Photo: s2art

YOUR THROAT SORE at first, and within an hour your eyelids hot, your eyes burning, and feelings of dizziness, followed by worry about getting sick.

The people behind you, their footsteps, and the reoccurring curiosity, awe, or horror about whether or not you’re actually going to be sick, on this street, with someone that keeps talking to you, that won’t shut up, and then at the market, where they’ve laid out on wooden tables whole raw chickens with flies and skinned cow heads, bladders, livers.

Walking briskly to your hostel with a worried facial expression and going straight to the bathroom, realizing that something is wrong, and the remembrance that pain is a real thing—that ‘suffering’ is really, actually suffering—and not having enough cash to get a single room.

Putting a trash can by your bunk in a room filled with 5 sleeping men, the air conditioner in the top corner of the dorm room, but not on, and unable to be turned on, because the person sleeping under it just complained it was too loud, and refused to turn it on, so you tell him, now, because you can’t imagine not having the air conditioner on, that you’ll sleep under the air conditioner—that you’ll switch bunks with him, that it won’t be loud for him that way.

You tell him that the sound won’t bother you, and he agrees to switch bunks with you, a facial expression like you’re being irrational, and you switch bunks with him, and turn the air conditioner on, and it feels incredible, and the sound isn’t anything compared to the relief you’re feeling, and you think that maybe you won’t get sick, and the person you just switched bunks with looks at you with an exasperated facial expression and throws up his hands and says “Ah, hace frio.”

He turns the air conditioning off, and you could swim in the foul air, and you’re worried that you’re going to be sick, then simply asking yourself “Am I going to be sick?” in a completely out of control manner . . .

But he’s in the furthest bunk away from the air conditioner, and you’re in a fucking tropical country—it’s sticky humid and mosquitoes and little crawling insects are everywhere, the bathroom attached to the dorm smells like shit, and you haven’t been this sick in a long time, and you say, “Oh, jesus, ok. Entonces queires cambio? Quires cambio? Dame veinte minutos. Veinte minutos,” and you’re too proud, or not wanting to seem like a pussy, to say “Please, but I’m sick, I need it,” and he actually does want to change bunks again, he actually takes you up on your political offer, but he’ll do the favor of giving you 20 minutes of air conditioning—he’s nice enough for that, the guy is nice enough to give you 20 minutes of air conditioning in a country about two hundred miles north of the equator, and you’re angry, because you’ve been traveling with this fuckface and three other assholes for a week, and you guys were supposed to take care of each other, in some way—you were supposed to carry someone’s bag a kilometer from the beach to the town, or miss a bus if someone didn’t make it on time, or sit, uncomplaining, in a crowded, hot minibus with their guitar on your lap and no leg room for 6 hours, and that kept things in balance, that was how you became close to them, because you all knew how it was, and how exactly that kind of comfort felt, and how that system could be relied upon—and you go back to your original bunk and feel fine because the cold air is great, the air conditioner is on, and you can focus on something other than your body again, and you start hoping that he’ll just fall asleep before the twenty minutes is over, so you can have all night with the wonderful air conditioner, muting the all the snoring and disgusting sounds emanating from the bodies of the humans around you, but, shortly, he says “Amigo,” and “Horrible fucking sound,” and you say “Okay,” and you both know that you are fucking pissed at each other.

He turns the air conditioning off, and you could swim in the foul air, and you’re worried that you’re going to be sick, then simply asking yourself “Am I going to be sick?” in a completely out of control manner, and you lose it into the trash can next to your bunk, and the sheer mass of vomit that comes from your face surprises you and quickly strikes you as funny, and you keep on retching, and you suddenly realize there’s a sound coming through the wall, and you release all the embarrassment you felt about getting sick in front of five other people, you give up trying to be quiet about it, and keep heaving—making demon-like noises now—concurrently realizing that you’re listening to a girl next door getting the shit fucked out of her, and this is where you become really detached, grinning—internally—about the harmony of the situation.

]]> http://thetravelersnotebook.com/notes-from-road/notes-on-getting-sick-in-an-equatorial-region-hostel-dorm/feed/ 14 http://thetravelersnotebook.com/notes-from-road/fear-among-men-notes-on-traveling-with-a-girlfriend/ http://thetravelersnotebook.com/notes-from-road/fear-among-men-notes-on-traveling-with-a-girlfriend/#comments Sun, 14 Feb 2010 22:00:37 +0000 Brandon Scott Gorrell http://thetravelersnotebook.com/?p=7737 Brandon Scott Gorrell questions: is it good or bad to travel with a girlfriend? Is it good or bad to make a girlfriend while traveling?

