My Life as a Journalist: Part 4 — I Left my Dreams in San Francisco
During my first semester as Aggielife editor, I got the opportunity to travel to San Francisco and participate in a student journalism conference. Looking back, the trip is full of great memories — none involving the actual conference.
I fell in love with San Francisco during my brief visit there and would love for another excuse to go back.
On the first night in the city, the other Batt editors and I decided explore the city. None of us having ever been in San Francisco before, we decided to pick a general direction and just start walking. This idea started off fine — we passed some neat-looking buildings and weird upside-down trees that appeared to have designed by Dr. Seuss.
Eventually, though, we wondered away from the touristy side of town that we had started in and wound up walking through the city’s sex district. Now, I should probably mention that I was the only guy in the group.
As we started passing adult theaters, street dealers and other assorted debauchery, my spider-sense started to tingle so much I felt like a cell phone on vibrate. It wasn’t until I started to spot people seemingly following us, though, that I entered full freak out mode.
The girls I was with didn’t seem to have any problem with the danger that surrounded us at every turn. Maybe they hadn’t seen enough “Law and Order” episodes. As I tried to push them to walk faster instead of them pointing out prostitutes, in my head I was deciding which of my friends would be the best decoy to throw to the hungry wolves. If I let them take the weakest of my fellow Battsters, maybe the rest of us could escape. I’m proud to say that we were able to safely get back to the hotel that night without having to pull out my rape whistle.
I learned a lot of things during that trip. I learned that if you wake up early enough on a weekday in San Francisco, you could spot a man doing yoga in the middle of traffic. I learned that pictures of seals taken at night develop into pictures of black panthers fighting in a tar pit. I learned that Chinatown not only has a lesser-known rival district named Japantown, but its shops have an obsession with giant wooden penises. On a related note, I learned that if you take a picture of a giant wooden penis, you will get yelled at in Chinese by an angry shopkeeper.
My favorite memory from the trip, though, involves a chance encounter.
During one of the nights we were exploring the city, my friends and I came across an art gallery. The gallery was dedicated to Margret Keane, an artist known for her paintings of children with oversized eyes. After taking a look around at the paintings, I wound up talking to the gallery manager.
Among the many things we talked about, we discussed what I wanted to do with my life. I told him about my dreams of going to film school and becoming a hotshot director. He then proceeded to tell me that just that day he had talked to a dozen other aspiring filmmakers. The world is full of people who think they have what it takes to be the next Steven Spielberg, he said. What did I have that separated me from the rest?
I thought about his question and came to the conclusion that I didn’t have anything. Nothing I had shot was exceptionally good. My videos up until that point were funny because of their limitations — not their content. I was not going to find my fame behind the camera. He then asked what was it that I am good at. I answered that I was a fairly decent writer. Pursue that, he said. There’s not enough room in film school for everybody — there’s always space in this world for a good story. I walked out of that art gallery rejuvenated; I left San Francisco with a purpose.
To be continued…
