By some sort of magical non-verbal agreement, the roommates and I decide to sleep in this morning. Lazing around in bed till nine, I prepare myself mentally for a great personal achievement: eating breakfast at the hostel. Like a grown-up. I even get coffee AND tea. Tomorrow, I might get pancakes. I might even go crazy and like, talk to people.
I have my new grey dress on, grey tights, light grey socks and shiny purple boots. Mirror mirror, tell me who looks the raddest. I settle on the couch by the window in the lobby, waiting for my bag. It is delivered, as is now tradition, one hour and forty minutes late. Just enough time for me to realize I am literally surrounded by French people on all sides. Will I ever be free?
Neil Young’s Harvest envelops me like a warm blanket as I write post after post for the blog. Tenderloin lives its busy, complicated life on the other side of the window. It is cold and grey outside, like a fat, dead pigeon.
I leave the hostel at 3pm, head to SoMa along my trusty companion, O’Farrell St. The square, imposing blocks south of Market Street evoke a landscape of 1984-esque proportions. The MLK memorial is unassuming, but a vibrant homage nonetheless. I get to my destination, SFMOMA…. five minutes before closing time. Damn.
Okay, whatever, this is a cheat day. It’s cold and damp and sad and I am hungry. I spotted an Indian restaurant on the way in: I stop there on the way out for a Kadhai paneer thali. Yum.
On the way back to the hostel, I buy a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. It’s Christmers, after all.
SONG CREDITS: Out on the Weekend – Neil Young – Harvest