Photo:MelvinSchlubman

THIS FROM a relatively large, personable Israeli with a pony-tail and a face of graying stubble who was “26” sitting in front of a campfire in Pai, Thailand:

“Some women, they want me to love them. They want me to love them all day and they want me to tell them ‘I love you.’ They want me to take them to the cinema and they want to call me on my telephone and then they want me to fuck them. I love a bitch in bed. But after I am in the bed I do not love the bitch. The bitch calls me and tells me that she loves me. I tell her I love her because I know it is what she wants to hear and then she is quiet. But I do not love her. I love her in bed. It is because I am a man. You and me, we are men. Yes, We are men.”

We were alone drinking whiskeys, sometimes looking at the stars. It was the king’s birthday, apparently, and the Thais were setting off mini hot-air balloons and we could see 20 or 30 of them floating very high, still moving upward, and from that distance they seemed like floating candles, or UFOs, or something frightening.

I had the conversation a lot, usually after a ‘fellow traveler’ and I saw a man holding a girl’s hand, the two quietly walking through whatever tourist thing we were all ‘gawking’ at, or feeding money into.

“You and I both know that it wouldn’t be the same,” a Canadian said to me as we walked through Bayon, one of the temples of Angkor. “You and I both know that there would be little fights, and you’d always have to look out for her. You could never go out and drink. . . It’d be harder to meet people. You could only go out with other couples. You wouldn’t feel free. You’d feel like you always had to answer to someone, and you could never do anything spontaneous, because you’d have to check first. . . it just wouldn’t work.”

‘Across the board,’ the consensus was basically the same: it was not good to travel with a girlfriend. It was good to ‘do it’ with a girl, and travel with her for awhile, but to end it, preferably within 2-4 weeks. It was good to let the girl know of your expectations, and for everything to be clear, but if she ‘moved in’ on you, then you had to continue to make things clear. It was good to have these things with girls.

And it was bad to lead a girl on. Even to make a semi-permanent girlfriend while abroad. It was bad for the men and the women. It restricted freedom and caused unhappiness.

“I accidentally slept with the English girl last night,” was the one of the first things another Israeli said to me after we met. I had offhandedly mentioned that I was hungry to someone in the lobby of my guesthouse and he had volunteered that we get breakfast together. I had seen him and the English girl around but we hadn’t spoken, and I hadn’t assumed anything about their relationship. I expressed surprise at his statement and laughed.

“Yeah, it just sort of happened,” he said. “I wasn’t planning on it or anything. I didn’t even think about something like that happening until a minute before it actually happened.”

I said, “Damn.” He said, “Now I don’t know what the status is. . . I’ve been trying to stay out of things like this because I don’t want to have to take care of someone. I need to make sure that she doesn’t expect something. . .”

So it seemed that there existed a fear among men. An assumption that a relationship with a woman would lead to rules, restrictions, boundaries to which men did not want to be bound. An assumption that all women travelers a man ‘hooked up’ with wanted was to passively instigate a monotonous, long-term, emotional relationship.

The men had a fear of the women, and it was like playing with fire, and some had more control over the fire than others. If a man started any romantic thing with a woman while traveling then he had seen the first spark, and it was his mission onward to keep the flames at bay.

I’m not sure about any of this. I have not traveled with any girlfriend. I can understand what these men have said and I can empathize with their positions. I can understand how a romantic partner might be restrictive. From a distance, even I have observed the negative consequences of a man and a woman traveling with each other, and each other alone.

But I can also see the benefits of traveling with a companion that you’re involved with romantically, for the long-term. I can see the benefits of not needing to go out and ‘get smashed’ with some bros you just met. I can see how someone might not ‘be into’ Khao San Road (a place where it’d be strange to be a couple), and how it might be a relief to not rely on places like that. I understand why people are together. But I don’t know.

It seems complicated.

Community Connection

Brave New Traveler has published a piece on how to tell your partner you want to travel alone.

And for a different perspective, Pete Olson writes about traveling as a mixed couple in Asia.

Bus ride in Bangkok. Photo: K.rol2007

“SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED,” said a white person in the lobby of my first hostel as I walked through the door.

“Shit,” I said. The group at the table laughed, all looking at me. One stood and got a beer from the mini-fridge in the corner.

“Where are you from?” they said. They asked me to take pictures of them with their digital cameras.

