Kelly

Inside the Wild Side West Bar
Cortland Avenue
Bernal Heights
Thursday afternoon

***

I am still amazed by the way in which the scariest decisions I’ve made in life have turned out to be the best ones.  The most rewarding, life-changing, character-building, and happiness-inducing ones.  Like choosing to study in Germany as a freshman in college, moving 6,000 miles away from everyone I knew and into a country and culture for which I barely had the language skills to survive.  And years later, deciding to be happy being single and doing everything in my power to enjoy it.  (Of course, I met the love of my life a few months later.)  And a few years after that, taking a giant leap of faith and moving to San Francisco.

Before I lived in San Francisco, I had never had the pleasure of living in a city that I truly adored.  Sure, I liked things about Phoenix, namely the warm winters, desert landscapes, and the smell of citrus groves in bloom; I enjoyed Flagstaff’s snow-dusted peaks, friendly people, and summer thunderstorms; and I downright reveled in parts of Tuebingen, including its centuries-old castle, outdoor cafes, international population, and heady gardens.  But none of these mild affinities prepared me for how attached I would become to San Francisco.

It’s not something you can understand unless you actually live here.  It was not something I understood even after several visits.  But now, after 15 months of calling San Francisco my home, I get it.  There is no other place like this city, and I am extremely grateful for the time I’ve spent here.  Even if I someday move away, I’ll always have the experiences gained from seeing this city and its people on a daily basis, from being one of its people.

The longer I live here, the more attached I become.  With every interesting, unique, kind San Francisco resident I meet, my attachment grows.  And my love for San Francisco takes on new dimensions every time I read someone else’s love letter to this city–which I do often.  San Franciscans are nothing if not passionate and vocal about their feelings for this tiny, dense expanse.

So here is my love letter to this city.

Dear San Francisco,

I moved here on a leap of faith: jobless, knowing only a few people, and mostly unacquainted with your myriad neighborhoods and transit lines and weather eccentricities.  A year later, you have given me a good job, a plan to embark upon a career I will love, great friends, and a solid working knowledge of Muni and BART.  Most of all, you’ve changed the way I see things.  I no longer walk around with blinders on, singularly intent upon reaching my next destination.  Now, as I move about your streets, I soak up the views:  interesting details on Victorian houses, strange and new plants sprouting in window boxes, people relaxing on their front stairs, wild poppies growing in sidewalk cracks.

Every morning when I step onto the bus, you serve up a feast for my senses.  I see the sun rising over the bay and fog moving across the hills, shrouding Sutro Tower.  I see rows and columns of Bernal Heights houses marching up the hillside, being sunlit one by one.  I see the streets filling up with parents walking their colorfully-dressed children to school and people hurrying to fill Financial District skyscrapers.  I am happy to be one of the people living within your boundaries.

I must admit that your seasons continue to mystify me. What is this fog that blankets you in summer?  Who knew September and October would be your most beautiful months, with long days, yellow sun, and gentle sea breezes?  Will I ever be able to appreciate your rainy season, which this year included some seemingly endless stretches of clouds and rain?  You, San Francisco, with your microclimates and proximity to the ocean, have taught me never to be without a scarf and an umbrella.  You have also taught me to savor each warm, sunny day that comes my way, soaking them up in the park, walking between tall buildings at lunchtime, or sitting outside at a cafe.  On days like these, I can see you change entirely: suddenly everyone is outside, enjoying you, lingering in your sunlight and on your streets, instead of simply hurrying from place to place.

My love for you, San Francisco, is a daily, hourly, lived-in love.  Your varied architecture, rooted in history, never fails to astound me.  You give me the best farmers market that I could imagine, with an enormous selection of fresh fruit and vegetables, flowers, and homemade foods.  You bring amazing music, art, theatre, and culture to us every day of the year.  You provide endless entertainment in the form of people watching from a downtown bench.

I love you, San Francisco, despite the ways in which you challenge me.  Your foggy weather makes my curly hair frizzy.  You sometimes try my patience with your challenged public transit lines.  When your wind blows rain sideways on my walk to work, I might curse you.  But mostly these lapses are short-lived, and soon my adoration returns.

