One Hour of Sunshine

Sunshine. It wasn’t, perhaps, what most people associated this particular city with, but for me, it was. Laying there, stretched out on well-worn grass, my lumpy, packed tote bag pulling double duty as a pillow, I smiled. The sunshine filtered through the manicured trees, providing a bit more warmth than my thin trenchcoat gave. The coat was, after all, more about the look than about practicality. We were talking about 11 hours in the fashion capital of the world, not a lifetime.

But for now, I had one hour on my own. One hour to luxuriate there and bask in the summer sunlight. Or at least, that was what it was supposed to be.

I had an inkling that wasn’t going to be the case. From the moment my feet hit the ground in the city, my charges had left me shaking my head. I was supposed to be guiding two adults and their precocious, teenage daughter around all day, making them feel at ease in the city I had once called home. I’d taken up the charge with gusto, happily regaling them with my tales of drinking wine at monuments and parks (I left out the “entirely too much” part) and explaining how to tackle this particular tourist trap in an hour — a challenge, for sure, but brief enough to enjoy most of the scenery.

Instantly, I’d seen the familiar, camera-toting tourist look cross the dad’s face — I’m paying entirely too much for 11 hours in this place to spend a quarter of it scaling glorified metal scaffolding. So, I knew better than to wander off. And, anyways, there wasn’t much else to wander off to. Where was I supposed to go? The smelly banks of the river? The overcrowded shops lining the nearby neighborhood streets? The fast food joint down the way that I remembered hitting up on a very late evening out?

No, it was the grassy park flanking the monument that did it for me. I’d spent many a Sunday afternoon there, and I was more than happy to add yet another afternoon to that tally. If only I had the wine, cheese, bread and good company to go along with it like I had so many afternoons before…

The day started off excitingly enough. I was up before dawn, waiting for the early morning train. I’d splurged on a cab to get over there that morning — and when you’re getting paid U.S. minimum wages to work in one of the world’s most expensive overseas cities during one of the biggest tourist events in its history, it’s definitely a splurge. My charges had shown soon after I arrived, but they’d procured first class tickets for their train trip and quickly sequestered themselves in the first class lounge. I tried to hide my relief that I wouldn’t have to entertain them the entire train ride.

We connected once happily off the train in the city. But there was no “Hi, how are you?” waiting for me at the station. Instead, a phone was immediately thrust into my hands. “She speaks French!” he insisted to his wife, not bothering to actually speak to me directly or even inform me who I was supposed to be conversing with.

“Parlez-vous anglais?” I asked the woman on the phone. “Absolutely,” she said, “How can I help you?”

Once I’d spoken with the woman (he had called up the ticketing office for the subway system…despite the fact that there was a box office a few feet away), we went to the box office to gather our tickets. A surge of excitement hit me as we made our way to the subway platform, the screech of the upcoming train hissing in the background. I excitedly began to share stories of my commute to school every day as my charges listened to patiently.

Regardless of the city we were tunneling through, I’m guessing my commuter tales weren’t exactly why they had requested a tour guide.

I did, however, know why they had. I’d built out a packed itinerary hitting all of the city’s major tourist stops. First, we were off to the art museum. I had it all planned. We’d depart the subway a few stops early, giving them the chance to talk through the fabulous garden pathways that provided the perfect build up to the world’s most famous art museum.

En route, we snapped a few photos — they had requested that I bring along my DSLR for their family photos, which I was happy to do. They even took a few for me. I gave them a few history lessons as we wandering through the area, sharing the details of one plaza’s bloody background alongside my own anecdotes of buying fresh cut flowers and sipping coffee on the same pathway.

When we hit the museum itself, it became very clear that they were not interested in paying my entrance fee. Having been to the same museum many times before, I quickly excused myself to a nearby bakery and promised to wait at a nearby Starbucks for them afterwards. Starbucks…the universal meeting place for Americans.

After their whirlwind tour of the museum, they were hungry. I mentioned a few places I knew nearby and the mention of “some of the fanciest pastries you’ll ever have” certain caught their ear. So, we were off to the pastry and tea shop. It’s a lovely place, but also perfectly touristy, surrounded by shops peddling postcards, scarves and cheap figurines — a far cry from the authentic, city experience they’d mentioned wanting. I told them as much, but they shrugged it off.

Tea was followed by a walk down the beautiful, tree-lined avenue nearby. It was littered with magnificent storefronts and incredible views from every angle, but I could tell les americains were quickly growing tired of this walking thing. I distracted them with stories — the time I lugged my heavy laptop to this McDonalds because it was the only place that had wifi near the house I was staying and how I once gave a presentation about a famous monument while standing next to the actual monument. By the time we reached the end of the street and snapped the photos to prove it, the harried dad announced he was thinking McDonalds sounded like a good idea. Concerned that I’d be returning to the UK without an ounce of local food in my belly, I quickly suggested we eat after the next stop on our list ­ — conveniently, there were no McDonald’s locations near that.