I said, “Well, goodnight,” and went to my room. In my room I thought about how I wouldn’t normally hang out with those people if I was in Seattle.

The next day I was sitting on a curb eating a banana pancake. One of the travelers—a mildly obese, sunburned man—turned his body gradually as he passed me. He stopped and looked at me. I looked at him. He moved slowly forward. I wasn’t sure if it was him.

“Good morning,” he said, “is that your breakfast?”

“Hi,” I said.

“I’m going to the Grand Palace,” he said, “where are you going?”

“I’m going to the park down that way,” I said. I didn’t think to ask him if I could come with him before he left. It didn’t occur to me until days later.

That night in a new guesthouse in the Silom area I was ordering large Changs at the bar and moving back to a table where I sat alone. If I sat there long enough I thought someone would approach me. A group of three Americans appeared and interacted with each other as if they had been friends for years. Eye contact was not established with any of the members of the group. I ended up in the corner on a couch writing in my notebook until the bar closed. The next morning the bartender, who also worked the reception, saw me and said “large Chang” and grinned.

The following night in the same guesthouse bar I was at a table where a lot of people sat drinking. I was seated across an English girl.

“Where are you from,” I said.

“How long have you been traveling for, and when will you go back,” she said.

“Where have you been since you started traveling,” I said, “and long have you been traveling?”

“You’re from the States, right,” she said, “where in the States?”

“Oh, you’re from Seattle? My cousin lives there,” the person next to me interrupted.

“Yes,” I said. “And where are you from?”

“England,” the new person said.

“I thought so,” I said. “I have such a hard time lately telling if people are English or Australian. Sometimes I even think Germans are English. One time I met this guy from London and I thought he was German for like two days. It was very strange.”

“I have such a hard time telling the difference between Americans and Canadians,” the new person said, “that I just ask if they’re Canadian because I don’t want to offend them.”

“But you guys have Obama now so it’s okay,” the English girl said

“Obama is very good,” the new person said.

“Obama is a lot better than George Bush,” the English person said.

“Yes,” I said.

“You must have been embarrassed to be an American when George Bush was president,” the new person said.

“No, I wasn’t,” I said.

“All the Americans I have talked to have been very embarrassed about George Bush,” the new person said.

“I don’t think I was embarrassed,” I said.

“But you must have been embarrassed,” the English said. “I was embarrassed that we were both a member of the same species.”

“I was embarrassed for the Americans,” the new person said.

“No, I wasn’t embarrassed,” I said.

“Do you like George Bush,” the English said.

“I do not like George Bush,” I said.

“Then, truly, you must have been embarrassed to be an American,” the new person said.

“If a person generalizes my personality or how ‘good’ I am based on my nationality, or who presides over the country in which I was born,” I said, “then that person is no better than George Bush, or even Nazis. Nazis generalized personality and how ‘good’ people were based on religion and then killed a lot of them. In Rwanda genocide happened because people were judging other people’s intellectual characteristics based on what tribe they came from.

“I never felt embarrassed because if a person judged me for being American and subsequently didn’t want to be my friend, I wouldn’t want to have that person as a friend, so I remained unaffected.”

The new person turned to the position she was in before she interrupted. I turned back to the English.

“So, what do you do for money,” I said.

The next morning at the reception we saw each other and she made a small wave then turned her face.

“Your bed’s infested,” I said that day to a Canadian girl that had just come in and put her bags down on one of the bunks. “That was supposed to be my bed, but someone told me there were bedbugs, so I moved to this bed. . . You should change beds.”

Later I had the same conversation with her that I had the night previous with the English, minus the genocide speech.

That night we went to the Loi Krathong festival together. We ended up back at the guesthouse on the balcony talking to two English people who gave me a lot of information about what to do in Cambodia.

The next day I went to Cambodia.

Community Connection

Brandon recently published an Analysis of the Typical Traveler Conversation. For more of his narrative writing, please check out this story at Muumuu House.

Photo: ro gianesi

I MET MANY PEOPLE during my two months in Southeast Asia, and we all started off with, basically, the same conversation. If you’ve traveled for an extended period of time, you probably know what I mean. Here, I’ve listed what I feel are the main points of the ‘Typical Traveler Conversation’ and how I think they function.

Where are you from?

Question functions to place others into familiar categories, which enables access to pre-existing mental ‘reference points,’ which subsequently enable access to a familiar ‘system’ of perception, or another method of control over reality, and we feel more comfortable when we have control over reality. This question is so strongly ingrained in travel-conversation protocol that if the question isn’t asked, it becomes noticeable, and we sense a discomfort until we acknowledge it.

