The H Factor

We Weren’t Born To Follow – Bon Jovi, The Circle

One of my favourite things about spending time in a strange city is wandering off and getting a bit lost, in the hope of adventure or magical discoveries.  In my case, these excursions often end in crack dens and ghettos, but you have to persevere in the hope that one day you will turn a corner and find Jesus, or possibly a house that looks like a giant pineapple, thus guaranteeing a good story to tell when you get home.

In the US, of course, it’s really quite hard to get lost, as the streets are invariably laid out in a very sensible grid, and everyone speaks English and is more than happy to help the pathetic lost tourist, particularly if she talks like Her Majesty The Queen.

So today was my Afternoon of Discovery – I had a vague sense of general direction, in that The Ex-Other Half had ordered a pair of heavy duty work trousers (or `pants’ if you insist) and asked if I would pick them up for him while I was in San Francisco.  I pointed out that I have been picking up his pants for the past sixteen years, because I think it is important to remind him regularly of how witty and hilarious I am.

The trip across town involved various streetcars, which today were subject to a replacement bus service, demonstrating that San Francisco’s transport service is actually a division of First Great Western.  I got off at the right place, found the store, and the pants were waiting.  So I paid for them, had some fun for a while with a “thank you/you’re welcome/I really appreciate your help/you’re so welcome” exchange with the store manager, then headed for the bus going the other way.

At the stop, I put my bags down and waited.  A man arrived, and asked if this was the right place to get the N streetcar downtown.  I said it was, with all the authority of someone who has been in town for three days and knows precisely fuck all.  For good measure, I explained about the replacement bus service, and he thanked me for the information.  I told him he was most welcome.  A woman turned up, and asked the man if this was the right stop for downtown.  He said it was, and passed on everything I had just told him.  She was very appreciative, and he assured her she was most welcome to the information.

But of course, I didn’t really know.  I had no idea if the replacement bus service ran in both directions, and whether actually we should all be a block further on at the streetcar stop.  There was no-one waiting there, but it was 5pm on a Sunday.   More people arrived at the bus stop, and my information was relayed with authority.  Someone actually said “are you sure?” and I was pointed out as the source of this knowledge, like some kind of Travel Oracle.

If I’m honest, by this point I was feeling just a little bit nervous.  What if I was wrong?  People in America carry guns, and actively look for opportunities to use them, particularly on idiot tourists who say they know stuff when they actually don’t.  I considered my options: a) alerting everyone to my shameful lack of actual knowledge, in the hope of gaining brownie points for honesty, b) sneaking off to another bus stop a few blocks down where I wasn’t responsible for local journey planning, or c) keeping quiet and hoping for the best, risking someone popping a cap in mo ass for being a dumb shit.

I seriously considered Option A, but rejected it on the basis of my habit of using English vernacular when under pressure in the US.  “Hello, terribly sorry to bother you, but I might actually be a bit of a wanker” was never going to be particularly helpful.  Option B wasn’t hugely attractive either – it was getting dark, I was miles from home and in an up-and-coming crack den.

So I crossed my fingers for Option C, and was rewarded a few minutes later by the arrival of the bus. I accepted the looks of respect for my authority in the travel information arena with the nod of someone who has cheated death, then headed for home.

And yes, I know this makes for a much less thrilling end to this story than being set upon my an angry mob and tossed into the gutter, but sometimes too much excitement just isn’t good for you, and I only have your best interests at heart.  There is no need to thank me, but should you wish to do so, I can assure you that you are most welcome.