The taxi ride to my Airbnb was awful. Taxi rides generally are, when you live in a young-ish female body, and you don't even have to be conventionally beautiful, which I am not. I wasn't in the back of the cab four seconds before the driver started hitting on me in imperfect English, which lead to some interesting sentence construction that sparked a story idea I'll probably write for next week's workshop ("I would do anything for you, I would give you my eyes!"). I ended up calling a new Clarion friend I'd just been texting, making it sound like *she* was a local relative I was visiting, and she played along, even though she was horribly jet-lagged (it was three a.m. on the East Coast and everyone else I knew was asleep.) The worst thing about it is that I totally expected all of that to happen.
The Airbnb is just what I needed -- a bed to sleep in with a closed door. Perfectly fine. I was less entertained when a bunch of workmen showed up an hour ago and started banging on things in the kitchen, but what else can you expect for forty bucks in Southern California?
I had a fantastic time at Fourth Street, aside from the fallout surrounding "the speech." Not knowing that you're not supposed to get into internet debates with a certain Minneapolitan, I got into an internet debate with a certain Minneapolitan. After he mansplained "emotional labor" to me, I realized what I was dealing with and bolted. You can't have a conversation when the conversation is based on basic disrespect, which is funny when you think about Fourth Street, a convention that is supposed to be all about respectful conversation.
This morning I was thinking about the speechwriter's use of "safe space," and how he'd never, ever have to worry about getting in a taxi in a strange city. About having a plan to call a friend, about how to figure out where the door locks were in the car and how to operate them, about how to deflect a dude who thinks he's being nice when he comments on your boobs. I'm sure he's given it some thought, now, but his friend certainly hasn't, and how can you expect middle-aged white dudes to care? How are you supposed to even communicate any of this to them when they act like that? A younger friend of mine bounced off that speech so hard she nearly cried. They didn't seem to care. How do they expect us to give them the time of day, when they don't care? But they expect it! They demand it! Ugh. Middle aged white dudes. Ugh.
At any rate! I've downloaded Doctor Who and I'm going to be perfectly lazy for the next hour or two before I take a shower, roll out to campus and forget what laziness is like for the next forty-three days. Excelsior!