The question also functions as an innocuous, seemingly-judgment free way to start a conversation (seems boring, though), or exists because there’s nothing else to talk about. The answer is usually met with knowing nods and something like “Yeah, I thought so” or “I knew that, but which city?”

Ah, I’ve been to where you live. My aunt lives there. I was there for two weeks.

This point is often stated to extend the life of the conversation by logically ‘calling for’ more specific questioning in an attempt to detect points on which to have micro-discussions. Eventually we return to the ‘meta,’ allowing for others to re-enter the conversation with a change in subject or something relevant on the detail level. The claim enhances our identity as more ‘well-traveled’ (read: street-cred) and allows us to ‘relish’ in a piece of shared knowledge, thus creating or reinforcing feelings of similarity, ‘on-the-same team,’ and security.

Photo of author (center).

How long have you been traveling/ where have you been so far?

Questions are used to gauge where we stand in relation to the one being questioned – we place ‘street cred-like’ importance on how well-traveled someone is, and we use our perception of our own ‘street cred’ to make a comparative analysis. This analysis is then used as a guide for future interaction, e.g., the subjects on which to speak authoritatively and on which to speak humbly or the perceived relevance of specific changes in subject. The question helps to place others in a familiar category, which in turn gives us more control over reality. The answer often includes an account of where the traveler has been on trips previous.

What did you study?

Question acts as a ‘spring board’ for further conversation. It can enable the recognition of shared knowledge, thus creating or reinforcing feelings of similarity, ‘on-the-same-team,’ and security. It also allows for future reference, if related information is being discussed in a future conversation, creating a longer conversation (less silence), a shared history, and the appearance (to the outside world) of ‘on-the-same-team,’ which, when ‘self-perceived,’ creates stronger feelings of ‘on-the-same-team.’ Allows us to feel that when we talk about ourselves, someone is actually interested. Helps to place others in a familiar category, which gives us more control over reality. Often asked during a lull in conversation.

What do you do for money?

Question acts as a ‘spring board’ for further conversation. It functions to extend the length of the conversation. Like so many other facets of the typical traveler conversation, this question helps to place others in a familiar category, which provides us with more control. Allows us, if we take pride in what we do for money, to deliver the information without the appearance of pride, and instead with the appearance of self-deprecation or neutrality, which can help us believe that the other believes that we are humble and ‘good,’ which leads to us perceiving ourselves as humble and ‘good,’ which helps us to avoid cognitive dissonance and thus decrease discomfort.

My accent isn’t that strong. The people from [city in my country] have really strong accents. Even I can hardly understand them (said mostly by people from the UK, US, and Canada).

Directs the conversation to direct feedback toward a specific individual about the quality of their accent, and feedback is always positive – ‘street cred’ seems to exist for those without a strong native accent and those with a strong native accent. Those with a strong accent typically tend to verbally identify themselves with their national culture more than those without a strong accent. Those without a strong accent typically seem to take some amount of pride in lacking a specific culture, but understanding all cultures, as a kind of intermediary, which exist in their native land.

Do you have a boyfriend/ girlfriend?

Question is used, first, to indicate, passively, and in a non-committal fashion, romantic/ sexual interest, and second, to obtain information regarding the possibility of a sexual encounter.It is often uncomfortable to ask this question.

I once brought it up while practicing Spanish, in Spanish, with an Israeli girl; I felt that was a very good strategy, because it would have been difficult to simply ask if she had a boyfriend in English. However, the question does not often need to be asked: we sometimes ‘drop’ the boyfriend/ girlfriend ‘bomb’ on people to ‘clear the air.’ One of the only typical traveler conversation questions of which one of the main purposes does not include ‘extending the life of the conversation.’

What are you planning on doing when you go back home?

Allows for a sort of emotional feeling associated with the future experience of pining for the literal present. Creates the opportunity for a shared emotional experience, which in turn creates or reinforces bonds. Influences the other to ask you the same question, furthering the group nostalgia or emotional bonding. Answers often help you detect specific character traits, thus allowing you more control over the situation and a better idea of how to behave, increasing probability of being ‘not-alone’ in future group situations because you have proven yourself to be ‘one of us.’

