My good friend and fellow writer, Wes Blalock, called me up a while ago and asked if I would like to attend the San Fran Golden Gate Writers Event with him and his wife. While the event sounded like it might be a nice outing, I was hesitant about going to San Francisco to attend. Having grown up in Northern California, I am very familiar with Frisco, and I must say that I have no great love for it.
I am also aware that many residents of the city do not like the term “Frisco,” however I have chosen to use the moniker because it is the nicest “F” word I can think of to describe my feelings for that city.
Yet, despite my reservations, I relented and said I would go.
Last weekend, my wife and I met Wes and his wife in San Jose. We all hopped into his car and he drove us into The City. Initially, it went about as I expected. We dropped our wives off in front of the hotel hosting the writers event, then Wes and I circled the neighborhood in the car for about a week and a half looking for a place to park. As my blood pressure began to climb, Wes tried to calm me down by reminding me that San Francisco was not the only city that had traffic and parking problems.
He told me, “Just take a few deep breaths and think about puppies, or something else you would like to kick.”
Eventually we did find a place to park and were able to join our spouses in the hotel. The San Fran Writers Event is an annual gathering of romance writers who sign autographs and promote their newest books. While romance is not a genre I typically read or write, it was still a pleasant gathering and an opportunity to meet and talk with other authors.
I did feel slightly out of place at times, as I was one of only about four men in a room packed with a couple hundred people. But I tried not to feel too self-conscious as I carried around my complimentary, hot-pink, tote bag and dodged between the various posters of half-naked men advertising what books were currently for sale.
On a couple occasions, I had to nudge my wife along as she paused to “browse” the available selections. She told me she was just looking for something to read, but I’m not sure that you actually have to run your hands over a poster to decide if a book is going to be any good. I am not an expert, however, so I could be mistaken.
After a couple hours, we left the hotel and Wes suggested we should have a bite of lunch before we drove back home. I agreed, but only because I had momentarily forgotten we were still in San Francisco, where rents are exorbitant, and the minimum wage is fifteen bucks an hour.
We ended up in a small diner that was just big enough to squeeze in a half dozen tables and a bar. It was early afternoon, a slow part of the day for restaurants, so we easily found an open table and sat down. The four of us ordered burgers and sodas and an appetizer to share. Service was good, and the food was simple, but tasty. It was a nice meal for the most part, but I almost choked on my last couple of fries when the bill hit the table.
$120 for four burgers and drinks.
Again, Wes had to talk me down off of the ceiling and remind me that San Francisco was not the only city with expensive restaurants. “The owner is just trying to stay in business,” he told me. “You’re making too big of a deal over this.”
I made a few more unpleasant comments about the town as we paid the bill and then walked back to the car.
When we reached our vehicle, Wes walked around to the back of the car to open the trunk and put away his jacket and the swag bags we had collected from the hotel. When he stepped off the curb, he put his right foot down in a large pile of … well, let’s just say a large pile.
Apparently, while we were enjoying our lunch, one of the fine upstanding citizens of San Francisco had squatted down behind Wes’ car, dropped his pants and left us all a present.
As Wes tried to scrape the worst of the human detritus off his shoe, he looked up at me and said:
“Yeah. F*ck this place.”
Before I could say, “I told you so,” my wife decided to add a little insult to injury.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t fall down in it,” she told Wes. “We would have left you on the curb and driven home without you. Don’t worry, though, we would have called you a cab before leaving. We’re not heartless.”
Wes took off his soiled shoe, wrapped it in paper towels and tossed it into a bag before getting in the car and driving us home. When we arrived back at his house, he threw the bag and shoe into the garbage. While I don’t fault him for disposing of the shoes – I would certainly never want to wear them again considering what they had been through – I do wonder why he put them in the car with us for the hour and a half it took to drive home.
It certainly wasn’t for the refreshing smell.
All in all, it was a memorable outing. I managed to have a good time while reminding myself why I will not be returning to San Francisco anytime soon.
I don’t think Wes will be in a hurry to go back, either.
Shoes aren’t cheap these days.
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