It's hard not to overhear conversations while sitting on the train.
I don't often listen to music mainly because I need new tunes, of which I'm just too lazy to download.
So, there I was on today's journey into the heart of what a coworker once affectionately called, "The Loin." That's the Tenderloin for anyone -- and I seriously hope no one will be -- reading this. It's the swill of San Francisco, the backbone of political animosity in a city known for carrying a liberal zeal -- and you thought liberals couldn't hate other liberals?
One of those places that, for a multitude of complicated reasons, resists gentrification. It will forever resist gentrification. So, lacking any objectivity in this next line, I suppose I can say: It's the shit-hole of the city. To walk into the Tenderloin may be brief but will never go unnoticed.
Since it's very nearly in the middle of the financial district and is surrounded by classic tourist locales, I only imagine some well-to-do boomers from "Parts Unknown," United States, finding themselves lost in the city only to run, in any direction possible, as fast as possible, desperate to get out.
On this particular occasion, not unlike other occasions, I accidentally wandered into the area. Happened to be buying tickets to a show on Geary and took a little stroll afterwards. I'm always torn between sympathy and contempt when I see intoxicated people urinating on garbage cans. Not IN garbage cans, ON them. This is the least contemptible aspect of walking the streets but is invariably noticeable in the light of day. To make matters worse, It's impossible to dispute the nose dive that this stretch of city has taken in only the past few years. One recent article in the "Chronicle," addresses San Francisco's new police chief. In doing so the author, C.W. Nevius, figures a solution to the drug problem in the city.
Draw a circle around the intersection of Turk and Taylor streets in the Tenderloin. You've just located the epicenter of drug dealing and violence in the city.
And apparently the new police chief did just that. On his first jaunt into the belly of the beast, before even being sworn in, the new chief witnessed a drug deal, a drug deal that took place right in front of face.
I've been to the area quite a few times; working on stories. Back in 2005 -- wearing a suit and carrying a camera, tripod and microphone I was nearly been assaulted by a person who was clearly not present. But every time is eye-opening.
So, there I was on today's journey. On my way back from "The Loin" two females in the seat to my right, I would guess in their mid-teens -- No, I don't stare or make rude comments at every woman I see -- were conversing about jet lag. Plus, they were in their mid-teens! To be perfectly honest all I really heard was, "jet lag," and, "affects." Still, it got me thinking.
By this point -- and I desperately hope no one even began reading this article -- you're quite clearly wondering why I would divert. But the gist of setting out on this journey -- the article, not the trip to the Tenderloin -- is certainly not to opine on the afflicted parts of our society. Lest I bore us all, right?
No, I wanted to chat a bit about my experience with jet lag and my ways of getting over it. "Great," you say, "I would rather have this guy talk about the Tenderloin; at least it was more entertaining." Good, then leave. Thank you.
Now, that we're all settled in, and the hogwash has run out of the pen, I can tell you that I've been on five trips to Europe since 2005. That's one in '05, one in '07 -- or was it '06? I can't remember, and anyway it's not important. For personal reasons I also went on 3 trips in '08. Those three were to London. I love London, by the way. It's such a clean city, especially compared to New York.
But, back to my story. The first time I took a trip to Denmark was on a Scandinavian airlines flight for which I paid far, far, far too much. Being a non-traveler at that point and being completely ignorant, with no compass to fall back on, both of my parents have rarely traveled outside the borders, I was unfamiliar with how to go about my travels. It's fair to say that I didn't sleep on that flight and suffered the consequences.
Despite the hot towels that were provided -- which I haven't had on a flight since -- I quickly realized that it was a long 15 hours.
When I got to Arhus I don't remember being immediately tired. Perhaps it was the thrill of being in another place that created an exuberance. It was only when I finally got into my new flat and sat down to watch the Tour De France that I started to feel it. That heavy burn in the eyes and a feeling of weighing six times ones own weight. They say that fighter jet pilots experience the blood rushing from their head as the force of gravity increases. This is the closest thing to what I imagine that would be like.
The roar of hearty Viking laughter kept me awake only momentarily. I'd fall asleep then open bloodshot eyes at the sound of their chuckles. Finally, it became painful and I went to my room to catch a nap.
The problem is that I woke up from my nap at three in the morning. It took at full two days to overcome the time difference. I had 4 months left to this trip so it didn't cause a huge problem. But on shorter length stays one would lose precious time.
So, I learned my first lesson; sleep. On every trip since I've developed a well-tested process. After the first meal I take out my contacts and pop one of my over the counter sleep aids. When I've landed it's more of a relaxing feeling without the stress of being worn out before the trip even begins.