Back on the subway for a quick journey to la cathédrale. I informed them that my favorite cheap tourist shop was right around the corner, so we stopped there for souvenirs (and perhaps spent more time in the shop than we did at the actual church). And despite my insistence that we needed to take a long, walking route to a more distant subway station to check out some of the city’s bridges, I was overruled. Bridges were not a priority — we had other, more famous stops to check off before jumping on the train home.

Which brings us back to the park and the sunshine.

I’d barely hit the point of feeling drowsy before they returned from what was supposed to be a trip to the top of the monument and back. They’d been part of the way up and down again, somehow finding time to grab a snack from the numerous food carts set up nearby before tracking me down.

They were done.

And they weren’t having any of this “subway” nonsense on the way back to the station. No, they wanted a glass of wine at an authentic, local café (within walking distance of where we were, of course) and a cab to the train station.

One conveniently packaged white lie about my favorite café that happened to be right by the subway station and an interesting cabbie later, we were back on the train. We bid each other farewell and separated, me heading back to the standard car as they returned to first class.

As I stood in line in the dining car to buy an overpriced ham and cheese sandwich, I smiled inwardly.

They didn’t get it.

As much as I tried to give them my city over the course of 11 hours, they never quite picked it up. They didn’t want to. They didn’t want to absorb the beauty of the city or understand it. They wanted to check boxes off of a list. They wanted to go home and tell their friends about how they went to both the world’s biggest sporting event and the City of Lights all within a day of one another.

They were collecting trophies.

My city isn’t a trophy. My city is the sunshine-soaked Sundays on that well-worn grass, downing cheap wine and making friends with the vagabonds roaming trying to rip off tourists. My city is setting out to find that one café I read about online and ending up in a museum dedicated to perfume I didn’t know existed. It’s taking a wrong turn and discovering a new favorite neighborhood. It’s pointing haphazardly at a menu and finding an unexpected flavor. It’s coffees and pastries and cobblestones and red shoes and white dresses and skinny jeans. It’s the 4th of July and subway faces. It’s baby bottles and faux leather jackets and underground photo shoots and Vietnamese food.

But most of all, it’s sunshine.

Those 11 hours may not have been the best I’ve ever spent in my city, but at least one of them was one of my favorite. Because, even if just for a moment, I had that warmth — that Paris sunshine — back.

And when I closed my eyes, I was home.

You Shouldn't Live with Naked Hoarders

When I moved to San Francisco in May, everything went beyond smoothly. It went so well that, natural skeptic that I am, I was wondering if they were going a little too well. From the job interview process to finding an apartment remotely in one of the country's most challenging rental markets, it was quite unbelievable that I was having this kind of luck.

So, when I packed up my car and set off across the desert, there was something in the back of my mind telling me that something was bound to go wrong. But my new roommates (who I had yet to meet) were responsive via text message and email. They answered all of my questions and, when I arrived, were sitting there waiting to help unload the car and had been wandering around the block to help with parking.

Once I was in the door, though, the signs were there. I suppose I chose not to pay attention. After all, I was floating on cloud nine, thrilled that I'd scored a killer place in a great neighborhood in San Francisco...all without setting foot in the city! But they were definitely there.

When I moved in and walked down the main hallway for the first time, I notice that every piece of available wall space was covered with bookcases. No big deal, I thought, they must really love reading! And as an avid reader, I know that books aren't always the easiest things to get rid of.

Then, there was the couple of bookcases filled with old CDs. Now, I had plenty of CDs back in the day that I had impeccably organized and displayed on a little wooden CD stand. I was proud of those things! Check out my amazing collection of Backstreet Boys, Spice Girls and Mariah Carey albums, everyone! But, as the music industry changed to go digital, my lovely CD cases were soon replaced by Sharpie-decorated blank mix CDs, which didn't lend themselves well to display cases. And then along came iPods and, before long, all my music was on my computer. I still have a few CDs in my car for the random day that my auxiliary cord isn't working, but that's it. Everything else has been donated in my various closet purges.

So, to see multiple bookcases filled with tons of CDs was a little bit of a mental time warp back to the early 2000s. But, I reasoned, they must be big music fans.

Next came the kitchen. The kitchen was one of the things that made me fall in love with this place on Craigslist. Big, tall ceilings with cabinets that stretched all the way up to the top. A sunroom that held even more shelving (perfect, I thought, for things like my stand mixer and my food processor!). An additional chest of drawers for more storage. I held on to a lot of glassware and cooking accessories that I maybe wasn't 100% in love with, thinking there would be plenty of space for my things.

