Golden Gate Bridge topless

Bree, the last flatmate I didn’t know, arrived the evening before. The fog in San Francisco was so thick that her plane didn’t land until two hours later. I somehow don’t get the whole living and working in America thing. She’s just come back from a week of hiking in the Grand Canyon. Quickly chats to me for a few minutes. Goes to bed. After eight hours of sleep, she heads back to work the next morning. When does all this free time end? And how can you take anything with such a transition? And: yes, I know I need to talk to my travelling speed right now. There is one difference: I travel so fast because free travel is so expensive. Americans live so fast because free time is so expensive. I’m glad I only have to travel like this for a while. Wouldn’t want to live like that.

I head into town around midday. I play cheque rally part two, with other extras. The aim this time: to transport a traveller’s cheque to Milwaukee. Carrie had sent me the charger for Tom’s cam for a measly $45. First act. Envelope. After three shops with a minimum order of 50 envelopes, I go to a hotel and get one there. Act two. Stamps. After two transactions with a minimum order quantity of 20 stamps, I become foolhardy. I start asking Amis for directions to the nearest post office. Surprisingly, this time someone is able to show me the way after just 8 attempts. Even more surprising: he is correct. Stupidly, almost to the highest hill, Washington Square. Mission accomplished.

I treat myself to a haircut after two months of travelling. Mistake: with an Asian woman. Will be the only time in my life. She ignores pretty much all my precisely articulated wishes and cuts me to a Pekingese uniform head within 30 minutes. Exactly the last thing I wanted. I rest my chin on my hand as I watch her disgraceful deed. Otherwise it would have fallen off. The price is once again commensurate with the service: Outside it says $12, inside it’s $15, and when I “happily” pay, she coldly says “Tip me!”. Konichiwa?

At some point I’m standing in front of a Hooters bar in Fisherman’s Wharf. It’s still too early for beer. I walk 50 metres further and get a nice hint: instead of topless, it’s topless today. Since my arrival in San Francisco, the Golden Gate Bridge has always been shrouded in fog. Topless is forbidden in America. I forgave her for her obedience to authority. Today, however, it is topless, bare, naked, red with shame. I have to see it. I take the bus to Golden Gate Park and walk across the Golden Gate Bridge.

On the Golden Gate Bridge, the Americans once again provide poignant comedic footnotes. There’s an emergency phone every hundred metres. Above it a sign: “Crisis Counselling. There is a hope. Make the call. The consequences of jumping from this bridge are fatal and tragic.” Definitely a good try in the middle of the bridge, with 25 jumpers a year. But simply hilarious just before the north end of the bridge. The consequences of a jump there would be truly fatal and tragic. You would break your knuckle from a height of 7 metres. And from then on you would have to live with the knowledge that you really hadn’t achieved anything in life.

Once on the north side, try to get up to Marine Heights again. The only place where you can see the Golden Gate and San Francisco in one picture. But stopping is almost always a problem in the USA: not at all. After 20 minutes, a cop parks right in front of me. Apparently stopping is legal in California, I wasn’t sure before. I walk back and after three quarters of an hour I’m back on the south side.

As a thank you for my hosts, I make a Bavarian roast pork in the evening. Little things like sliced dumpling bread were a matter of course at home. Here I sweat for almost an hour filleting baguettes. My hosts have a 30 m² kitchen. And nobody cooks. Shame. The kitchen talks to me. It cries with happiness at being soiled. My hosts are also happy with the result (I mean the food). I destroy Pilsener, Matt Spaten. Lord forgive them, for they know not what they do.