Learning quick in the bay

San Francisco is very different from Utah in the sense that in Utah, more often than not, you can say no to something politely. For instance, a troubled youth knocks on your door and wants to sell you a magazine, and you can tilt your head, resonate apology through your eyes and kindly decline the offer. The same thing seems to work with the panhandlers. You politely decline, they politely move on from it.

Here, however, I have had to learn a few lessons in the good, old fashioned blunt sort of way.

BART is the subway system here. It just so happens that the one I live closest to is right in the middle of the mecca of San Francisco tourism: The Union Square shopping district.

So there I was one day, passing a slew of panhandlers, politely declining to give my cash to them as I walked into the BART station to buy my ticket.

I love the BART ticket machines. Why? You can put in a $10 bill, say you want an $8 ticket and it gives you your change back in quarters, which comes in handy for me as the laundry machine in my building is coin operated.

My change clinked delightfully into the return box of the ticket machine, and as I scooped it I felt a sudden presence lurking. I turned to find a scraggly bearded man staring intently at my hand, which was clutching $2 in quarters. But, as he spoke, he didn’t say what I am used to hearing those in need say, which is, “Could you spare some change?”

No, he towered over me and bellowed, “Gimmie 50 cents.”

I was taken aback. But when I regained my composure, a sense of purpose greater than his need for my quarters overcame me. It was my need for clean clothes in a world where I had access to so few quarters.

“Uhhhhh,” I furrowed my brows at him, “I need this for laundry.”

“Gimmie 50 cents,” he said more impatiently.

I was so shocked. He wasn’t asking now. He was actually just demanding my money, even when I had given him a perfectly good reason for my needing the change. I lost all my reserve and, like a child unwilling to share a coveted toy I yelled, “NO.” And walked away in a huff.

However, I was silly to think that this would be my final lesson of living in the city. Because it most certainly was not.

I had a slightly bad day last week, guys. You see, I was growing weary of the endless calls to my desk.

No, the endless calls are not related to my job. Instead, they stem from the fact that a company, whose product we sell in our stores, has my phone number listed as the contact info for EVERY SINGLE ONE of North Face’s 52 nationwide stores on its website.

“Hello, The North Face, this is Lindsey.” “Hi, do you sell said company’s very popular product?” “Um, I’m sorry you are calling North Face corporate headquarters.” “Oh… well your number is on this website as a North Face store.” “I know that. In fact, they have my number listed as every store on their site.” “Oh… well, do you have the number?”

It took me the first five calls like this to realize that it’s easier to just give people the number than to explain how they would need to search for it in Google.

“What’s the city and state of the store you are looking for?” Then I pull out a list I made of every North Face store’s contact info, and read the person off the actual store number.

Yes, I contacted the company. No, after a month nothing has changed yet.

So I get home from this long day and I do that classic girl thing. “I’m going to treat myself to _________” For everyone the blank is different. For me, it is nail polish. So, off I went to the mall.

You all know those carts at the mall that sell everything from nail buffers to cell phone covers, right?

I’m walking through the mall, minding my own business, looking for awesome nail polish when I hear Borat calling me. Ok, it wasn’t actually Borat, but a guy who sounded exxxxxxactly like him.

“Miss come try this ama….”

I cut him off with the nice smile I would have given any cart vendor back in Utah, as well as a “oh no thanks” in a nice voice.

“Where are you from?” he asked. “Here” I replied. “OK, here, come take this sample with you.”

Just like I cannot refuse the ugliest sweater in the world when it is given to me by my grandma, I also could not snub this guy who was going to send me on my way with a sample. At the time, it just seemed rude to refuse it.

And then it happened – the thing that would forever change the way I interact with cart vendors in San Francisco malls.

He held out a small container, but as I reached my hand out, he overturned a tablespoon of exfoliating sea salt into my palm. And smiled.

“Rub your hands together,” he tells me through his accent and then rubs his fingers over my palm. “Oh your skin is so dry… what is your name? Your skin is so dry Lindsey do you work in a kitchen? Are you a maid? A garbage man? This makes a great present. Helps with excema, polishes your skin. Your skin is so dry. What is Lindsey this is a great present. It comes from the dead sea and will get rid of your dry, dry skin. You should rub it over your whole body.”

He went on and on and on like this. And so I tried again to be kind. Because the thing is, I am not a sea salt person. So I said so.

“I’m really sorry but I don’t think I am going to take any.”

And then, he gave me the up and down, which I thought was a type of visual evaluation reserved for bitchy high school girls, and said, “You are a lesbian? You like the ladies.”

I was so shocked, I was struck speechless.

And, honestly, the thing that pissed me off wasn’t being called a lesbian. People are gay. I’m not. No big deal. Instead, it was that he would evaluate my clothing (which consisted of a hoody and jeans, so I must be a manly lesbian, right?) and then, based on that one outfit I was wearing, assess that I must be a lesbian.

If the whole world really worked on stereotypes like that, I should have assessed by his accent that he was an oppressor of women and a cab driver. But I didn’t. Because I’m not a dick.

And, on a whole different level beyond the anger, I was baffled. Is this supposed to get me to buy your sea salt? Because right now the very last thing on earth I want to do is buy your sea salt. In fact, I NEVER want to buy your sea salt. If I were the most dry-skinned, in need of exfoliation woman in the world and yours was the last exfoliating scrub in existence, I still wouldn’t buy it.

I’d later find out from a lady at the makeup counter that cart vendors are notorious for insulting anyone who won’t buy their products. But none of that changed the fact that as I walked away, wiping the sticky remains of sea salt from my hands with my scarf, it stung to be judged.

In fact, it stung so bad that next thing you know, I had spent altogether too much on nail polishes and lip glosses in an emotional shopping binge.

San Francisco is by no means Salt Lake City. I didn’t expect it to be, but I also didn’t expect to have to be callused in order to keep my money and pride intact.

And so it was through newly glossed lips that I took a new approach to the vendors of the mall as I made my way toward the exit.

“No,” I’d hiss with vitriol at anyone approaching me. And I’d follow it with a turning up of the nose and a sneer. Because if they’re going to insult me for not buying what they are selling no matter what, I may as well get them to leave me alone while giving them a good enough reason to insult me.

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