Unwinding before bed after a long day, I made myself a nice cup of chamomile and left it to cool on the kitchen counter. I then absently wandered into the bathroom, thoroughly brushed my teeth, flossed, and put in my retainer. Returning to the kitchen, I slapped myself on the forehead.
What to do with a perfectly good cup of tea? I couldn't bear to waste it, so I covered it with plastic wrap and stuck it in the fridge. In theory, it'll be iced tea in the morning.
Now that I've branded myself as the girl who knows nothing about tea and who may have short term memory loss.......
Tonight was the long-awaited Eddie Izzard show. It took four months of anticipation and $75 of my hard-earned minimum wage money, but finally I'm on the train heading downtown to meet my friends who are coming up from San Jose. I'm irreversibly on my way when I get the call: "We're running later than we'd hoped, just got to the Bart station...sorry sorry sorry! See you soon!"
With forty minutes to kill and nothing to entertain me but a book of impossible crossword puzzles, I figure the only thing to do would be to find a coffee shop to exist in for a while. I wander off down the street, figuring there's got to be SOMETHING nearby--this is San Francisco, after all. We like our coffee like we like our women...in a plastic cup. (What?)
This is not the safest part of town, even for a seasoned San Francisco walker (move fast, look straight ahead, above all show no fear--they can smell fear). I have never been catcalled in so many different ways and languages within a three block radius. Apparently the Tenderloin is also the only place in the city you will not find a Starbucks on every corner. Maybe it's because no yuppies live there...maybe it's because all the baristas are too afraid to walk down the street...maybe it's the Coffee Bermuda Triangle where respectable coffeehouses mysteriously disappear into oblivion. There are, however, two Donut Worlds on the same block. My feet eventually overrule my sense of class, and when I reach the second one I give up and duck inside for a sub-par mocha.
I'm a bit overdressed for Donut World, but the place is fairly empty so I figure I could at least escape the outside world for a while. I stand there watching the world's slowest fast food employee fumble with the espresso machine. Meanwhile, a small crowd begins to trickle in. One guy stands a little too close to me while admiring the pastry selection, and when he can't manage to engage my attention on the subject of cinnamon rolls he gets straight to the point and tells me I'm beautiful.
"I bet when you go out to the club you get a lot of compliments."
"I do okay," I reply awkwardly.
"Even though the ratio of girls to guys in this city is like six to one."
"Uh-huh."
"Are you single?"
"No," I lie. The espresso guy dumps out the first batch and starts over.
"That's too bad...good for you, but bad for me."
I give him a half-hearted grin and remind myself to avoid Donut World in the future.
"Maybe we can still be friends," he persists. "Can I at least have your name? So I can say hi if I see you around."
I give him that much, thinking that I never come this way if I can help it. I pay for what had better be the world's best mocha as a homeless guy loudly debates the pros and cons of jelly donuts and Casanova's female friend starts rapping out clumsy percussion on the counter. When she starts to improvise a little song to it, I decide to take my coffee to go.
Wandering the streets among men who have no shame in staring or calling after me, I actually start to wonder why guys I'm interested in can't be this forward. The feminist in me is appalled by this thought, but there's something strangely refreshing about skipping all the social pretense and just saying what's on your mind. Wouldn't the dating world be simpler if we all operated this way? "I think you're really attractive" or "I would like to get to know you" or "Wanna screw?" (Whichever way one operates.)
With a little creative navigation to avoid the most unsavory groups hanging out on Market Street, I finally make my way back to the relative safety of the theatre. I keep splashing hot mocha on my hand, my feet are tired, and it's cold and windy; and although my ego is slightly bolstered, I decide not to wander certain areas of town by myself anymore, no matter how seasoned a city girl I may think I am. With a sigh, I lean against the wall and wait for my friends to appear. Suddenly, the crowd parts and I glimpse the familiar green of Starbucks, that safe haven of coffeehouses, glimmering mischievously from just across the street.
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