Checkpoint: What I've Learned in SF (So Far)

I've now been in SF for six weeks, the halfway point for my internship and purposes here. While learning tons at my actual job, I've also picked up a few nuggets of knowledge about the city itself.

On tours around the city, you can learn what the oldest building is or who this Francisco guy was (I'm assuming. I've actually never been on a fancy, official tour in a double-decker bus, so maybe I'm completely wrong), but you miss out on legit SF experiences and insight. Living here, even for only six weeks, I've gleaned city tips, tricks and troubles and am willing to share my stash of shiny knowledge, one blingin' story at a time. But ye be warned: these are no city-guide pieces of trivia. These are hard-won on the stony streets of San Fran by a blonde girl in Chacos.

A lesson on assuming: Appearances can be deceiving (or: even people who you think are scary will pity you) 
Since the moment I mentioned going to SF, even just to interview for the internship, my father and other concerned wise folk told me repeatedly to watch out for the panhandlers. And with good reason. San Francisco is notorious for the homeless population, and, according to TripAdvisor users and the city's own SF Gate, they are aggressive. So I was on my guard.

I arrived in the city for the summer meaning business, but I found it difficult to give off don't-mess-with-me vibes while struggling with my waist-high shiny baby elephant suitcase plus three other bags up the stairs of the Powell BART station.

Every article of clothing and inch of heel that I could fit was packed into two 49.5-lb. suitcases (fire-engine red and shiny purple-green, naturally), an expandable duffle and a backpack, and I could technically carry it all. When conditions were perfect (meaning nobody in a 3-foot radius and a completely flat surface), I could stack, carry and roll those suckers all day. So when faced the two flights of cement stairs, I almost cried. But then I put on my big girl panties (metaphorically, as all my undergarments were securely sardined) and prepped  for the most intense arm workout of my life.

After what seemed like 15 minutes and two-hours-worth of blatant "you're insane" stares, I got halfway up and almost cried again. 10 more stairs. (What can I say, I'm a wimp.) As I looked bleakly at the rest of my journey, I heard a gruff voice ask "Do you need some help?"

Help??

YES! I wanted to yell. But I could only stare blankly at the source of the polite question. The man was in desperate need of a bath and a shave, and his clothes were horribly worn. He had clearly just been sitting at the top of the stairs, asking for money or some kind of help. A panhandler. Part of the aggressive homeless menace about which I had been thoroughly warned.

All I managed was an eloquent "Uh, yeah" before he hoisted both of my hulking suitcases up the rest of the stairs and deposited them at the top.

"Wow, thanks so much," I finally mumbled, after following him up the stairs in a daze. "Great, now he's going to take one of them and run," I thought, not even fully sure of what I would do if that happened.

"Yeah, you looked like you needed some help," he said with a smirk. And then he walked away.

I'm sure I was in the way. I'm sure people were staring. I don't even remember grabbing my suitcases and rolling them to the crosswalk. I should have at least offered him money or something, but I was too completely flabbergasted. That had just happened.

Five minutes before, he had been begging for small change, for pity. Then, out of everyone passing by, he's the one to help out a wimpy girl with too much stuff.

Part of me thinks that if a homeless man felt sorry for me, I must have looked pretty hopeless. Another part knows that in the midst of brokenness and fear, there is goodness.

Not that I'm expecting that kind of treatment all the time (cause I'd probably be dead), but on my first day in one of the strangest cities, it's exactly the experience I needed.

Kitty vs. Katie

Let me just set the record straight: I really don't have a mind-freezing, body-shaking aversion to cats.

In fact, I have a cat. He's great. He stays outside most of the time and catches small rodents like a good cat should, protecting his owners from the terror of scurrying things that go eek in the night. Not just that, but he's a sweetheart too. And I would love to cuddle with him and stroke his creamsicle fur and let him knead my blanket-covered lap.

But I'm not going to.

The only problem with a picturesque cat lady scene like this, is that, while morphing into my old piano teacher, I'd be actively breaking out in hives. My immune system says I'm allergic to cats, and, while I probably won't die from cat-hair inhalation/contact/images, all of them do make my life less than comfortable.

Which is why Kitty stays out.

Moving to San Francisco for the summer has been a challenge. There are lots of new things, some people call them roadblocks, (others call them God's caution tape), to get used to about the transportation, the housing and just the city itself. One of those things is Kitty.

When I arrived at my hastily-found (and by that I mean I secured it four days before I flew in) sublet, she was there waiting for me. On my bed. Her two-inch white and grey hairs wafting through the air like some kind of toxic snow. At that moment, we looked at each other, and knew.

The sad thing is, she's really sweet (as far as cats go). She loves to be pet and actively tries to snuggle with anyone who happens to be nearby. Anyone. Sometimes aggressively. She is an equal-opportunity shedder and doesn't care who you are or what your allergies are. You will be loved and marked accordingly. 

So we have issues.

Especially since her owner is the one I'm subletting from. Not only is all of her graciously-left furniture/bedding covered in Kitty-hair, but Kitty also thinks it's her room, and loves nothing more than curling up in between the pillows. Cool.

The first night was the worst. I moved in late after spending a week perched at a friend-of-a-friend's place in the city and, for the first hour or so, gawked at my room and its lack of closet. As in, it didn't (and still doesn't) have one. At all. The rest of the night was spent with one of my roommates, (the only one who has moved in thus far) bonding. And by that I mean hardcore cleaning the kitchen, refrigerator and bathroom, which looked to be the victims of a serious drunk-eating/hair-braiding episode.

But I knew the real challenge was still ahead, taunting me with its down comforter and hair-swaddled blankets. I washed and brushed and shook and prayed that the hair wasn't lurking in fabric crevices, waiting to be unleashed. I actually had a dream about running from a giant hairball (but that could have been from the cleaning session...two of the previous tenants were from Hawaii. 'Nough said.). When I woke up, my eyes wouldn't open all the way and my nose tingled with pre-sneeze prickles. I spent the rest of the day popping Claritin like it was gummy bears and plotting how to steal the lotiony tissue from the office bathroom.

When I got back home (sans lotiony tissues or actual gummy bears), I had a plan: if Kitty couldn't get in my room, she couldn't leave hair everywhere. Genius, I know. Took me all day.

I implemented the plan (Operation Close-the-Door-Really-Quickly) immediately, and, I have to say, it has been marginally successful. Team Cat-less has had a few losses (like when I woke up to her almost jumping on my face), but I hold out hope for a better future. In the meantime, I'm honing my door-closing reflexes and hoping that cats can be trained fairly easily. Wish me luck.