Angels of San Francisco

First person I posed my question to was a bona-fide hippie. He had shoulder length blonde hair, gray stormy eyes, and smelled of, let's say, hemp. Cross-legged on the international arrivals bench, he seemed as friendly as a human could be. He let me borrow his phone to look at a map.

I typed in for Amsterdam Hostel. Plan B, I thought. Oh, only a five hour walk from the airport. It was dark. I would need to hitch a ride.

After looking over the map, I walked away, paused, and turned right back around. My question was coming before I could even stop it.

I had a question. It wasn’t just on my mind, but my whole body. My heart was thumping to ask it. A smile was cracking across my face. This question was something new. It was sure to take me to the wild side.

The words came like this: "First of all, what I am going to ask you is very strange. And my story is very strange." He nodded and I continued. "I saw a documentary once where a guy traveled around the whole entire world without spending any money. He relied completely on the kindness of strangers. He would ask random people for rides and places to sleep. I've found myself in a similar situation with similar habits. So what I am getting at is, do you know a place in San Francisco where I could sleep tonight?"

“I really wish I did. But I am about to drive to Oregon from here. If you’re going in that direction I could take you,” he said. We were both smiling. Kindness in a face shines clear through happy eyes. He was a peaceful, genuine soul. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should change course. But it was a no. However we were both so uplifted by my strange question, asked from one stranger to another, that it felt victorious like a yes. At least I had enough courage to ask. We wished each other luck and I skipped away in some vague direction.

I was testing fate. Trust falling into the city’s arms. Truth is, I'd never asked a stranger for a place to sleep before. I'd hitchhiked, sure. I'd couchsurfed in stranger's homes, but that was arranged online beforehand. Arriving in a city, at dusk, with nowhere to stay. This was new. And honestly, it thrilled me.

Just a few paces and I met my foe. A sign loomed over me, it read: No Pedestrians. Okay. So I crossed to the other side of the terminal, walked on my way, and met its duplicate. What the hell? I was just trying to walk my way out of the airport. I needed to find somewhere to hitchhike.

So I approached a man on his smoke break. It was a police officer, so I figured he must be from around here. I asked him, "How can I walk out of this airport?"

"Walk? Uhh… You can't really walk. There's freeways on every side," He said.

"So it's like a trap!"

"Yes, just like a trap. Where are you going?" he asked.

"I dunno. San Francisco."

"Well we're not even in San Francisco!" he said with a laugh and explained that the airport is part of a northern county, but they call it San Francisco anyways. And he works for the San Francisco police department, even though he's not in San Francisco at all.

"Listen, to get into the city, without a car or a taxi, you're gonna need a BART ticket. It's a train that'll take you downtown. It's eight dollars, but… I'll see what I can do for you. Follow me." He put out his cigarette and lead me to the train station. He asked them to give me a free ticket, so they did.

That's when I noticed a peace sign sticker stuck on his gun.

"Be careful" he said. His name was Chris.

We shook hands, and I jumped on the BART. A friend once told me I reminded him of a butterfly with the way I bounced along. When he first told me I wasn't sure what he meant, but I was beginning to understand.

Departing the BART I felt a nip in the air, cool and fresh and like nothing I had felt for the past year of traveling below the equator.

Down Powell Street a drunk was rambling. He shuffled next to two silent women, pushing their suitcases up the cement hill. When I heard him say “Don’t worry ladies I’m not gonna hurt you,” I perked up.

The women had positioned their suitcases as barriers to the stumbling man. They weren’t engaging with him. Their eyes were fixed ahead; their shoulders were facing their own path. He was staring at them, breathing at them, and disturbing them. It was clear they wanted nothing to do with him. It was clear they were scared.

"I said this is Powell Street! Trump doesn't own America. All America isn't like that….This is POWELL street!..." He went on and on.

I approached.

As soon as he realized I was going to intervene he disappeared with a series of murmurs.

"So...You wanted him to fuck off?"

"Yes.”

"I got that impression.”

They were German tourists. Maybe I was their angel of San Francisco in that moment.

Skyscrapers molded the wind, but between every crosswalk the night air rushed wildly. I loved it.

After a long time abroad, I was back in my home country. English dominated. Beggars begged in the currency on my first paycheck. I felt invisible, like nothing bad could happen in a world so familiar. I still had faith.

Many people walked past me. I asked each of them “Do you know where I can stay tonight?” But they tugged their hoods over their eyes so they wouldn’t have to make eye contact. They quickened their pace to avoid me. It was a lost cause. I decided to wait for someone to approach me.

Amsterdam Hostel was full, and wanted over a hundred dollars for their last private room. Impossible. Fate threw me, mercilessly, back to the street. America seemed pretty heartless compared to the previous year I had spent tramping around in different islands. If this was Indonesia, I would have a bed and warm nasi goreng in my belly already.

A homeless man sat on a stoop eating an orange, and when I walked by he offered me a slice. We talked for a while, late into the night.

He told me a story about how his guitar was stolen. He carried the case around, but it was empty. What was really interesting about his story is he said it hurt his ego more than anything else.

Passerbys gave us looks, I could tell they thought I was homeless too. That’s when I realized I, in fact, was homeless.

I told him about how I was traveling, with the intention to get by with the help of friendly strangers. It was an experiment on faith and trust, I said.

We spoke until his words were just actions keeping his tired eyelids from closing. The late night didn’t bother me at all, for the sun was still shining on the other side of the world.

I wished him a good sleep, albeit on cold cement.

He pressed two oranges into my palms. And before drifting off, he gave me directions to a shelter, just in case.

I walked towards nowhere in particular. It was luck that kept me alive.

“That looks like a heavy bag,” a voice came through the night.

My pack was neon green, bursting at the seams, and much wider than me.

“Yes, it’s very heavy,” I said, throwing it to the ground for dramatic effect.

During all the time I spent hitchhiking, I discovered an important skill. In the people’s eyes you can see what they want. You can see if they will hurt you or help you. It’s a flash. It’s a feeling from your gut you can’t explain with logic. When I saw his warm eyes, I knew I could trust him.

“What’s your name?” He asked.

“I’m Julie,” I answered

“I’m David.” He shook my hand.

We spoke for a while on the sidewalk. He came here from Ethiopia. When he said the meaning of the mame David is fortune teller, I asked if he could please read mine.

“I see that passion powers your decisions. And your actions. I am sure one day you will be a great leader,” David answered.

It was a splendid fortune, but not what I wanted. I secretly wished David would say the name of my ex-lover and proclaim that fate had a plan for us! We were meant to be together after all!

But that wasn’t my fortune. And now I’m glad for it. But then, with night shadowing my breath, I told the story of how a man came and went from my life. I told David about the nicknames he called me in private, how he avoided me in crowds, and the reputations we both had. My hands were shaking in my pockets.

“You’re in love with him,” he said.

And it was true.

I never realized that before. Love seemed like a leap and I never let myself surrender. Before talking to David, I never even acknowledged what I had lost. My heart was broken, even though I avoided my feelings. It was probably why I was so reckless in the city.

With strangers, we can be more honest than we are with the people who know us well. He offered me a safe place to sleep, and I fell into the care of one of my angels in San Francisco.