Poetry in the Pavement
We're scrambling for change. A line of cars is queuing up behind us, and the Russian woman working the toll booth looks unforgiving. "Could ya help us out?" I ask, chagrined and holding one dollar less than needed for the toll.
"I cannot take less than five," she replies, stone-faced with a thick accent. We don't have five in cash, I say, so what then? "You will get a fine for thirty dollars mailed to you," she answers. Sweet. Welcome to San Francisco.
The day is cloudy and I'm feeling a bit pissed from a seven-hour drive and the Golden Gate toll debacle. We park around the corner from a strip club - coincidentally adjacent to our hostel - plug the meter and lug our stuff up to the Green Tortoise. The employees at our hostel are changing shifts and so we just sit there while the meter runs. The woman working says we should just sit tight. "I'm just worried about the meter," I say, tired and feigning patience. "Well go feed it", she says.
