During brokers’ tour yesterday, real estate agents were melting all over San Francisco.
We were blasting our car air conditioners. We were panting up two flights of Victorian stairs. We were showing (for better or for worse) not just properties but huge swaths of our flesh.
I had to dig deep — beneath the wool sweaters and boots and long underwear — to find my “hot days dress.” I only have one. And I only have one pair of dress-up high-heel sandals.
Wobbling across a Presidio Heights street en route to a colleague’s listing, a pair of tourists stopped me. Did I live here, they wanted to know. Could I point them toward a store where they could buy some sunscreen and water, they wondered.
I was so damn hot I had to stop in order to think straight. Which was fine because it gave me a minute to fan under my armpits.
“Water? Sunscreen?” I scowled — confused because normally tourists ask where they can buy a sweatshirt or a jacket because it’s like 45 degrees at Jackson and Presidio.
“That way,” I managed, pointing south toward Sacramento Street.
“Are you okay?” they said, looking worried in their shorts and t-shirts.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I replied, “We’re just not used to this weather. This is San Francisco, not California. Stay cool.”
They thanked me and moved away quickly. Still resting in the puny shade of a sidewalk tree, I watched them as a half a block away they stopped another agent to ask for directions.
Cynthia Cummins is a Top Producer and Partner at McGuire. For info on SF real estate visit http://CynthiaCummins.com.