It's hard to know what makes sense in San Francisco.

The Citizen app is my buzzing alarm. It's just before 5. The notification it says "Gun shot." I open my phone wishing I could hit snooze, but knowing I have to check to see how far away it is. It's an uncontrollable reflex like sneezing. It's in the tenderloin district, affectionately known as The Loin, or the place that everyone in San Francisco has warned me about since I arrived here. Just a little over a mile away. I could walk there in fifteen minutes although Google maps thinks it would take me twenty-four.

I go to the gym instead, but I'm not in the mood. My calves are still sore from walking the slanted streets back and forth to work. Lactic acid like two lodgers who decided instead of skipping out on the bill would just not pay. After twenty minutes I walk the equivalent of two Loins and call it a morning.

Outside on the way to coffee, I spot her immediately. Homeless. Ranting. She's dressed like it's 1993 and she just walked off the Cosby show. Maybe she was an extra and The Cos drugged her and she's never been the same sense. She's on edge. She doesn't dig through trash bags, but scans them quickly, as if there's something worth stealing in there. Her eyes dart back and forth and she talks under her breath. By the time I get to the street corner, her indistinct mumbles become indistinct screams until finally she let's out one sentence I can understand:

WHERE AM I?

Up the street on Columbus a bum who might be 40 or 67 says hello, but I'm still so unnerved I fail to respond. Where am I is a great question and I try to come up with a suitable answer for myself as I make my way to get coffee. But like the work out I'm suddenly not in the mood for it. I don't know where I am or what I'm doing outside.

I grab a coffee anyway, knowing it will be bitter because hipster coffee houses have convinced themselves bitterness is a good thing. No matter. Walking back, I scan the streets just to make sure there are no more unnerving surprises. I've been here five days. It's felt like six weeks.

Inside the hotel lobby is an empty space where the free coffee and hot water usually are. So much for my oatmeal plans. The past four days I've taken hot water meant for tea up to the room and eaten from my personal stash because it's organic and because I'm not on vacation and I don't get to expense meals and because the company I am freelancing for expects me to eat at least two meals at the office. I like that qualifier. At least. Is this a hint of things to come? I guess we'll see.

It's been unseasonably perfect weather this week. Not cold or hot. Everything bathed in warm autumn light. I appreciate it. And yet the sense of dislocation is something I can't shake and I suspect won't be able to shake until I fall into some sort of routine.

I'm due to stay in two different hotels in the next two weeks. I thought this would be a good thing, trying to give it a sense of fun in a way. Now I think I should just stick to one spot and call it a remote base. But that might get even more monotonous. Even worse, it might lead to complacency.