Naturally, I was a bit surprised when my roommate showed me my kitchen drawer with much fanfare. "Here's your drawer for your things!" he exclaimed, "And you can have this one shelf here, too." He pointed at a wire rack drawer squeezed in an awkward six-inch space between the refrigerator and chest of drawers. The wire rack drawer was probably a foot deep and five inches wide.

"Great!" I said, thinking that I won't need to do a lot of grocery shopping anyways. "So, where can I put my coffee mugs and other things?"

He grimaced a bit and shrugged.

"I guess I can move a few things," he said, taking a few plain white coffee cups out of one cabinet, "Here. You can probably fit two or three in there now."

Hmm. This was not quite what I had in mind. Oh well, though, I thought, I have plenty of storage space in my room.

The tour continued. "Here's our blender, but it's broken right now." He pointed to a large, industrial-quality blender. "And our mixer, but it's broken, too." So, that's odd. Broken, huge kitchen appliances apparently get priority over my very usable ones. Hmm.

As time went on, I began to notice more and more little things here and there.

The first time I unloaded the dishwasher, there were several salad dressing bottles and pasta sauce jars inside. I sometimes will clean things before recycling them or reuse them, so it wasn't too surprising. What was surprising, though, was finding a shelf filled with more old salad dressing bottles and pasta sauce jars than anyone (except, possibly, someone with a side canning business...which they did not have) could possibly ever use. We're talking 30+ bottles. And apparently they were so important that they could not be recycled so I could have space in the kitchen?

Again, I shrugged it off. They're into environmental causes, I thought, they're just being cautious in case they need to reuse things someday.

The next week, three empty soap bottles in the bathroom piqued my attention. They'd been sitting there since I moved in. They weren't anything special—just standard, plastic soap bottles. Considering that they had a very nice metal-and-wood soap dispenser, I had no reasoning for this one.

It wasn't until they accidentally left their bedroom door open one day that I realized that there may be a problem here.

Let me preface this by saying I wasn't snooping or going into places I shouldn't. Their door was right across from mine, so I was just looking ahead as I walked out of my room.

At first, I just registered that their room was very dark, which struck me as odd since it was the middle of the day and they had huge bay windows in their room.

Then, I noticed ladders. Multiple ladders. Leaning up against two different walls that were both stacked nearly to the ceiling with boxes. There was a rolling clothing rack in the middle of the floor.

These people had been living in the apartment for more than six years. That's way too long to still have that many unpacked boxes. Especially when they also have a huge storage unit that is packed with other boxes. And all those bookcases. And all those cabinets in the kitchen.

Was I living with hoarders?

Still, the San Francisco rental market is crazy, so I didn't do anything about it. After all, who really cares that much as long as they keep most of the hoarded mess in their private space?

Then came my sick day.

I came down with a pretty intense sinus infection and opted to work from home one day. I woke up at my usual time, showered, and headed back to my room. Between hacking coughs, sneezes, blowing my nose enough to go through half a box of Kleenex, listening to music on my iPhone dock, and a conference call, I wasn't exactly being quiet in my room. I could hear as one of my roommates turned on the shower around 9am and then immediately headed to the living room, where he proceeded to watch very loud game shows.

Despite not really wanting to get up and wander through the living room to the kitchen, I was out of water. When you're loading yourself up on Mucinex, water is a must.

So, I dragged myself out of bed and walked down the hallway. As I walked towards the living room, I could see my roommate was lying on the couch. What I didn't realize until a few moments later was that he was lying there completely naked. And his hand was in a certain area that, you know, you should probably save for the bedroom when you have roommates.

"Oh, I didn't know you were home," he said, picking up a towel to cover his junk.

"Yeah, just needed water," I responded, diverting my eyes to the floor and not making eye contact. Needless to say, I got my water and got out of there.

There it was! The straw that was going to break this camel's back. I could shrug off the lack of space, the hoarding, the inordinately high rent I was paying for little more than a room...but I didn't sign up for roommates who apparently missed the memo on what happens in private and what happens in public. Nudity? Fine, no big deal. I live in San Francisco where naked people aren't an entirely uncommon weekend sighting. Masturbating? Yeah, not interested in seeing that, thanks.

He had the wife apologize for him which, again, I shrugged and smiled and said no problem. But Craigslist soon became the number one most viewed page on my computer as I started up the old SF apartment hunt yet again.

To update everyone who has not been reading my blog over the past few months, I now live with people who enjoy remaining fully clothed while in common areas. They also seem to have pretty healthy relationships where their belongings are concerned.