Lost and Found in San Francisco

Notes from a solo trip at 19.

November 2009: I wouldn’t say I went to San Francisco to have my first lesbian experience, but I was open to the possibility.

The bus ride from Vancouver was 30 hours. Back then, I could handle sitting up for that long—took a perverse kind of pride in it, even. I wrote poetry in my tiny notebook and watched as the landscape shifted. Eventually, I got curious about the guy in a basketball jersey sitting next to me.

Paolo was a soft-spoken man who was heading back to Oakland after visiting his kid and his ex in Vancouver. It was hard to live so far away from them, he told me, but he was determined to stay in their lives.

When the bus stopped in Sacramento for a couple of hours, Paolo and I went out in search of lunch but came back empty-handed; it was Thanksgiving weekend, and the city was a ghost town. We picked oranges from a tree on the grounds of the California legislature and ate them on a park bench.

Paolo shook his thick, dark hair out of a tight French braid that fell to his waist and ran his hands along his scalp. I rebraided it for him before we got back on the bus, muscle memory from my years as a Scottish dancer guiding my fingers over and under, gathering his hair into even bunches, holding the right amount of tension for braid to sit flat against his scalp.

When we said goodbye at the San Francisco bus depot, he gave me his number, saying he’d love to show me around his hometown. Paolo: I should’ve called you.

It was verging on evening by then, and the rain was pouring down in frigid sheets. I hoisted my pack onto my back and started walking to the Mission. In my notebook I had the address of a hotel that advertised an incredible deal on their website: $22 a night! But when I arrived, my wool coat soaked through, the front desk clerk told me that was the rate for sharing a room with three other people, and I had to supply those people myself. Not knowing what else to do, I paid $100 for a room of my own and made my way up the stairs.

The room was small, and its window looked out on a column of windows to other rooms. I’d never seen that before, a window that looked not out, but into, another part of the building. I fell asleep easily, relieved to be horizontal at last.

When morning came, it was time to find somewhere else to stay—another couple of nights at this hotel would wipe me right out. My upbringing had drilled into me the virtue of frugality, and so I had only brought what I’d needed for the (unfortunately imaginary) $22-a-night room, plus enough of a food budget to keep from starving. Having blown $100 of that on my first night was not great. Walked around the neighbourhood, willing my soggy coat to dry, I found a brightly painted hostel nearby. Its dorms were $25 per night and I moved in right away.

I headed to the grocery store next, full of dread, wondering how I could stretch what I had left. But America, the nation of innovation, came to my rescue: I found peanut butter and jelly, swirled together, in one very cheap jar. I bought that with a loaf of bread, and mentally prepared myself to eat my least favourite sandwich for every meal. Eventually I discovered a newly opened Cuban restaurant down the street with a $6 plate of beans and rice, so I went there when I felt like splurging.

One of the glorious features of my new hostel was a complimentary continental breakfast—how fancy that sounded! I soon discovered that this meant a cup of coffee or tea and one pastry, which was closely surveilled by a front desk clerk who would’ve made an excellent prison guard. As the days wore on, however, I gained her trust, and developed ways to conceal an extra muffin or three as I darted back up the stairs to the dorms.

Breakfast is where I met Freddie Mercury. This young man was relocating to San Francisco from Las Vegas, where he’d worked as an impersonator. But this man was no ordinary impersonator: he lived as Freddie 24/7. He had the pencil moustache, the unplaceable accent, and the flamboyant sense of style. If I ever knew his real name, it’s long since faded from my memory, because everyone at the hostel called him Freddie.

We met while trying to explain butch and femme to a sweet but clueless straight man. He’d guessed that I, in my button-up collared shirt, conductor’s cap and bare face, was femme, and Freddie and I shared a grin that cemented our bond.

One day, Freddie announced at breakfast that he was going out to look for work, and I joined him. We walked along the streets of the Mission, Freddie flouncing into every store with a bohemian vibe. When we got hungry, he treated me to sushi. He helped me try and figure out where to cash the traveler’s cheque that my mother had insisted was the safest way for me to travel with money. After several bank tellers looked at me as if I were a confused medieval peasant, Freddie’s firm charm got the job done.