More than anything, San Francisco, I fell in love with you because you make me feel like I fit in.  I breathed a sigh of relief, both from a personal and a professional standpoint, when I arrived.  I can be myself, fully, from your bay to your breakers.  You are a city chock full of progressive, open-minded, kind people.  You are constantly a leader in environmental and social ideas.  I want to raise children here, with you, because I believe that people grow through exposure to new ideas and new people.  That’s one of the best things about you, San Francisco:  you are in a constant state of flux, you mix the new in with the old, and your residents must live their lives accordingly.

You, San Francisco, are my home now.  I love you for it.

***

You can see a slideshow of Kelly’s photo shoot here.

Annie

At the Wave Organ
The Marina
Thursday afternoon

***

I feel like I belong to this city because I know how the streets are connected through bus lines and stories, overheard conversations and intersections. I always try to remember distinct neighborhood landmarks and colors, and there are memories everywhere.

I love San Francisco, with its the quiet moments.  When the morning fog shrouds houses and later on the sky is scraped clear. Suddenly, everything is so bright and alive. I like going into bookstores and staying there for hours. Smelling fragrant jasmine growing in thick bushes and looking at street art. A homeless man sits at the corner near Van Ness and Market and says, “Have a good day” to those who pass by. I say hello to him and smile.

I love being in the Botanical Gardens and getting lost in this wonderland of a park, feeding the squirrels even if I’m not supposed to. I remember walking through alleyways of Chinatown, hearing the crackle of mahjong tiles when the afternoon is blending into nighttime. When I was seven I was in the Chinese New Year parade. I remember wearing ballet shoes while walking on the brick road of Commercial Street.  I love the combination of faded turquoise and red.

It’s the small things, really. When I was little, I remember going to a playground in the Richmond. My sister and I climbed, slid and ran around the sand during many afternoons.  One afternoon we were there, it turned out that there were swans wandering around. I think they were as tall, maybe taller than I was and I wanted to touch one.  I don’t remember if I did, but the memory stayed with me.

San Francisco is magical. I think there are places in the city where it feels like it’s just for me. Being an artist and a writer, it can be a rather solitary thing. I don’t mind being by myself. I like walking around the city and finding places to be inspired by, it can be the bright colors of the trolleys, the ornate typeface of a sign, and a shop window with a giant birdcage. I look at the colors of nail polish lined on the windows of nail salons and buy fragile paper from a bookstore in Chinatown.

Recently, I spent an afternoon at the Wave Organ, a secret place tucked away at the edge of the city, where the water hits at the rocks. The Wave Organ is a sculpture made of cemetery gravestones and pipes. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear sea songs, sometimes it’s really subtle. It’s like listening to a giant seashell. I sit there, feeling like I am so far away from everything else and sailboats will come around, with the Golden Gate bridge in the distance. The trek is worth it.

I discovered the Wave Organ when a librarian told me about it and I thought it would be a great place to write. I’ve been writing poetry since I was thirteen. I’ve found myself amongst a community of writers, through a program called WritersCorps that teaches youth creative writing in schools, community centers and juvenile lock up facilities. I am proud to have several WritersCorps teachers as my mentors. This year, my fellow youth poets and I embarked on writing a book called City of Stairways: A Poet’s Field Guide to San Francisco. The best thing about being a part of this project was exploring the different neighborhoods and appreciating each one for it’s own distinct personality. City of Stairways is part poetry anthology, part travel guide to San Francisco. The book is full color with maps, art and places that both tourists and locals will appreciate. What I discovered while writing my poems is that living in this city is about finding new places to explore and rediscovering the ones you remember with a fresh eye.

***

You can see a slideshow of Annie’s photo shoot here.

Annie’s links:

etsy shop: http://curbsidetreasure.etsy.com
blog: http://curbside-treasure.blogspot.com
find more about City of Stairways: A Poet’s Guide to San Francisco

Kimberly

In Howard’s Cafe, 9th Avenue
Inner Sunset
Monday morning

***

A statistic I have always enjoyed is that there are more dogs than children in San Francisco. As a first grade teacher, this is probably something I should be concerned about. Rather, it’s one of the odd things about the city that I love.  This makes some kind of sense to me; the city’s energy can keep up with a puppy. Those who know me best have called me a puppy. Evidently, I can exude the energy of a 2-year-old puppy on a consistent basis.  So it makes some kind of sense that I live here.

I originally came to San Francisco for school and was lucky enough to stumble upon a city that felt like home. I think what I love most is that it is always able to keep my attention. It is always prepared to play with me. I will never be able to take all the opportunities that the city throws at me. I am able to play soccer, brunch, BBQ, drink, and dance, and that’s just a Saturday. No day I live here is ever the same. It might be the same MUNI train, but there are new characters. It might be the same brunch place, but the stories shared always change. The people I hold dear will always be there, but our roles and relationships are always evolving.

