quantum forces vs. San Francisco

I'm hanging out with Igor at Medjool, and we're supposed to meet up with some coworkers of his or something before heading over to Tartine for the flower-themed art opening. It's packed with blazerwearing Marina expatriates, and we can't find anyone and aren't sure we want to. We decide to get a drink, and just as we're within shouting range of the bartender, my purse strap breaks - that's right, that purse you bought at the sales at the H&M in France when you were studying abroad for 2 euros apparently wasn't cut out for two years of use and has hand-picked this as its moment to die. I am in the process of ordering my drink and the purse falls onto the floor along with its contents. "Myntz" are rolling out of the tin, Japanese plastic wallet hits drink puddles on wooden deck, pens are rolling. I am on the floor picking things up and miss my chance to buy Igor one of the 46 drinks I owe him by now. ("Uh, I'll get this one.") I place my plastic cup of Cabarnet Sauvignon on the counter because I still can't find my mobile phone. People are shining their handheld devices under the bar counter, a minute later it is found way beneath. I stand up quickly to ask the waitress to retrieve it for me, at which point I knock over the Cab. It is everywhere, over my black skirt, my beige polka-dot sweater, my white jacket, Igor's entire nearly wine-proof-colored wardrobe.
It is 10:15 PM.
It is too funny and crazy to even be upset.
Igor is a sport.
I am unsure what to do.
The line for the women's restroom is 15 long.
I start to descend stairs hoping my experience with renovated youth hostels will help me navigate to a floor restroom. No such luck - this hostel actually has in-room bathrooms. I walk into a room labeled "Laundry" hoping for a sink. All I find is machines and a fridge. I pour blue Kirkland-brand liquid detergent all over the stains in an absentminded half-panic. My hands are now slightly soapy, and I am trying to find my way to the downstairs bathroom.
The door opens - it's a guy with a wine stain on the shoulder of his t-shirt. He asks if I know where there is a sink.
I preempt an apology in case he was caught in the crossfire of my natural disaster, but he says this was a Merlot spilled on him by a bartender, who made it up to him with a free beer. We both get lost in the downstairs labyrinth and give up on the whole thing, climbing the stairs back to the upper deck.
If this were television we would have become friends or lovers. Since this was real life we didn't even notice what the other looked like and never spoke again.
I met back up with Igor and we cut our losses and left for Tartine. This turned out to be an excellent decision.
As soon as we arrived I saw at least 6 estranged college classmates and about a dozen friends, drank free wine, listened to great music, washed detergent out of my clothes and had a fantastic evening. Several of these old friends from college were from out of town, including a girl from my freshman dorm who just finished school at Vidal Sassoon and is moving up here from LA in a month - my haircut hookup is here!
I got to talk to my former freshman orientation counselor, who I've always thought was completely brilliant and interesting. (Also gave him this blog URL - the pressure!)
Lin made my night at least 6 times from behind the wine bar, and I had a generally great night.
When they shut down, my night was made again by the fact that the soft, dewy fog wasn't cold at all, seeing as how both of my sweaters were still lightly stained with wine and completely soaking wet. San Francisco takes care of me.
I then joined my roommate and his friends and went down to the Uptown for the strongest drink of my life, where I somehow found myself in a conversation that led to the handing out of my phone number to an architect whose name I don't remember. I don't know how these things happen to me. The funny thing is of all of the phone numbers I handed out tonight to people I'd really love to hang out with, I bet this stranger is the only one I'll hear from.