16/6: On Saturday night, we decided to go out dancing. It ended up being a night with so many turns and twists that I’ve never could’ve anticipated, and I learned that in San Francisco anything can happen.
I’m not going to tell the whole story of this night, because that would just be too long. Instead, let me give you some bits and pieces, a taste. A list of sorts, of this surreal night in San Francisco.
I danced salsa with a latino guy at a place called the Makeout Room. The dancefloor was crowded and sweaty, and I don’t really know how to dance salsa. I’m far too Swedish in my movements and mentality. But he was the best of leads and twirled me around like I knew what I was doing. Later, at two when the bar closed (because that’s what they do in San Francisco, bars close at two), out on the street, the salsa guy told me he was a PhD student at the university. I think he was from Mexico.
Morgan, Eric’s cousin, kept on telling me that I should move to San Francisco. The salsa guy told me that too. Every other person I met said: “San Francisco is awesome. You should move here!” And now that I think about it, not a single person that I met in San Francisco was born there. All of them had moved there later in life, they had all chosen to be there. This is where all the cool and hip and original people want to live. So maybe it isn’t that strange that everyone’s go-to comment when they meet someone they think would fit in is “You should move here”. I choose to take it as a compliment.
Or the not the slightest bit legal club we ended up at, after all the legal bars had closed, where the dancing was even rougher, the tequila was just toxic and the customers were everything from middleaged Mexicans to dentistry students from Indonesia. There, a voluptuous latina tried to pick me up and a worn looking surfer guy told me that he was starting a non-profit with the money he had made from growing medical marijuana, that he had a big sail boat that he was going to sail down to the Carribean with, and would I like to come with him to see it.
And I couldn’t help laughing, a lot, at everything. I just couldn’t stop.
The day after, we didn’t have the energy to walk any further than to Dolores Park, where we enjoyed some hard cider in the Sunday sun/mist. Note my beautifully red nose, my souvenir from the baseball game, and the paper bags around our bottles. You see, it’s illegal to drink alcohol in public places in San Francisco, but the police doesn’t have the right to search your bag. So, as long as you carry the bottle in a paper bag, and say you’re drinking juice if asked, you can have whatever you want in that bottle. Ah, the laws to protect people’s integrities. Americans are funny.
And San Francisco is completely crazy.
Katja Malmborg 