All right, dudes and ladies. It's time for a disclaimer. DISCLAIMER: Every single last photo in this blog post was taken by Sir Trevbro, a.k.a. Mr. Parker. None of them are mine. Now it's time for my excuse for having a disclaimer. EXCUSE: I didn't take my camera because:

a) There was no room in my backpack. My camera would have had to somehow displace all the food I'd stuffed in there and still make room for it.

2) The weather was supposed to be rainy and I wasn't in a particular mood to destroy my camera.

3) I knew Trevor would take a million photos. Incidentally, I was right, but I hadn't counted on the fact that 999,999 of those photos would be pictures of dogs.

Moving on. I don't know if this bit is particularly clear to everyone I'm associated with, so I'll give you this amount of back story. Blake ordered us to travel at least one hundred miles away and come back before Sunday night. No hitchhiking. No staying with friends or family.

Trevor and I decided to trek to San Francisco, which at three-hundred-something miles away would prove to be a strenuous journey. We found a ride on craigslist, which was cool and everything, but I was afraid this Andy character would end up being a serial killer. He didn't, predictably, as I'm still alive. But he did more than prove his own unmurderliness (WOW.) -- he was pretty okay. There was also a dude, another guy who had needed a ride, named Bruno. He had a scruffy face; a guitar; and a really clear, smooth, round voice that I liked. Also, I found out at some point during the ride that Bruno was irritated with the factory farm industry. RIGHT ONNN, said I.

Bear in mind that we'd started driving with Andy and Bruno at about 11:30 at night. Thus, it was dark, as night tends to be. I nodded off a couple of times. I don't know whether Trevor did, because how can one tell if someone else is nodding off if one is nodding off herself?

The hour was six or something when at last we arrived at the BART station, I think in Martinez, but I could be dead wrong. At any rate, we said later gator to Andy and boarded on the BART train thingy (I, a lady from Pennsylvania, have no clue how to refer to these San Franciscan contraptions). Let's skip ahead to some unboring parts that have nothing to do with me snoozing on the train.

The first thing I noticed about San Francisco was that it reminded me of Pittsburgh. The second thing I noticed about San Francisco was that it reminded me of nothing like Pittsburgh at all. At first, I was thinking, "Hey, downtown San Fran is kinda like downtown Pittsburgh!" I spoke too soon. At least in Pittsburgh people don't tear down the street like they're in rocket ships, and a least in Pittsburgh people have regard for pedestrians. Sheesh. I think it may have something to do with all the smug in the air. (Hurr)

We wanted to go to Starbucks. I, because I really wanted a frappuccino; and Trevor, because... I don't know why. Starbucks was boring though, so I'll skip ahead again.

Exhaustion had filled us to our very brims, and we needed to go pour some of it out somewhere. So we decided to take a nap. But where? We didn't know. We discussed, and eventually we came to the decision to nap in the BART station. And this was exactly what we did. We dozed against the station wall in shifts; one of us slept while the other kept a lookout for cops and/or violent hobos. The light in the station was obnoxiously yellow; thus, though we did sleep a little, we didn't sleep well. At any rate, when it was Trevor's turn to sleep and mine to keep a keen eye peeled, I decided to sketch a homeless man who was crouched against the same wall as we, only he was way further down, not in our personal space in the least. I drew him until he went away. Trevor woke up and some friendly cops came over to check on us. Here's the general gist of that particular exchange:

COP: [referring to Trevor] Is he sick or something?
ME: No, we're just tired.
COP: Okay. You guys aren't really loitering, and you look like you've got it together... But just so you know, you can't board here in the station. [Very friendly-like he was about it, as well.]
ME: That's swell, Mr. Officer, sir! Gee, thanks a million for stopping by!

Let's see if you can guess which one of those lines was a fake. It's a tricksy one.

After the cops went away, Trevor and I were both awake, so we decided to get up and go somewhere. The somewhere we went turned out to be the docks. Y'know, with all the fisherman boats and whatnot. Surprisingly, the area didn't reek of fish, which was what I'd expected. I danced and sang along the boardwalk as Trevbro took photos... mostly of, you guessed it, dogs.



That is not a picture of a dog, but rather a picture of yours truly dancing around just as I have previously remarked.

Blah blah blah rain blah blah blah boats blah blah blah birds. This stuff was all interesting to experience, mind, but it would be uninteresting for a reader to read. I'm doing this for you. You'll thank me later.



ABOVE: I post this last photo because it amuses me, particularly for so aptly echoing the picture before it.

BELOW: We saw this man and had to photograph him. Look. At. The. Moustache. And isn't his facial expression fascinating?



Around lunchtime, we cooked our princess spaghetti-o's on our homemade cat-tin hobo stove. We were cooking them in plain sight on the side of the boardwalk, and there were certainly some people who gave us peculiar looks. We were hungry enough not to pay attention. At one point, though, our can of noodles sort of exploded a bit, and fell over, and we had a mess of sauce and spaghetti which we mopped up with napkins we had previously used as paper on which to play hangman. All right, there's my run-on sentence for the day.



Everything turned out grandly in the end, though, and we ate heartily our feast of the poor.

And now, a photo of one hobo poking another!



To be continued later today!

Snidely,
Amber