As I See it Bummed in San Francisco November 2006

by Jacki Irwin

I’ve always thought of myself as a city girl. I grew-up in Pasadena and at one time knew every street and freeway in Los Angeles like the back of my hand. I got my first speeding ticket at the age of 16 on the Pasadena Freeway. Mario Andretti couldn’t hold a candle to me back in those days.

Recently my mother, daughter, and I took a fall shopping extravaganza to San Francisco. Traffic was light and we made the trip in under an hour. Unfortunately, by the time we reached the hotel my knuckles were white from gripping the wheel and my shoulders were hunched up to my ears. My Mario Andretti persona has morphed into Nervous Nelly.

Our room provided us with a view of a cinderblock wall and a rooftop littered with bottles partially full of some murky-orange liquid. It was a sickening sight so we shut the curtains. We referred to our hotel room as “The Penalty Box,” and vowed to spend as little time in it as possible.

We walked directly into a rough section of town on our first trip out of the hotel. If we had been looking for our next fix we would have been in luck. We made a beeline back to our hotel room that had suddenly taken on qualities of coziness and safety that had previously been hidden from us. We shook from the adrenaline rush for the next couple of hours.

The next morning we hit the shops surrounding Union Square with a vengeance. Problems arose when we traveled from store to store. Three homeless men stand out in my memory. The first was the Banana-Spitting Bum who spat bananas at passersby who failed to provide the handouts he was asking for. The second was the Tummy Bum who sported gorgeous white sneakers that helped him rush passersby for donations to be placed in his paper Starbucks cup. He freaked out my daughter by bumping his large bare tummy into her as she passed. And the third was the Violent Bum who got right up into people’s faces. He kept freaking out and chasing people away with a stick. What happened to the good old days when the homeless just sat quietly holding a cup?

That night we were starved after a full day of walking from store to store, running from bums, and trying on clothes. We went to Pesce, an Italian restaurant, that regularly receives rave reviews. After riding a cable car to the top of Russian Hill, we hopped off in a charming part of town. My mother asked the maitre’d to put our name on his list. He looked her up and down once or twice and then said matter-of-factly, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m not going to take that.”

We stood silently trying to figure out what he was talking about patiently waiting for the punch line. Finally he clarified by adding, “No, that’s not possible. We won’t possibly have a table until 9:00.”

That was only an hour wait. We didn’t mind. My mother said, “No problem. Put us on the list.”

He replied, “Why…don’t…you…come back at 9 and we’ll talk.”

We ended up a couple of doors down at a pizza joint. The salad was great and the pizza was even better. The waiter poured the wine to overflowing.

I was nervous about taking the trolley back to our hotel and as luck would have it, a taxi pulled up and stopped in the middle of the street.

“You ladies need a ride?”

We hopped in and before we could buckle our seatbelts the driver was burning rubber, spinning a donut in the middle of the intersection, rocketing us back towards our hotel.

Michael was his name and driving was his game. I kept thinking he was only making his fare less by driving at break-neck speed. We were headed down one of those famous San Francisco hills. I prayed the light ahead would stay red. The light turned green, Michael gunned it, and we caught air! The three of us must have sounded like the three little pigs squealing in the back seat.

“Where you ladies from? Kansas?”

The fare only added up to $4 but I gave him $10. “Keep the change,” I told him. Since we hadn’t actually been killed, the ride really had been a lot of fun.

Although I’m a city girl at heart I guess I’m a little out of practice. I’m really bummed by all the bums we met in the City, however. The ones in raggedy clothing in the street as well as the one we met standing in his suit behind Pesce’s reservation stand.

Our next shopping trip might be in New York except for the danger that we might be even more bummed there. °

Jacqueline Irwin
Associate Editor
jacki@110mag.com