Sister Wendy travels to San Francisco

by Jordan Evans

People Editor

As I disembark the airplane, the flight attendants smile at me, their gleaming American teeth look like clean canvas paper. I run my tongue over my top row of teeth; their rabbit-like unevenness brought me a few strange looks while in the airport. Peculiar. I never receive that sort of reaction while in England; everyone has teeth like mine there.

I’ve never been to San Francisco before, and I cannot wait but a moment to step outside into the warm California air. However, the same instant my toe lands outside the walls of the airport, my eyes are clouded with the puff of what looks like smoke. Surprised, I take a sharp inhale, but my lungs are filled with the horrible concoction.  

I peer to the side, where I observe three young men participating in an activity which I hear them call “vaping”.  Peculiar.  I abstain from engaging in hobbies that involve vapor because it damages the oil paintings with which I surround myself.  In front of me, I see a glaringly yellow taxicab.  It is so visually appealing that I just have to take advantage of this American tourist custom.

I instruct the taxi driver to deliver me to the deYoung Museum.  He takes me there rather slowly, because the buildup of cars on the road is something unlike I have ever seen.  The excessive utilization of horns startles me, and I am unsure if American drivers really know what they are doing.

1280px-De_Young_Museum_02Arriving to the irregularly shaped, bronze-colored building, I pay the cabbie and step out into the glowing autumn air.  At that same moment, a touring pack of students who has ventured into my proximity stops abruptly.  They stare, mouths agape, at me.  All of a sudden, a tall one yells, “It’s Sister Wendy!”, and they all begin to charge me.  I do not know who these children are, but it fills me with joy to know that I have enriched their lives.

The tall leader forms an orderly line in front of me after a rather awkward group hug.  They ask for my autograph, but I haven’t a pen nor does anyone have an item that I could sign.  So I lead them into the museum where security lets us all pass without hassle and I then parade them into the gift shop.  I’ve never seen so many DVD’s of my art lessons sell so quickly!  Once all the items are purchased, I stand in the main hall and they assemble their line so I can proceed with the signing.  A few adults tag along to the end of the line; I can sense their childlike excitement.

As I greet each person, some of them reference quotes in various videos of mine.  One girl tells me she likes the time when I mentioned  “two men in a painting, except there was only a bunch of cows.”  Peculiar.  

After I have signed all of their items, I find that the people have just made another line behind me.  “We want a tour!” shouts the tall one.

A security guard walks up to me.  “Actually ma’am, tours are only allowed to be guided by employees.”  The crowd sighs.  Then, a stout young man charges the security guard and tells me to run and save myself.  I do as he instructs.  

To my astonishment, two security guards come chasing after me, demanding me to stop.  I look over my shoulder at them, confused.  “Do you know who I am?”  I yell to them.  Then I giggle.  “This is a free country!”

Shouts of encouragement thunder behind me, and I think I hear one child say that the situation appears to resemble a “five-star chase on GTA, man.”  I yell a thank you because the comment sounds positive, and then I am tackled to the ground.  

After a month in court, they finally let my case go because I am “famous and that’s what they did with Lindsay Lohan anyway.”  I’m just not allowed back in Golden Gate Park.  Peculiar.

Categories: Humor

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