If you're going to San Francisco

I have recently decided that this blog would be much more entertaining if it was a chronicle of my travels and misadventures over the past 5 years. I hope you enjoy. 

The Christmas of 2008, I got a new tent for Christmas. It was a completely random and unexpected present, and I hadn't been camping in years. Apparently, Santa prepared the tent for me while I was still an avid outdoorsman and not so much a traveler. He decided that this was the time for me to get back to my roots, and so on Christmas morning 2008, there was a tent waiting for me under the tree.

My immediate thought was, What the hell? There must be some mistake. Santa always goes out of his way to surprise me and while those surprises are usually very welcome, sometimes, I'm not sure if the present is actually intended for this Sean. According to Facebook, there are 3 other Seans with my same name. Maybe it was meant for one of the other two. Who knows? Not wanting to be ungrateful or show displeasure (because a tent is always a useful thing to have), I told my parents to thank Santa for me, and went about setting it up in the living room of my sister's house and crawled in, to open the rest of my presents from my new home. 

Three months later, my tent was sitting there, in the corner of my room. Still in its bag, it was untouched since its Christmas Day house warming. I hadn't set it up, hadn't been inside, and hadn’t done anything with it. It was just sitting there. Much like it had been sitting in Santa's closet for approximately 7 years. So, I decided to do something about it. This was probably a Tuesday, and I didn't currently have a job. I was bored in the afternoon after class and decided to set my tent up. I crawled inside and sat down, reminiscing of the days in Boy Scouts when we would go camping one weekend every month. I thought about the weeks upon weeks I spent backpacking in the summers in high school. I decided I should do something about it. 

My first step was to figure out where to go. Normally, trips like this would take me to a hostel in Europe, but I know nothing about camping in Europe, and I didn't exactly want to spend a lot of money. I figured I maybe had $100 that I could spend on this, so I set about looking for a place. I talked to my dad about some of his favorite places, and I decided on Marin National Park, just north of San Francisco. I decided I would leave on Friday after class on a 4 o’clock flight out of Salt Lake, connect in Houston, and arrive at SFO around midnight on Friday night, after 7 hours of flying. I would then stay in a hostel the first night, then get everything together and spend the second night in my tent, and then fly home on Sunday. Because of the diverse itinerary of the trip, I had to have all my camping stuff, plus extra clothes to clean up and be appropriate for the plane. So I had my small-ish backpack and a biggish duffle bag. 

This was my plan, but as is very frequently the case with my trips (and really, my life), planning and reality are two completely different things…

Arrival

I arrived in San Francisco at 11:55pm. I was going to catch the BART then make my way to my hostel. Seemed simple. Except that I missed the last BART train. It was shut down for the night. Fail numero uno. Apparently, I missed the last train by about 30 seconds. As part of the theme for this trip, I only had my cell with me, because I wanted to do things low-tech and this was in my uncool days before I had a smart phone So I went to the rental car agency - they wanted $110 for two days. I said, “Ef that.”

So I set my tent up in the airport, and went to sleep. 

This was to be another one of those long days we all have when nothing goes right. I have had many long days in my life, many of which you will read about, I suppose, but this is still one of the longest. I woke up about 5:30am and got on the train. I finally made it to downtown San Fran and found the hostel I was supposed to stay at around 7am and went to check-in. I was sweaty. The temperature was probably around 50 degrees, but the humidity was really high. Carrying my bags and navigating the morning crowd on their way to work was a bit more strenuous than I had planned on. I arrived at the hostel, buzzed in, and carried my stuff up two flights of stairs. The clerk was friendly, but didn’t even have a record of my reservation, despite the fact that I had a confirmation number. It was like I didn't exist. The clerk told me I could take a shower and use the computers and hang out as long as I needed to, which I was extremely grateful for.

While I was at the hostel, my sister called and asked if I was actually in San Francisco and what was I doing there and would I like to take a look at the house her husband was building (he was previously in construction of high-end homes before the bubble crashed). She said she would come pick me up at the airport, and I told her I would be about an hour because I was already in downtown San Fran. I gathered my stuff and hustled toward the nearest metro station.

Thirty minutes later, she calls to let me know she's at the airport. I tell her that I am halfway there, and that I'd be along shortly. Ten minutes later, another call - she was circling, waiting for me. Another ten minutes go by, and I'm finally at the station where I transfer to the airport rail. I called to let her know that I'd be along in about 5, so we arrange where to meet. I finally get to the car and she's like, "What took you so long?"