According to this analysis, the main functions of the specific facets of the ‘Typical Traveler Conversation’ seem to be (in no particular order) 1) to extend the life of the conversation/ avoid silence, 2) to place one in a familiar category and 3) to create or reinforce emotional bonds via establishing shared feelings of ‘on-the-same-team.’

Community Connection

What do you think about typical conversations you have while traveling? Please let us know in the comments.

Sea-Tac. Photo: aturkus

SEA-TAC INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

After the security checkpoint I unsuccessfully tried to get wireless without paying for anything. Eventually I was in a long white hallway, slowly moving toward rap music coming faintly from somewhere. Seeing a person with a gigantic moustache, wearing a red, white and blue headband, skinny jeans, and “boat shoes” seemed to cause me to think “Jesus, god damn bitches.” The airport later forced me to watch CNN, which discussed health care reform, legalized online gambling, and crows attacking pedestrians in downtown San Francisco. The last thing CNN broadcasted before I boarded the airplane was footage of a Texas police officer tasing an elderly woman on the side of the road.

BART – SFO TO OAKLAND

Bart. Photo: blmurch

Things I thought while on BART, looking out the window, on the way to Oakland: “Damn, it’s shitty” “Damn, carpeted floors and carpeted seats, weird,” “Damn, seems really shitty, seems maybe like a ghetto,” “Seems like the movie ‘Friday,’” “All the buildings are the same color. Are all the buildings the same color? There’s a blue thing over there,” “Jesus, a bunch of high school students,” “Are those high school students ‘harder’ than me? Seems like those high school students are ‘harder’ than me.” “Jesus, liquor stores and fried chicken,” “This is taking a pretty long time,” “What is Chelsea’s apartment going to look like?” “Why don’t I see more hipsters?”

SAN FRANCISCO BAR/ OAKLAND “RAGER”

It was dark and the three of us were in San Francisco, walking at an uncomfortable pace toward somewhere. Chelsea needed to pee really hard and it was making me anxious. Bros lined the sidewalk at certain areas, smoking cigarettes and just seeming like bros. There were some older chicks walking around in “skimpy” clothes. Eventually we found the place—a bar called Hemlock—and paid a $6 cover charge to see Chelsea’s friend play, but the show was over when we got in. “Let’s get our money back,” Chelsea said.

We went to the bouncer. He called us a “pain in the ass” as he returned our money. A man approached me. “You get your money back man?” he said. “Yeah,” I said. “What, don’t you think the other bands deserve the money?” “We just came for the one guy.” “You think we don’t deserve your money man, we work hard man.” “We just aren’t seeing the other bands.” I looked at the face of Mike Young. It appeared highly alert.

At the “rager” people were screaming and playing guitar in a room. Someone with long hair outside the room—moving loudly between many different rooms for what appeared to be no concrete reason—was screaming sometimes. He came into the living room and flailed wildly for 20 seconds. He moved into a chair and said “Oh, cocaine cocaine cocaine cocaine, ohhhhh…”

There was confusion about my name, later. This is unrelated to the man on cocaine. “Wait, so what’s you real name?” the girl across a coffee table asked me. “It’s Brandon,” I said. “It’s just Brandon.” A man in the corner fell off a chair for what appeared to be no reason. “I can’t continue this conversation, that was too distracting,” I said. I looked at the girl across the coffee table. “Honestly, I can’t, that was weird.”

We left the “rager” as the person on cocaine was swinging a crowbar around in the kitchen while some men were arm wrestling. The people screaming and playing guitar in the room were still screaming and playing guitar in the room. I had sat in one location during the duration of my time at the party.

OAKLAND/ROCKRIDGE/READING AT BITTERSWEET CAFE

I wanted to have visited a place that would allow me to recognize in itself and its people a unique perspective on the world that I did not have, thus making me feel, I guess, that I was not authentic and was hopeless to attain any semblance of authenticity compared to these Oakland people that were steeped in authenticity. I really had that desire.

The streets in Oakland seemed large, bleak and noisy; delineated, sometimes, by gigantic highway ramps and overpasses, large intersections that made me feel small, and fast food places.

The author feeling embarrassed at reading.

Rockridge, where Bittersweet Cafe was located, seemed to be full of maternity shops, coffee shops, and “fancy” restaurants. The only people at the Bittersweet reading besides our friends were 50 year-old moms with sons in high school that “just happened” to walk in and sit down. I sold a couple books. Afterwards, we partied at a house.