The people I have met here also solidify my love of this city. Just like the town that embraced me, these people are always ready to play. They are open to adventures driving up the coast and scarfing down oysters, dressing up like a bride and milling around downtown, and endless food indulgences at our favorite spots. They support me in ways I never knew were possible while simultaneously keeping me amused and entertained. I am eternally grateful for San Francisco for bringing these people to me. My partners in adventure around this city have become the playmates and soul mates I never knew I could have.

I feel the same about the city. It began as my playmate, an entertaining and enticing location; so different from the more conservative suburb I grew up in. It has now become my home, my soul mate. My most recent living location is in the ever so underrated Outer Sunset. I was hesitant about moving here at first. Now, I am hopelessly in love with my neighborhood. Despite living at the edge, I feel more connected to San Francisco now that I have ever before. From my little tsunami watchtower I am able to watch the waves and then hop a train to marvel at the urban bustle. Though I know my neighborhood will change as I feel the need to play in other parts of the city, I know the energy I am looking for will always be wherever I am. As long as I bring my enthusiasm to play, San Francisco will meet me every time.

***

You can see a slideshow of Kimberly’s photo shoot here.

Alison

On the Wisconsin Street stairs
Potrero Hill
Tuesday morning

***

My parents met in San Francisco in 1966.  Mom was at San Francisco State and dad studied at UC Berkeley. After they got married, they lived in a tiny apartment on Haight Street with one room and a Murphy bed.  A few years later, they joined VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America – sort of a stateside version of the Peace Corps) and moved to Kentucky to teach English in rural Appalachia.  Realizing that they liked the rural life, they came back to California and settled in Quincy, a tiny mountain town two hours north of Lake Tahoe, where I was born and raised.

I came to San Francisco in January of 2000, just after Y2K failed to destroy the world. After college I had moved from Davis to nearby Sacramento to get my teaching credential at Sac State.   But Sacramento and I just didn’t mesh.  After one semester, I was miserable, lonely, and lost.  On a whim, I thought of San Francisco.  It seemed like a place where I might find my way again.  Perhaps I was subconsciously drawn to the origin of my parents’ story (and, therefore, mine), or lured by the image of a breathtakingly beautiful, diverse, multicultural, vibrant, creative, real City where a small town girl could spread her wings.  Through Craigslist, I found two great roommates and an apartment at Baker Beach in the Presidio.  I was ready to begin my grand San Francisco adventure.  Then I got sick.

The disease was called IGA Nephropathy, the effect – rapidly deteriorating kidneys.  Every night I hooked myself up to a home dialysis machine that did the work of my failing kidneys.  I walked gorgeous Baker Beach so many times – slowly, because I was often exhausted and weak – feeling that my life was on hold, and wondering what the future held.  After nine months on dialysis, I received a kidney transplant.  My quality of life improved dramatically, but something of my carefree youth had vanished forever.

When I completed the teaching credential program at SF State, I got a job teaching music at Hoover Middle School in the Sunset District.  At the very first faculty meeting, I was nervous but full of the idealistic enthusiasm of a new teacher.  I was one of several new hires at the school, and our principal opened the meeting by asking the staff to introduce themselves. Everyone dutifully stated his or her name and subject.  Except John – he stood up and did an impromptu song and dance about math.  I thought to myself, “I want to get to know that guy.”  (I like my men goofy.)  Five years later we were married.

Sometimes I think about leaving the city and moving to a small town like the one I grew up in.  Something in my soul longs for the beauty of mountains and tall pine trees and, mostly, a tight-knit community.  But then I take a walk and realize that I am already surrounded by beauty. And community? Mine is firmly anchored by school (John and I both still teach at Hoover) and the many students, teachers, and families who have enriched my life in immeasurable ways.  Somehow the city I moved to on a whim became the place where I battled a life-changing illness, met the love of my life, and gave birth to my daughter.  I’ve walked most of the neighborhoods in the city, learned the names of the unusual trees that line our streets, joined a taiko drumming group, gazed upon views that left me speechless, whiled away the hours at a café, spent a lazy Sunday with my husband and baby daughter with no thought but, “I’m so happy.”

I live here.

***

You can see a slideshow of Alison’s photo shoot here.