I say, "Sorry, I was in downtown San Fran, I told you I would be an hour."

She's like, "Oh, I thought you were just at the rental car stop."

"Well, I was, but I went up to the city this morning to see about my hostel.

"Ok, well Weston's house is like a half hour from here, so I'll just take you there and then take you wherever you need to go." So we get in her rental car and drive south.

Before I left the hostel, I found an Enterprise with an acceptable rate for a compact car, made a reservation, and wrote down the address. I was prepared. I was ready to make this trip happen. I needed everything to go well. Not only had the morning been much more disappointing than I had expected, I was trying to get out of the dreariness of Utah, so I needed a good, relaxing trip.

So she drove me down to this house, and it was amazing! It was big and nice and just screamed elegance. It had a home theater. It had a wine cellar. It had a winding staircase. It had a hot tub and a pool that took up most of the back yard. In short, it was awesome! It was really the nicest house I’ve ever been in.

After we were done with the tour, I get back in my sister’s rental and she takes me to the outskirts of San Fran and drops me off at the rental car place. It was this dinky little trailer with an Enterprise sign that took up about two-thirds of its long side. Not exactly what one might consider a “high-quality establishment” and just the place to find a cheap rental car with no hassles.

I walked inside with my backpack slung over a shoulder and my duffle bag in my hand. There’s no doubt about it, it was a cumbersome load, and I really didn’t like lugging this stuff all over the Bay-Area. It just isn’t my idea of a good time.

I walked up to the counter and said, “Hi, I’d like to rent a car; I have a reservation.”

The guy smiles weakly at me. “Name?”

“Sean Mihalik. S-E-A-N M-….” And so on.

“Ah yes. I have you here. I see you have a compact reserved for one night. It’ll be $45.” That was it! Including tax! I handed him $50 in cash. The guy kind of recoiled. “Oh. I’m sorry sir; we don’t take cash.”

“Oh, ok, well I think I have that much on my bank card…” I pull my debit card out of my wallet and push it towards him. “Here”.

He looked at my card and kind of smirked. “I’m sorry sir; we don’t accept bank cards either. It must be a credit card with at least $300 credit available.”

I looked stupidly at him. “But I’m 25. You don’t need to treat me as an underage person. I didn’t bring my credit card because I didn’t want to use it.”

His smile left his face. “I’m sorry sir, I can’t help you.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“Well maybe you should put something about that up on your website so that people will know that they need $300 available credit on a CREDIT CARD before arriving.”

“I’m sorry sir; I think we just assume everyone has a credit card when they travel.”

I just glared at him and left the crappy little trailer.

I called my mom and told her what was happening. She said she could put $300 in my account just so it could get approval, but it would take a little while. I said ok, and called my friend Jenny who does Opera in San Francisco. She said she was a free and would come pick me up ASAP. Apparently, I was in a bad neighborhood, and that made her nervous.

So Jenny picked me up and I ran some errands with her. We went to a dance store to get her more stage shoes, and while we were there, I noticed a kid wearing a pair of Havaianas, which are the best flip flops ever made. They’re made of real rubber and really absorb impact like no other. They’re also very colorful! They come in many, many colors, and they’re just the best flip-flops. Go get a pair; you’ll thank me later. So I asked the kid where they got them; mine ripped towards the end of my internship in Scotland and I was looking for a new pair, but couldn’t find them in the US. The kid told us approximately where the place was, and I convinced Jenny to take me over there.

The block the flip-flops were on is like a little Brazil. There was a padaria (Brazilian Bakery), a clothing store, and a music store all next to each other. I kind of freaked out. We went into the clothing store and I inquired about the Havaianas. The lady directed me to where they were, and I tried them on. They were a half-size too small, but I was just so excited for them, I bough a pair of light blue ones anyway.

Then we went into the padaria and I saw they had cupuacu (koo-poo-ah-soo) on their beverage menu. This is my favorite fruit/juice from Brazil. I paid the hefty $5 for a glass and savored the flavor. A flood of memories came back to me of white shirts, nametags, heat, bugs, and trees. A foreign land, indeed. It’s amazing how something becomes so engrained into our memories that a taste or a smell can transport us into another place and time. Jenny started talking to me. Finally, she pulled me back into reality. She let me know she had to be in San Jose or somewhere soon, so it was time get rolling again. I hastily finished my glass and hustled out the door with her.