SAN FRANCISCO/ PIRATE CAT RADIO READING

The Pirate Cat radio show was the only reading we had in San Francisco. The DJ was an old short man with dreadlocks. He talked quickly and generally ended up “lost” in metaphor or tangent—in a way I found hard to literally comprehend/find relevant—about oppression, peace, marijuana, or something “hippie-like”.

The cafe in which the studio was located was crowded. I felt as if I was on a variety show. A woman sang with a guitar about generosity. For the last minute or two of her song, she attempted to get everyone to sing along with her. Everyone sang along except for me and the people sitting at the table with me. I felt very embarrassed. I was grateful to Chelsea when, during the middle of it, she said “Which things should I read?” and handed me her book. I stared at the book until the song was over.

Mike, Chelsea and I later “talked shit” on the singer’s ideas about generosity.

OAKLAND HOUSE PARTY WHERE THREE BANDS PLAYED IN THE BACK YARD

We had to find a way to the party by some method other than walking because Chelsea was afraid of getting mugged. It seemed, upon receiving this information, that Oakland was “harder” than Seattle.

This feeling was reinforced inside the house: the walls were very artistic; male genitalia were drawn on the walls in black marker. I felt as if these people who had scribbled private parts in weird places knew some secret about life. Maybe they had, through their highly authentic pasts (i.e. fucked-up moms, living on an Alaskan fishing boat, or growing up on an industrial farm in Iowa), obtained an essence of life which emanated from their beings; physically manifested by the clothes they wore, their vernacular, their hairs. Their shoes. The essence was one of deep authenticity.

In the back yard, hipsters could be observed taking high definition photographs with expensive looking digital cameras with flash. Chelsea immediately began to go insane as her boyfriend’s band began to play, and Chelsea and I began to mosh really hard. I pushed people around. Sometimes Chelsea would punch me in the face or slap me a lot in the face. I sometimes looked at people that were not moshing. Most looked afraid. They whispered to each other, “I think they’re really drunk.”

I reassessed my perceptions regarding the party’s authenticity, feeling slightly alienated from society.

THINGS I THOUGHT ABOUT OAKLAND

Are the people more authentic here? Is this what California is like? Is this like the Beach Boys? Is California like the Beach Boys? Are we in wine country? Is this like the Beach Boys?

PEGASUS READING

It seemed as if a good amount of people came that were not our friends. I started my reading without looking at the audience or making introductory comments about myself. During the Q&A session afterwards, two women who appeared to be in their late 50’s holding notebooks asked us how to use blogs to promote their novels. It seemed as if they felt they were in a class about using blogs to promote themselves. As we answered they took notes. Sometimes one would make a sound and nod, as if something cathartic had just been explained. Another lady, also, it appeared, in her late 50’s, seemed intent on proving to us that the internet caused depression and could not provide “real” human connectivity. She was the one who introduced herself as an “artist”. She said “I’m an artist.”

Later, on the way home, I felt good about not making introductory comments about myself. I have decided to do it like that from now on.

NAPA READING

The bookstore was in an enormous “rich people strip mall” thing, featuring corporations such as Whole Foods and Target. There was a restaurant advertising on its A-frame sidewalk sign free range, organic fried chicken. I excitedly pointed this out to Mike. The bookstore clerks appeared disdainful of our presence. The only people there appeared to be Chelsea’s friends. I think I saw “wine country” on the way there. I referenced the movie “Sideways” to someone.

After the reading we went to Whole Foods. I got a salad. We sat outside in the heat, with Chelsea’s family, and ate the food. We went back to Oakland.

THINGS THAT IMPRESSED ME

I felt impressed when I got off BART at 19th Street Mission and saw a Hispanic man on a microphone, yelling things, I think, about Jesus. There were some men standing around him, looking stoic. I felt impressed by those men. I felt impressed when I saw a person wheeling a large rack of Mexican wrestling masks across an intersection, toward a little outdoor market. I felt impressed by the masks.

BSG “feeling emotional about ppl i met there”

I felt impressed by “826 Valencia” and had a nice conversation with someone in the little room with the aquarium. I felt impressed and good inside the shop “Needles and Pens.” I thought, sometimes, that San Francisco was bigger than Seattle, and kept calling it, to myself, “more metropolitan”, while concurrently believing that it was not “more metropolitan” than Seattle; it was weird. San Francisco seemed different than Seattle in some altered, more dirty, more real kind of context.

THINGS I HAVE NOT MENTIONED YET

Meeting people for the first time that I had known only on the internet caused me to feel very emotional sometimes.

IN CONCLUSION

I would go to the Bay Area again, for business or pleasure.