The hostel had an eclectic cast of characters—there was the freckled guy in baggy clothes who was looking for a fresh start after a stint in a Florida jail; there were the two men from France who, bored of American, were napping away the days until their flight back home. There was a sweet, shy guy from Peru who smoked me up on the roof of the hostel, a roof which transformed into a wall-shaking night club right about when one might want to go to sleep (perhaps explaining the hostel’s cheap prices.)

When the Peruvian guy left for home, along with a bag of weed, he gave me two white crystals and a stone frog pendant. When Freddie saw them, he whipped a chain, some wire and a pair of needle-nosed pliers out of his gigantic faux snakeskin purse and fashioned me a necklace on the spot. Freddie, baby, if you’re out there: call me. I owe you one.

One of my first days in San Francisco, I saw a poster for a protest against climate change. It was happening outside of a bank downtown, and I showed up for it. I’d never protested in a foreign country before and didn’t want to get deported or banned, so I asked the group’s legal liaison whether it was safe for me to participate in blocking the bank’s doors. She assured me I’d be fine. The action went ahead as planned, and it was only later that I found out that a) everyone at the other set of doors had been arrested and b) getting arrested could’ve gotten me deported and banned from the country for years. I said a silent thank you to lady luck.

There was a local cyclist at the protest who claimed he could bring me to the best burrito in town. We made our way to an unassuming place with flickering fluorescent lights, and I got the one he suggested, which is when I discovered I’m just not that into burritos. Still, I tried to be cheerful about it, since I was there with this restaurant’s Number One Fan. After we ate, we wandered along the waterfront, and I remarked on how built up everything was. There were hardly any trees or parks to be seen; the water in the bay was bright with rainbow ribbons of oil. The cyclist warned me that Vancouver would one day look like this too if we weren’t careful. Industry and progress had a way of crowding out the birds and the bees.

Speaking of those guys, out of nowhere, the cyclist wrapped his arms around my waist and leaned in for a kiss; well, technically he leaned up, because I was significantly taller than him. I rifled through our day together in my mind, trying to figure out when I’d given him the wrong idea. Was it simply that I’d agreed to hang out with him? He picked up on my surprise and said goodbye pretty quickly after.

In Vancouver, I used public transportation to get wherever I needed to go. In San Francisco, however, the bus did not have the same mix of white and blue collar workers, youth and seniors. Everyone on the bus seemed to be in the middle of a crisis; there was a lot of yelling and cussing and jostling.

A man one seat ahead of me was pouring pure poison into his girlfriend’s ear. While he was distracted, I asked the woman if she needed help. I could get off the bus with her and find somewhere for her to stay. She shook her head no—a couple of stops later, the boyfriend dragged her off the bus by her arm.

The time had come to check out the infamous People’s Park in Berkeley. I’d brought my notebook and was scribbling away, when a shadow crossed the page. I looked up to see a man with thick dreadlocks, bright baggy clothing and a wide grin across his face.

“Hi, I’m Fabian,” he said. ”What’s your name?”

I introduced myself and he invited me to share a joint with him and his friends. We all got along easily and they asked me what I was doing that night. I didn’t have any plans, but there were a lot of things I couldn’t do because I was under America’s drinking age.

One of Fabian’s friends perked up: Jordan wore a tie-dye hoodie with his thick bushy hair tied back in a bun. “I’m DJing a show tonight—we can get you in the back.” Finally, a way in!

I arrived early to the address they’d given me. It was a labyrinthine house, large and winding enough that three DJ booths played completely different music with no clashing sound. As I wandered around, I found nooks and lofts and short, tiny rooms with doors where you wouldn’t expect them. I found out later that this house had originally been a brothel.

The DJ from the park was playing psytrance, which basically sounds like you’re in a sci-fi action sequence (think pew-pew). The music was quick and jarring. I danced close to the stage, expressing my gratitude for the party invite, but once I felt that I’d paid my dues, I went in search of a stage that was more to my taste.

