Saturday night. Ride request comes from a very quiet affluent block in a very quiet affluent neighborhood. Four fresh faced young germans—easily identifiable by a heavy accent on otherwise impeccable english—are excitingly hopping-waving-yelling at me. The group is dressed to party in a combination of futuristic sportswear and 80ies euro trash — it all looks the way I imagine Berlin, except perhaps for all the healthful vigor. If they are here to take over the night scene they might need to work little harder at looking decadent.
"We were told of this service."—they explain climbing it—"Our first Luft ride! We are visiting from Germany. Will you take us places? "
I asses this ride shows promise. "what kind of places?"
"We need loud techno and coke! Do you know? Where?" Yells young woman from the back of my minivan.
I happen to have a favorite club with electronica (would that do?) and offer to take them there. As far as the coke is concerned… I cannot remember when was the last time I bought street coke—make that never. The pressure to provide top customer service is replaced by the need to protect the Lyft brand as the ride not-to-take-on-a-coke-run. I am not even exactly sure if that is the official company policy, but it seems sort of self-evident.
The young woman directly behind me leans forward to help herself to a chewing gum and to interrogate me further on the nature of the neighborhood that is our destination and availability of substances therein. I counter with insider information on the burrito joints —if the plan is a night is booze, drugs and other debauchery, they might as well get a solid bean foundation.
She is practically in my lap soaking up the information, so I ask if she is wearing her seatbelt.
"Of course I am wearing a seatbelt, I am German!" she counters.
We are off to the Mission with my minivan bouncing with youth and uppers induced (I assume) energy and on the way I learn that: no, they are not staying with friends or an AirBNB, they are staying in the van I picked them up in front off. And no, they wouldn't think of driving the van to go clubbing, since "I don't know if you can tell, but driving would not be smart, because we are little drunk. Also high." Apparently these kids are all about responsible risk management.
I learn about their version of "USA on a budget": "when living out of a car, find the priciest neighborhood, not the one where people actually do live in cars, and act natural. We shower daily at the beach, and it is wonderful. I know what shower they are talking about, and it only has two settings, cold and freezing, so I ask if they find it little chilly. Not cold at all they yell, everything is FANTASTIC. We been on that block for 5 days and not one problem."
I am thinking that being white and touristy probably doesn't hurt when living out of a car in San Francisco, but apparently, they claim, it is all about the canadian license plate on the van. "everyone loves Canadians. You never hear about the Canadian problem, do you?" (I also haven't heard about the german problem, at least not from anyone else but my eastern european grandma back in the days, but I let that pass)
I wonder if perhaps the van they sleep in is somewhat small for 4 statuesque germans, they are, I assume, 2 couples? No, not at all are they romantically involved, in fact they can barely stand each other by now, while in fact incredibly horny. I cannot imagine this being an unfixable problem given they are about to throw themselves into the meat market that is SF night life. Yes, they agree, that is definitely The Plan. Every one of them intends to meet cute San Franciscan tonight and be taken home by them for a night of not-in-the-van comfort, thus killing 2 birds with one stone. Have they heard of Tinder, I want to know? Yes! They just learned of it and they love it! It has already brought them a night of sex and indoor plumbing.
We arrive at the club at 10 pm and even though it is open, it becomes clear these Germans who would never be caught dead entering a club before midnight. They will explore the neighborhood first, on a lookout for… well, who knows. They did promise to have a meal first: "but we are not hungry." "Eat anyhow" I order.
They inquire where to go after the club closes if they are still up (likely scenario) and single (less likely scenario), they heard there are after hours clubs? I offer information on the after-after-hour club that I happen to know is running a noon to noon party that night, within walking distance (how does a Lyft driver know: this club yields altered state of consciousness passengers in wee hours of Saturday and Sunday, when it is time to find way home—often with difficulty—after 12+ hours of partying. I have had passengers consulting their IDs for the home address).
I offer the Germans a brief insight on the virtues of moderation, they laugh, I laugh, since indeed it is all very funny in so many different ways.
