhoods–these are all tiny salvations, reminders that I’m right where I want to be.

I want to visit, but I don’t want to go home.

I’ve discovered, after five months, a dozen bizarre conversations and a stinky kiss on the face by a homeless stranger, that walking around San Francisco with earbuds in or headphones on is necessary to successfully avoid the crazy. Or, in my case, being asked for directions. (I haven’t been here long enough to tell anyone anything about how to get anywhere, it’s best they don’t waste their time asking me.) I used to think it was because every one couldn’t get by without music in their ears, and that may be true, but I’m willing to bet most of these headphone listening pedestrians and public transit riders are also trying to prevent conversations like the one I had late one night with a spectacularly inebriated man on BART that mostly consisted of grunts and giggles.

And I’ve also discovered, just as was predicted, that my crush on BART has moved beyond the flirty stage and into that stage where you start to get annoyed by stuff that never bothered you before. When I first moved here I was always very cautious to know the etiquette, but I had to be making some new girl mistakes. So, I was always patient with others. Somehow, that patience wore right the fuck out. Because I was pressing down pretty hard on that clueless lass who was talking on her cell phone, dragging two suitcases and putting her ticket in the wrong way. Then I cut her off at the escalator.

Now when someone doesn’t Stand Right, Walk Left I get all pissy and antsy. I’ve actually now gotten the courage to say “Excuse Me,” to indicate that myself and about 20 other people are trying to come through. They typically figure it out, move right, and then I make it to work 45 seconds sooner than I would have.

More BART pet peeves:

• Beeping video games. I kid you not, this woman played a noisy game of digital Sudoku on her Blackberry so loud that she got hairy eyeballs from at least five people that I counted. She played from the Embarcadero station all the way to Downtown Berkeley with loudass bloops and bleeps every five seconds. It easily penetrated the music coming out of my iPod. I wanted to beat her with the thing by the time she got off.
• Pole huggers. I’m not that short, but I’m not that tall either. If I have to stand on BART, I can’t exactly hold on to the overhead bars for balance without getting up on my tiptoes, which is not the optimal way to ride for 35 minutes. So, I try very hard when standing to get a handled seat to hold on to or one of the vertical rails. At least three people can hold on to a vertical rail, maybe more. And yet, dumb motherfuckers hug the poll like it’s the only friend they have got in the world. When they do that no one else gets to hold onto the poll that can be easily reached by those 5′4″ and under. This drives me crazy, especially when the pole hugger can handily reach the overhead bars. Don’t be a pole hugger.
• Hearing your shitty music. Not only are you damaging your ears, I can promise you that you are the only person loving Anal Thunder at 8 a.m., brother. There is no need to have it so loud. I sometimes wonder if the people who play their music so loudly that the existence of headphones is mere pretense do so because they are feeling that shit so hard that they can’t help but share it with the train. All I know is, people who play music loud enough for other people to hear it play some crappy ass music.
• Staring. This is rude just about anywhere you go. No excuses, people, your mama taught you better.
• Not getting up to let people in or out. If you can’t be arsed to slide to the inside of an empty seat for two, at least get up when a commuter goes to sit down. Swinging your legs to the outside doesn’t cut it. Don’t make me climb all over you, lady. I will do it, and I will win.
• That one sunflower seed eating lady. Every time. She eats them every time. Get a new snack!
• Children making out. I don’t want to see your tongue meet someone else’s on BART. And get your hand out of her skirt. This goes double if you still go to something called “homeroom.”

It was a good trip up to the top.

View from atop Bernal Heights, San Francisco from brittney gilbert on Vimeo.