San Francisco’s public transit system isn’t super complex, but it takes some getting used to. The other day, after spending hours navigating the Airtrain, the BART, the MUNI, and the streets, I finally decided to ask the first person who walked up to me for directions.

The first person who walked up to me looked kind of crazy. He may have been wearing a red hat, or maybe it was a hood, or maybe a hat under a hood. I don’t remember. Much clearer in my mind were his large mustache and giant sunglasses. For a moment, I thought that I should not ask him for directions, as he looked crazy. Then I decided that it is not right of me to judge people based on their appearance, so I should just ask.

“Pardon me, sir,” I said, noticing as I got closer to him that he appeared to be wearing another pair of glasses—maybe two, or maybe also a monocle—under the giant sunglasses. “Can you tell me where to find O’Farrell Street?”

He pointed. “Yeah, you just go over there and STICK IT UP YOUR FUCKING ASS.” His accent sounded somewhere between Turkish and drunk. He kept walking.

Incidentally, O’Farrell Street was about two blocks away, and not in the direction he pointed.