One of the rooms was vibrating with bass, the music a mix of hip hop and dubstep. I’d never heard this combination up in Canada, and it made for easy dancing. A woman with kandi up her arms approached me: I could see the MDMA she was on from the way her jaw moved. Her eyes were two pools, wide and deep and open. She told me I was cute. I blushed, told her she was too, and ran away.

As the sun came up and people started filtering out, I found Fabian, and we regrouped with his friends in his RV. The morning was serene, breathing slow between our sweaty bodies. Out of nowhere, Fabian looked around and asked us if we wanted to go in on a bunch of acid together. Everyone nodded their heads. Fabian looked at Jordan and asked if his parents needed help on their ranch. Jordan shrugged and nodded noncommittally.

“So here’s what we’re going to do,” Fabian said. “We’re going to head down to this olive ranch, work a couple of days, and then we’ll pool our earnings to buy a sheet of acid.”

This sounded like a perfectly good and reasonable plan in our delirious, exhausted, post-rave glow, so Fabian hopped into the driver’s seat, and we took off for Salinas, California. The hum of the engine and the soft bumps in the road soon put me to sleep; I woke up as the van pulled to a stop.

We tumbled out and took a look around, rubbing our eyes. The dry, dusty brown land felt worlds away from the fog and rain of San Francisco. Gnarled olive trees twisted their way out of the ground, and I was delighted to discover that tumbleweeds are a real thing.

It was when Jordan led us to the building where we’d be sleeping that I realized I was on a dude ranch. There were rows of beds along each wall of this giant room, and the walls were covered in a western mural that included rugged cowboys, dopey cows, and flirtatious horses, all framed with rope. There was a foosball table and a pool table, with a stack of cowboy cutouts in the corner. It was all covered in a fine layer of dust.

We headed into the main house to get our assignments for the day from Jordan’s mom. When we walked into her kitchen, I couldn’t believe my eyes: every single surface was covered with food, and so was every cupboard, along with a gigantic double fridge. She asked us right away if we’d eaten, and without waiting for an answer, started passing us boxes and bags of food. As we munched, she told us we’d come too late in the day to pick olives, because they couldn’t be handled in the heat without bursting. Instead, she assigned us to various maintenance jobs. As the only woman in the group, it was my assignment to sweep and vacuum the floors of her house.

I worked thoroughly and methodically, as I suspected I would be done my tasks long before the others. Plus, that kitchen was paradise after my PB&J-and-muffin diet, so I took an above-average number of snack breaks.

At the end of the day, she paid us in cash for our work, which we all handed over to Fabian before piling into his RV and heading back to the city. I parted ways with the group and headed back to the hostel—we gave each other hugs, like lifelong friends, and promised to see each other soon.

Back at the hostel, I met my new roommate, Ophelia: a woman from Portland, Oregon who was here by herself for vacation. I told her about my People’s Park adventure, and she wanted to check it out for herself, so we made plans to head back there together.

By 11am the next day, Ophelia and I, too cheap to take the subway, were standing by an onramp to the Bay Bridge with a cardboard sign that said “good karma” beside a poorly drawn thumbs. We waited for ages, cars whizzing right by us, until someone finally took pity on us, dropping us off right in downtown Berkeley. We decided to get some coffee, and believe it or not, we found Fabian in the café we picked. He introduced us to his friend, Nora, and her deep brown eyes locked with mine. An invisible spark leapt between us.

Nora told us she was planning to go to a hot tub that night, one that was in a private backyard. You had to know someone who knew someone to get in because the door had an electronic lock that required a code. It was a silent, clothing-optional space, and men could only attend if accompanied by women.

This sounded bizarre and possibly totally made up, so Ophelia and I were in. Nora joined us as we went to People’s Park, and we picked up a handful of strangers along the way who wanted to join in on the hot tub. There was a man covered in silver paint who swirled a very long stick, a laid-back older gentleman whose beige linen outfit wrinkled around his armpits and knees, and a neurotic young backpacker who gave us all acid.