They pour out of the minivan in a flounder of audible excitement and limb confusion. I peel off and as I flip a Uturn on the way to the next call, I see them still standing on the corner in animated conversation, with the neon above illuminating the city to be conquered. Velvet Underground comes on the radio. I turn it up.
"We were told of this service."—they explain climbing it—"Our first Luft ride! We are visiting from Germany. Will you take us places? "
I asses this ride shows promise. "what kind of places?"
"We need loud techno and coke! Do you know? Where?" Yells young woman from the back of my minivan.
I happen to have a favorite club with electronica (would that do?) and offer to take them there. As far as the coke is concerned… I cannot remember when was the last time I bought street coke—make that never. The pressure to provide top customer service is replaced by the need to protect the Lyft brand as the ride not-to-take-on-a-coke-run. I am not even exactly sure if that is the official company policy, but it seems sort of self-evident.
The young woman directly behind me leans forward to help herself to a chewing gum and to interrogate me further on the nature of the neighborhood that is our destination and availability of substances therein. I counter with insider information on the burrito joints —if the plan is a night is booze, drugs and other debauchery, they might as well get a solid bean foundation.
She is practically in my lap soaking up the information, so I ask if she is wearing her seatbelt.
"Of course I am wearing a seatbelt, I am German!" she counters.
We are off to the Mission with my minivan bouncing with youth and uppers induced (I assume) energy and on the way I learn that: no, they are not staying with friends or an AirBNB, they are staying in the van I picked them up in front off. And no, they wouldn't think of driving the van to go clubbing, since "I don't know if you can tell, but driving would not be smart, because we are little drunk. Also high." Apparently these kids are all about responsible risk management.
I learn about their version of "USA on a budget": "when living out of a car, find the priciest neighborhood, not the one where people actually do live in cars, and act natural. We shower daily at the beach, and it is wonderful. I know what shower they are talking about, and it only has two settings, cold and freezing, so I ask if they find it little chilly. Not cold at all they yell, everything is FANTASTIC. We been on that block for 5 days and not one problem."
I am thinking that being white and touristy probably doesn't hurt when living out of a car in San Francisco, but apparently, they claim, it is all about the canadian license plate on the van. "everyone loves Canadians. You never hear about the Canadian problem, do you?" (I also haven't heard about the german problem, at least not from anyone else but my eastern european grandma back in the days, but I let that pass)
I wonder if perhaps the van they sleep in is somewhat small for 4 statuesque germans, they are, I assume, 2 couples? No, not at all are they romantically involved, in fact they can barely stand each other by now, while in fact incredibly horny. I cannot imagine this being an unfixable problem given they are about to throw themselves into the meat market that is SF night life. Yes, they agree, that is definitely The Plan. Every one of them intends to meet cute San Franciscan tonight and be taken home by them for a night of not-in-the-van comfort, thus killing 2 birds with one stone. Have they heard of Tinder, I want to know? Yes! They just learned of it and they love it! It has already brought them a night of sex and indoor plumbing.
We arrive at the club at 10 pm and even though it is open, it becomes clear these Germans who would never be caught dead entering a club before midnight. They will explore the neighborhood first, on a lookout for… well, who knows. They did promise to have a meal first: "but we are not hungry." "Eat anyhow" I order.
They inquire where to go after the club closes if they are still up (likely scenario) and single (less likely scenario), they heard there are after hours clubs? I offer information on the after-after-hour club that I happen to know is running a noon to noon party that night, within walking distance (how does a Lyft driver know: this club yields altered state of consciousness passengers in wee hours of Saturday and Sunday, when it is time to find way home—often with difficulty—after 12+ hours of partying. I have had passengers consulting their IDs for the home address).
I offer the Germans a brief insight on the virtues of moderation, they laugh, I laugh, since indeed it is all very funny in so many different ways.
They pour out of the minivan in a flounder of audible excitement and limb confusion. I peel off and as I flip a Uturn on the way to the next call, I see them still standing on the corner in animated conversation, with the neon above illuminating the city to be conquered. Velvet Underground comes on the radio. I turn it up.