I got soaked on a San Francisco sidewalk, several times.
When we arrived in the city, we first stopped for a foggy hike on the looming Golden Gate Bridge from which we could see dolphins and sea lions and birds and a guy on a hydrofoil board. Then we went down to Pier 39, where our relatives had told us we’d see more sea lions, up close. Sure enough, dozens of them were basking in the afternoon non-sun on floating docks. Some looked blissfully asleep but others were crawling over the whole lot of them, leaving a trail of commotion; meanwhile another tourist brought her dessert plate to the rail to eat while watching the ruckus and made an easy target for a seagull that swooped in for a surprise attack, so there were whipped cream and strawberries and a whole mess of birds in the water, too.
On Thursday we took a ferry from Pier 33 out to Alcatraz to see the old cell block and the terrific (and still foggy) views of the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges and the city. The section of the island dedicated to the American Indian occupation was closed, so we mostly learned about prison life and inmates like Al Capone and a conscientious objector and the presumably mentally ill man who’d stolen $16 or so and was held there until for some unknown reason he climbed a fence and was shot and killed by a guard.
By the time we returned from the island we were pretty tired. I’d gone out that morning from our hotel room into the steady rain to get some egg and cheese croissants we’d found online for $5.50 each at a place called Happy Donuts, but I didn’t read my Google map closely enough and ended up walking several blocks up a steep, steep street and down the other steep, steep side before realizing my mistake. I made my way up and down some other hills – one steep enough to have stairs in the sidewalk – before arriving, soaked. I juggled the bag of five croissants, my umbrella, and a cup of hot coffee for the three blocks back to the hotel, my credit card lighter by $41.
After eating the breakfast croissants, which were delicious and lovely and, in the case of mine, smashed from being at the bottom of the bag, the whole family got a workout. After I changed out of my wet jeans, we all put on the ponchos or rain jackets we’d been loaned by our relatives (they know things about traveling to places) and walked 45 minutes down to Pier 33 to wait in a long line to board the ferry and then spend a few hours touring the prison and island.
We’d packed some snacks and weren’t starving, but upon arriving back on the pier we weren’t sure that an immediate hike back to the inn was a good idea, given the dragging expressions on our kids’ faces, so we paused to eat some more fig bars and apples and watch tourists swarm two hot dog stands that had braved the dreary day. The tourists soon moved along with their mouths full and, the crowd gone, we decided to see how much it cost; some warm food would do us all some good.
I should mention that last month I read the book Never Split the Difference: Negotiating As If Your Life Depended On It by former FBI hostage negotiator Chris Voss, in which I learned about several techniques completely applicable to navigating a street vendor purchase. Two of these are calmly letting the passage of time create a sense of urgency for your counterpart and calmly responding to their demands by asking questions like “How am I supposed to do that?” both of which give them the burden of accommodation.
As for what happened next, I’ll say little in large part because it’s a painful memory and in larger part because it all happened so quickly that I really don’t remember much more than realizing, hours later, that I’d missed a chance to practice those negotiation techniques. Instead, the street vendor I spoke with got me, on very short order, to pay $8 for a hot dog and forget to take the small bag of chips and soda I’m pretty sure he’d said was included – and then in Spanish told the other vendors how much I’d paid so they could charge the same for everyone else’s hot dogs without chips and soda, too.
I’ve also since remembered, during one of my it’s-two-a.m.-and-time-to-lie-awake-worrying spells in the couple days following the hot dogs non-skirmish, George W. Bush, who when he was president seemed to me the worst ever and about whom I had nightmares in which I met and found out that I actually liked him. He once bumbled that saying “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,” which applies here, I hope, and has strengthened my resolve – I think George would appreciate such a phrase as “strengthened my resolve” – not to be bamboozled again by that same or any other street vendor.
I am relieved that as I’m not a president my ineptitude will quickly fade into appropriately forgotten history; I’m sure that even just two days after rocking my wallet the vendor couldn’t pick me out of a lineup if he had to. It’s not like there haven’t been more tourists since me.
After eating our hot dogs, which actually were quite good except that the vendor had perhaps deliberately misunderstood my “everything” – meaning chips and a drink – to mean ketchup, mustard, and onions but also mayo and parmesan, and before we made the trek back to the hotel, we decided to walk to Pier 39 again for another gawk at the sea lions. There they still were, as raucous as ever, and there again, too, was another tourist who’d brought her lunch to the rail only to be surprised at seeing, there in the seagull-churned water, her food, all soaked.