            We next went to REI where I needed to rent and buy the stuff I couldn’t bring with me. This trip was kind beginning to be a whole lot of hassle just for a Christmas gift. Remember how you got the remote controlled car for Christmas, but didn’t get the exact battery you needed, or any batteries at all? Exactly. Just like that. Only it’s a lot more expensive. I rented a stove and pad, bought gas, dehydrated food, and some other stuff. I love REI. The problem is I spend way too much money in there. I cannot go into REI without spending at least $100 on stuff I absolutely need in order to make any camping trip successful. That reminds me of the time I went hiking by myself in Southern Idaho, but that’s a different story.

            So we finally leave REI, and now I’ve got two additional bags. My mom let me know a little earlier that the money was in my account, so Jenny dropped me off at a rental car place in downtown San Francisco. This was going to work. This whole thing was going to come together. I was going to spend the night in my new tent, in my sleeping bag, listening to the wind rustling through the trees. It was all going to come together.

            Jenny let me out at the rental car place. I walked up to the counter. “Hello, I’d like to rent a car, please.”

            “Ok, sir, no problem. I’ll just need your driver’s license and a credit card with $300 in credit on it.” I hand him my driver’s license and my bank card, hoping nervously that this works. “I’m sorry sir, bank cards are no the same thing as credit cards.”

            “But there’s $300 on it. What’s the difference?”

            “I’m sorry sir, we do not accept debit cards.”

            “Well, can’t you just try it? It has the visa logo. Look! It’s just right there. It’s all the same.”

            “I’m sorry, sir. They’re not the same. We can’t take it.”

            It didn't work. I'd failed. I'd run out of options. I was poorly prepared and nothing could save it now. I just didn't have what I needed. Dejectedly, I left the office and walked back onto the street, where the humidity immediately swallowed me into its abyss. I swam through the air back to REI and returned all my stuff. I found the nearest BART train and headed for the airport. When I got to the airport, I called my friend Patrick and walked him through how to make me a reservation back to Pensacola over the phone. I was leaving this hellhole less than 24 hours after I’d arrived. I’d given it my best. I’d done everything I could do to salvage the trip and have a good time. It didn’t want me to have a good time. The city was against me from the very beginning and I was leaving before it could do more damage and cause more disappointment.

            I took the red-eye from San Francisco to Houston and instead of going back to Salt Lake, I flew home to Pensacola; my mom picked me up from the airport at little after 8 in the morning. She drove me home and I went right to bed.

            I woke up several hours later to my phone ringing. “Hello?” I said in my best I was sleeping why the hell are you calling me voice.

            Patrick. “Hey man. I was wondering if you wanted to hang or what today.”

            “Unnnhhhh. What time is it?”

            “Oh yeah, it’s already like 1:30pm.”

            “Oh crap. My flight leaves at 2:45!”

            “So you came home to sleep and now you’re leaving again?”

            Suddenly wide-awake, I go: “Yep. That’s about it; I didn’t feel like going back to Utah just yet.”

Patrick laughs at me over the phone. “Alright man, have a good flight. Sorry I didn’t get to see ya.”

I went and got my mom up from her Sunday nap. “Mom, I gotta go back to the airport.”

“Whaa? You’re leaving me so soon?”

“Yeah, mom. My flight leaves in an hour.” She said something about how my sister would be sad she missed me. Apparently she was at the beach. I remember thinking I was never allowed to go to the beach on Sunday, but refrained from saying it. It’s a good thing we live only 15 minutes away from the airport. I arrived at the airport and got on the plane to Houston, then flew to Salt Lake. Where a friend of mine picks me up and I’m back in Provo around 1am.  

I've sometimes made mistakes on trips that have cost me time or money or both. Sometimes that's part of the adventure. But this was the only trip where I didn't really make a mistake and I couldn't salvage anything from it. My dad always says a positive attitude is the only thing that can keep you alive when all else fails, but San Francisco knocked me down. And I fled. The weather. The people.  There were some good things that happened, no doubt, but the whole thing was just so frustrating. If you're going to San Francisco - DON'T.