getting emotional over mobiles

It had been kind of a hard week at work, so on Thursday night I felt a need to purchase brightly-colored, low-quality consumer fashion products. But on the bus ride there I passed the SFMOMA and it occurred to me that it was Thursday, and the museum is open late and half price on Thursday nights. (Though somehow it did not occur to me that it was also First Thursday and that I should have gone to that when I could go to MOMA anytime)
But anyway, I did really feel like going to the MOMA. I hadn't been there in almost a year, which was coincidently also the night my friend became my last boyfriend. The exhibits then were nothing special, so I was expecting a lot of the same last night. But they got better and better as I climbed the floors, and by the time I went through the 1906 Earthquake and Fire photos exhibit I was in highly-aware astute artloving mode before I even reached the Calder exhibit, where I had an art orgasm and got emotional over mobiles. About 30% of my taste in art is influenced by Comp. Lit major theory-laden overanalysis, but the other half that really counts goes by whether the art makes me have semi-embarrassing emotional outbursts like smiling uncontrollably, laughing wildly and almost crying. Those tiny cartoon shapes on fragile lines of communication made me start to find everything poignant and I grinned enormously and almost cried over several sculptures. I walk out of the museum in a fantastic dreamlike state towards Market, mostly because I wanted to look at the buildings that were in the Earthquake photo exhibit.

I'm walking down the foggy dusk street in this enchanted state where everything is surreal and beautiful when I hear a man to my left say in a vaguely familiar accent, "You are honestly wearing my favorite colors." After studying abroad in France two years ago I became really good at effectively handling strange men picking up on me in the street. In France they are sometimes borderline violent and creepy and unpredictable, but In San Francisco they almost always just compliment you to feel you out and then leave you alone unless you're at a club, so I just smiled and didn't look at him and kept walking, until I realized he was following me.
"Burgundy. It is bordeaux in French." I smiled and glanced slightly to see who I was dealing with. "In French it is pronounced bordeaux." It was this pudgy black guy, harmless.
"Vous etes Francaise?" he asks me. This immediately throws me off, because I have emotional problems with switching languages in the middle of a conversation, and when someone switches up the language on me my brain switches to that mode, which given how out of practice I was was an especially paranoid mode. Somehow he can tell that I understand him.
"Vous parlez Francais?"
"Non." I lie, accidentally answering in French.
"Are you French?"
"No." I answer in English.
"I swear, you look very European. Are you European?"
"No." This is also a lie, but I don't want to get into the fact that I am an Israeli Jewess (this is an excellent term I am trying to bring back into circulation) of Eastern European origin.
At this point he is clearly following me a la Francaise, so I walk into the first open store I see, which happens to be an Aldo.
"You are shopping for shoes?"
"Yes." This is funny because I have probably only been inside an Aldo twice in my life, and it has never crossed my mind to purchase anything. He tries to follow me into the store.
"I'm sorry, I dont' really feel comfortable having you shop with me," I say.
"That's okay, I am going to Sephora, I will meet you?"
"I'm sorry, I have a boyfriend." (an outright lie)
"You don't want to meet, we could drink some bubbles."
"I'm sorry, thank you."
"We could drink some champagne."
"I'm sorry, thanks."
"Okay, take care."
They sure are persistent when they meet you on the street.
Waiting for MUNI I start staring at this very attractive stranger who is reading a magazine waiting for the M. He sees me glancing and doesn't smile back, so I try to be discreet because he might have a girlfriend or be gay, but there is nothing else to do but look at him. He didn't appear to be cool with this. Our nonverbal dialogue went like this:
-Uh, excuse me? What do you want?
-I'm just looking at you because you're attractive.
-Do we know each other?
-No, I'm just looking.
-You're insane. (this is where he looks away and makes a face to no one like she's crazy why is she staring at me)
Evidently he was not used to being stared at by young single females on public transportation. Oh well, his loss.