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.