The Manifest Destiny Tour - Day 13

In San Francisco

8:49 am

While in San Francisco, we’re staying at my friend Lauren’s. She lives on the third floor of a townhouse overlooking Castro Street, the unofficial heart of the gay district. The gay district of San Francisco. I know. I’ve experienced enough world, especially living in Austin, to not be too shocked. Although my Southern Baptist upbringing did cringe slightly while walking past The Sausage Factory, I’ve been more amused than anything. Jordan, I’m afraid, whose Billy Graham sensibilities are still firmly intact (which, ironically, I’m glad of), has been a little more than weirded out. Last night, after skirting around the Moby Dick patrons, he muttered something about his concern for our safety. I reassured him, saying that we were probably on the safest street in America, that we could take anyone in a fist slap-fight. Of course, we were immediately passed by two large men holding hands. Not fair, I remember thinking. Gay men are supposed to be sweet and funny and small. But what do I know about these things.

11:37 pm

We went to the Giants game tonight. It was fun, a baseball game. Because parking can be a nightmare anywhere in the city, and especially at AT&T Park (will we ever go back to names like Candlestick? [sigh]), we decided to take the San Francisco Municipal Railway. Muni for short, it’s a sometimes underground, sometimes aboveground subway, trolley-car, light rail thing. Despite its confusion for tourists (perhaps purposely so), I believe San Fran’s public transit is extremely efficient.

And it’s diverse. All types were on board with us: different races, nationalities, religious affiliations, socio-economic backgrounds, personal hygienes. And all of us it seemed were heading to the baseball game. Packed in, sardine-like, picking up more sardines at each stop. Packed so tight that we can’t change position. So tight that there’s no need to hang on to the railing anymore, just squeeze forward or back. So tight that all our differences bleed and melt together. I become the Indian storeowner from Mumbai. He becomes the young black boy with cornrows and a hard face. The boy becomes the elderly Chinese woman clutching her groceries. His groceries. My groceries. We are ash-colored Agnostics from everywhere and nowhere. We are the Socialist’s quixotic dream. Only we don’t talk to each other, don’t even look at each other, just bowl unapologetically through and over each other and ourselves to get to where we need, disrupting the dream, alone again or not at all.

“Yeah, I heard a funny thing;
Somebody said to me,
You know that I could be in love with almost everyone;
I think that people are
The greatest fun.
And I will be alone again tonight my dear.”
"Alone Again Or" - Love