Next, we stopped at a dilapidated mansion where Nora had friends. The front room was painted a bright pink-red and the inhabitants were dressed like exiled aristocrats still catching their breath, in ratty fur coats and long strands of pearls. White powder was brought out and cut into lines on the coffee table, but I abstained. One drug in my system seemed like enough.

Just when it seemed like this hot tub really was imaginary, we arrived at its gate. Nora put in the passcode and we filed in after her, shedding our clothes as we did. The hot tub was underneath a porch in the backyard, and a breeze danced the steam off the surface of the water. One by one, we slipped in, emitting sounds without words as the scalding hot water reached our skin.

A joint was passed around but again I abstained; the one time I’d mixed weed and alcohol, I’d gotten such bad dry mouth that I’d felt as though my tongue was crumbling into dust and clogging up my throat. I didn’t want to find out how weed and acid coexisted in my system.

By the time we were sufficiently cooked and putting our clothes back on, it was late. Surprising everyone, Nora invited the whole crew back to her place to sleep, and that’s exactly what we did, all six of us tetrising around one another so we could fit into her modestly sized bedroom.

Just as I was settling in, however, Nora motioned for me to join her in her bed, and soon, her tongue was warm in my mouth. Fireworks exploded in my mind: after so many years of yearning to touch a woman, here I was. People shifted around us, trying to find a good sleeping position. The backpacker fiddled with the straps on his backpack all night long. As things heated up between Nora and I, the linen guy whispered, “this is really beautiful. Is it okay if I watch?” Nora roared “NO!” and he shrugged, turned to face the wall, and fell asleep. My mouth found its way between her legs, and Nora bucked and moaned until her whole body shuddered and fell still.

Slipping off to the bathroom, I thought about a friend’s warning never to look into a mirror on acid: she’d seen her skin melting down her face. But I took a chance, and was relieved to see my regular old face looking back at me, cheeks aglow, hair still mussed from Nora’s grasp. It was on the inside that everything had changed.

Climbing back into bed, I found Nora weaving a future for us. We would move to Vermont, get a little cottage in the woods, and grow tomatoes. We would watch the leaves turn in the fall, keep each other warm in front of the wood stove, raise a red-haired son. All this spooled out as I held her, my body flooding with joy.

Back at the hostel, my bus ticket home was gone. Reasoning I’d simply misplaced it, I tore my pack apart over and over, opening each and every pocket and pouch and searching under the mattress and the bed. Eventually I had to face the truth: my night in Berkeley had cost me my ticket home.

I was staying in a dorm room with a rotating cast of 12; trying to hunt down the culprit would have been impossible. Embarrassed, I got on the phone with my mum, choking back tears as I explained what had happened. My cash was nearly gone and, thanks to a book I’d read about the dangers of RFID chips, I didn’t own a credit card. After a couple of calls with Greyhound, she arranged for a ticket to be waiting for me at the bus depot.

This pushed my leaving date back by a day, and I was unprepared to pay for an extra night at the hostel. So, after reassuring the concierge that I would pay for my extra night when I checked out, I awoke at dawn, quietly gathered my things, and used a back exit I’d discovered. I wonder if my passport picture remains taped to the hostel’s office wall, THIEF scrawled in thick black marker under my face.

Fabian and I met one last time before I headed home. He told me that the silver guy with the stick had attacked a stranger at the park and was sitting in jail. He also apologized for not getting me the acid I’d paid for in time. In hindsight, this was a blessing in disguise, because I absolutely would have tried to sneak it across the border in a water bottle. Fabian’s tardiness was all that saved me from myself.

Nora and I messaged back and forth once I was back home, spilling secrets, making confessions, dreaming of our next encounter. One day, an email to her bounced back, and that was that.

Nora, if you’re reading this: meet me in Vermont.

I'm working to build a career writing essays that explore agency, transcendence, sacrifice, and belonging—without relying on tired platitudes.

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