The cabbie that picked me up at 5:05 a.m. next to Wrigley Field provided the best (accidental) summary of my cross-country trip thus far:

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Moving out?”

I could see why he would ask me that – here I was, bleary-eyed and struggling down the middle of the street under the weight of one (very large) suitcase, another (moderately large) suitcase, a carry-on shoulder bag and a camera case, trying desperately to hail a cab that would take me the first 15 or so of the 5,800 miles my boss and I would be covering in the next 25 days. I must have been a welcome diversion from drunks spilling out from the very, very late-night bars.

Some months ago, my boss came up with the idea to drive from California to Boston, telling the true stories from the perspective of the members in our organization. Great, right? The problem is that the months, weeks and days leading up to this trip consisted of the same thought, over and over: This was going to completely kick ass. Here we were, about to drive across the country, covering what really goes on across the United States with all our members, and, well, we were going to have a blast along the way, road-trip style.

Actually, make that Road-Trip style. With capital letters.

But, like all things that seem superlatively awesomely great in theory, the reality was a bit different. I slept for just two short hours before jumping in that cab. The plane ride to Phoenix was complete with a barking dog on board. The Golden Gate Bridge, the first major stop on our trip, was shrouded in fog – that means no photos. Of course.

Then we went out for the night.

For whatever karmic reason, San Francisco this weekend was overrun by the parade I’ll call the Freak Show. Let’s just say that when driving back to the hotel, we had our lane blocked by a shirtless man holding a plastic cup – a cup which I’m assuming was full of intoxicating liquor – who was beating passing cars with a leather riding crop. We’re talking off the hook, even by California standards.

Ever seen the first Batman movie? Or any dark, Gothic depiction of a city, late at night, that was supposed to be teeming with seediness? That was San Francisco tonight. Drunken drag queens. Steam spilling out of sewer grates. Cabs that won’t stop to pick us up. Shirtless men with leather riding crops. You know, standard procedure.

I can’t wait to get to the next phase of this trip – as I write this, I’m watching two men in leather across the alley pose for a photo shoot. While I don’t think they’ve seen me yet, I can at least go to sleep knowing that I’m the outsider here, I’m the one who apparently hasn’t yet been fitted for his black-leather muscle shirt. I should either ante up or get out of town.

I’m heading to San Jose in the morning.