stay clear of north of 24th and mission

These were words of wisdom given to me at the 3300 bar tonight. My roommate and I decided to get familiar with our new neighborhood and check out the local bars. I am clearly the more Spanish-looking of the two of us, but Ariel has mastered the Spanish language, which proved to be of some value as we began our journey. After initially breaking plans with MIT girls going to the Financial District for an 8pm Happy Hour (due to delayed timing on our end), we strolled down the Mission, stopping in every bar on the way, until we got to 23rd street (we live on Randall).

The first place we went no English was spoken, which meant I remained mute. The bartender gave us a very large lime with our beer that clearly couldn’t have been squeezed or put into our cans. I was very confused about what to do with the fruit, so I wrapped it in a napkin, hoping not to insult our hosts. She proceeded to attempt to seduce me by bending over the bar and promoting an opening between her shirt and her chest, which led to an awkward 20 second stare-down from the regulars and prompted us to move to a new bar. Just as I was beginning to feel less threatened by a beating from local drinkers, we entered a bar that required a pat down from the bouncer. Why everyone else that entered this bar was left untouched remains a mystery to me.

I attempted to speak a bit of Spanish at this place, but received more disturbing looks of aggression from some very tough looking men, and so decided "less was more" and kept my mouth shut at the place called Malibu. I did enjoy the live band and the salsa music being played enough that I will certainly return someday, with a deserving girl who will let me step on her toes on the dance floor.

We then made our way to this lame bar passed 24th street. The bartender was incredibly rude and spoke far too proper English for what I was used tonight. She decided to check our ID's after ignoring us for 10 minutes. I proudly displayed my Michigan Identification, and ordered a water on the rocks. And then I left. Forget that attitude. I was gauging her response to the water request, and decided that my money would be best spent elsewhere.

2 bars later, I ended up at 3300 place, where I was advised not to go north of 24th street. Zoe, a very intellectual bar tender took a great liking to us, gave us martini glasses and free beers for the road, nicknaming us the FNG's (f*&^*$# new guys). Had a crazy conversation with Tom, a bartender at BAR at 23rd and mission, about a family who was forced off-road into the snow in the mountains of Oregon. The Father, after 9 days, went out to look for help, and then 3 hours later a helicopter rescued his wife and 2 daughters. He had burned his tires to keep his family warm, layered clothes and left a trail of clothes to mark where he went, making it miles from the car. Unfortunately, he did not survive the cold, and was found frozen by the rescue team. I found out from Tom and Dawn at the 3300 bar that this man had been my neighbor in my new apartment on Randall Street. I had no clue how close these people were to me. This really hit home hard, and captured my thoughts on the tonight. It was a mixture of culture shocks and eye opening stories, and I am thankful for the experience. Too many days go by with my eyes being neglectful of real life.

I enjoy both the north and south of 24th street, and my lack of red clothing will no longer be an issue, as I plan on buying a red track suit in the near future to wear around my neighborhood, mafia style. I plan on ordering less water at bars, too, but only from servers that aren’t bloody rude.