First morning back living in a hostel.

Today I listened to Frank Ocean in one of the hostel bathrooms. I believe it was WC2, which stands for Water Closet 2. Did I mention the Green Tortoise hostel is geared for international travelers? Americans don’t say water closet, at least not the ones I’ve met.

When I peer out the window to my immediate left, I see a wake of pigeons clustered around the recent abandonments of a one person homeless occupation; how long until I see a literal Committee? I walk among the casualties, and they are casual about the desolation. The homeless problem in the city of San Francisco is palpable. It’s in your face. In Haight-Ashbury, the street kids rule maniacally. They all have young dogs, and they hound individuals less able-bodied than themselves for money. They ask me and all I can think is “bitch I have a broken shoulder, and minimum wage is $15.00 in this city, wtf are you thinking?”

Life in North Beach, and definitely in the Mission, is a little different for these homeless folks. The individuals I find in these areas are the lifers. The addicts who are experts at one terrible, terrible thing. Mobile health units set up in the Mission, and they give out free needles, which is of course a very important thing. I have seen a line of 50 people shooting up heroin on a sidewalk, at noon, on a Tuesday. They plop down right next to the free needles, and they get to beeswax. I didn’t stick around to watch everyone fall asleep.

I just took a walk to the Vallejo step garden behind the hostel, at the top of the hill. I, in fact, am the one who labeled it as a place on Google. I have recently become a Google guide, and even if it never nets me any monetary gain, it is great for moral. So far my photos have been viewed over 6k times; I have the number one photo for the West Oakland Bart station, but the majority of my views come from a bubble photo I took at China Ranch Date Farm. I visited the date farm with the Green Tortoise Adventure Travel company. This happened because I asked my boss on a whim if I could go on the trip. The bus picked me up at the Dublin Bart station, I stumbled aboard, and proceeded to spend 3 days enjoying the fuck out of the desert. I meant to write about the trip, and someday I still might. Also it doesn’t hurt to note: you spell dessert with two S’s, because you always want more of it.

Between that that paragraph and this one I took a little bit of a break, and I made a 4 egg omelet with an unhealthy amount of goat cheese. I found the goat cheese on the free shelf, and I am grateful for it. The eggs are always free. The cheese is sharp. A vibrant breakfast to begin the day. Also, I’m from Wisconsin, where cheese is a lifestyle. During the omelet break, I spent a little time messaging my friend Steve, and with him I discussed a topic which has been bombarding my mental: I don’t really write about ganja, I simply smoke it, then I write. So HeartOfZeus may not be the calling for a ganja blog, and as it sits now, inside my head, I am a contemporary blog for the vagabonds. I was just told Duluth makes the best travel packs. So there’s the first piece of valuable information, brought to you by a busker named Brandon.
‘A man who busks his way across the country, in search of stronger discipline.’ (self proclaimed)
Now to work I go.