San Francisco, CA
I met Sara in Dolores Park at a Sunday afternoon dance party. She was from Spain, living in a buisnesswoman’s suite a few blocks from Union Square. She was an Internet saleswoman who sold technology that enabled businesses send bulk text messages. She was good at her job, she told me, but thinking about travelling somewhere new. San Francisco would do for a little while longer, maybe until the end of the summer. Maybe Buenos Aires next.
It was the night of the Oscars and she was having a few other Spanish people over to watch and heckle. I tagged along because why not? On the way back to her house, we talked about the differences between American and European men. Americans were less aggressive, didn’t know how to close. She was in the middle of a long dry spell. ”Luckily I went to Brazil for Carnival”, she said, ”I had no problem there.”
4 or 5 of us watched the festivities, and after a while, I left downtown and walked west. A couple people slumped against the side of a peep show near Market and Van Ness, vodka bottle in hands. I walked in the footsteps of a black guy in a 49ers jersey; he looked over his shoulder at me menacingly and then peeled off quickly to cross the street. He seemed like he was on something, everybody seemed like they were on something, I walked up the hill and down past the Castro and up the stairs to the couch I was surfing in the Noe Valley.