Learning to walk

When I go home from work, I normally take the bus that stops right outside our office building, out of convenience. The only downside is that then I have to take another bus south, but it's an easy commute and the transfer isn't too shabby. Once in awhile, I'll walk down Powell to Market and catch a more direct bus. In fact, I used to always do this. Christine, though, opened my eyes to the fact that Powell is not only a madhouse of tourists, but that people also don't know how to walk. Down a sidewalk. At all.

Yesterday, I walked down Powell to the underground, and it was horrendous. I had to swerve around a pack of Germans debating whether to eat at Sears or Lori's, dash through the legs of a mom who had stopped to reorganize her 6 children and husband, avoid a cyclist on a cellphone (hello, ride the bike in the street, please) who was also trying to read a map upside down, and sidestep some gawkers outside of DSW. I thought I was in the clear, until some kid (meaning 18-22 years of age) turned his bandana-ed head around and hocked a massive-sized lugey towards me. It was so crowded by then, I had nowhere to go, and the spit landed on the top of my cute little kitten-heeled shoe! Ew. Ick. So I had to backtrack and slosh into Burger King to wipe my shoe clean of disrespect. So wrong.

For some reason, Powell attracts the most oblivious people in history.

1. In kindergarten, we all learned to walk in pairs. If you disobeyed, you were sent to the corner. So why does everyone here walk in horizontal lines of 4 and 5? Is this how they do it in Germany? Because I'm sure they have kindergarten there. Proof: Arnold speaks German (although he's Austrian), and he has no problem saying "Keen-der-gahr-ten" Cop. He does, though, have problems saying that he's the governor of California. "Guv-uh-noh" of "Kah-lee-four-nee-ah."


2. If you're going to visit San Francisco, note that no one here wears shorts, unless their playing basketball or frisbee or, because of said events, are in a cast. In addition, no one wears shorts with an "I heart San Francisco" sweatshirt (the sight of which it's obvious you didn't plan accordingly), bright white socks with either white sneakers or sandals, and a fanny pack. These just mark you as a tourist and a moving target for all that Powell Street rage we locals bottle and sell on the side.


3. And really, if you are going to join the masses and walk down the street, keep pace. We're on a tight schedule. If you can't keep up, get out of line or at least merge into the far right slow lane of hell. If you don't, I'll give you a little push to help.
   

The main lesson I'm trying to convey is: Don't be oblivious to those around you. Oh, and next time, I'm listening to Christine and taking the long way.