Alex

Montgomery Station
Financial District
Monday afternoon

***

There’s something quite fascinating about people watching—sitting in a public place and observing all the interesting people that pass by. It’s considered one of the world’s most popular inactivity because it costs practically nothing and it can turn a boring afternoon into something extraordinary.

I used to go to this bar in the Tendernob every Friday night, and I loved it because there never was dull moment. I was wildly attracted to the colorful characters and musing that kept the nights interesting and the crowds entertained. There were always the regulars: the old man with the long, white braided beard who’d sit by himself in a newsboy hat and stiletto heels; the short, robust man who strangely looked like his French Bulldog that he’d sit next to in opposite bar stools; the elderly, romantic couple that slow danced to every song that played on the jukebox. And then there were the others: the “ladies” from the ‘Loin, the “suits” from the FiDi, the college kids from USF, and the memorable woman who chased her lover down the street with a rolling pin.

It’s been said that one important characteristic of a good creative is that we become more observant of the world around us. After all, we’re always looking for something meaningful to be inspired about, and people watching is just one of many things that opens up a world of new material and good ideas. But it goes beyond just people watching. There’s inspiration in everything and everywhere. It’s in the intricate architecture and the monumental landmarks. It’s in the messages on the walls and the patterns in the buildings. It’s in the distinct vibes from each neighborhood and the unique people that bring this city to life. It’s everything in its entirety that makes San Francisco what it is and provides endless stimulation for the eyes and endless inspiration for the creative.

My observations of San Francisco led to the start of Inspired City. Inspired City is an online magazine that celebrates the work and talent of artists, innovators, thinkers, and creators in San Francisco. It’s also an online space for us to share our work, discover new talent, find inspiration and connect with others. To me, there’s a richness about this city that goes beyond just the glitz and glam. I think we tend to get caught up with what we’re familiar with and what we know, and rarely take a deep look and really “see things.” In my seven years living in San Francisco, I’ve run into some of the most interesting people, places and things. It’s these fleeting moments, mix of emotions and experiences that inspire me to do what I love to do–create. I’m inspired by the desire to explore and learn, and the ups and downs of everyday life in all its color, chaos, and candor. I’m also inspired by my accumulated experiences in the city. It’s a collection of my college hay days, my creative hub in the advertising world, nights in Twin Peaks, afternoons in Dolores Park, and my every day sightings in the city. And that’s what Inspired City is all about. It’s more than just an information network or a source of daily inspiration. It’s even more than just a showcase of all the crazy and passionate people who are inspired by creativity. But it’s a tool to see the things that aren’t as obvious to us in ways we could never, ever conjure up on our own. It’s seeing the city in a new way each time we experience it. And it’s an appreciation for the city and the people who see the world with their eyes wide open–because anything can be inspiring if we open our eyes wide enough to see it. Inspired City is still a work in progress, but this is just a taste of what’s to come.

I’m not going to lie, but there are days that I’m not always feeling inspired by the people that I watch and the places I go, but I make sure to go out and find inspiration anyway. Because sometimes the days that I feel least inspired are the days I discover some the most fascinating things. People always say, ‘the city is your playground,’ and it’s absolutely true. There’s a wealth of information in the city, and a beauty in everything we see and interact with. Because really, in the end, everything just is. Life itself is just an endless collection of moments and impressions, but it’s what we choose to do with it that makes it that much more amazing. So from the words of a young creative, go out there, people watch, take a camera and shoot something, look beyond what you normally see. Because who knows–you just might stumble upon greatness.

***

You can see the slideshow of Alex’s photo shoot here.

You can find Alex at the following links:

http://almostperfectalex.com
http://almostperfectalex.tumblr.com
http://twitter.com/almostperfect_a

Dr. Bill

Outside the Fox Theatre
Taylor Street
The Tenderloin
Friday morning

***

The End of the World

I’ve been sitting here at Mel’s watching the couple at the other table for almost an hour now and neither has said as much as one word to the other. They just sit there drinking their coffee. I can’t tell. Can’t tell if they are so much in love and know each other so well that they don’t need to converse anymore; or if they hate each other’s guts; or, and I’d place my bet on this one – That they no longer have anything to say to each other and they’re just each other’s habits now. Worse yet is that they probably don’t know that the world is going to end in three years.

I was getting out of the cab on Broadway when he turned around and handed me some papers on Jesus that for some reason he thought I’d actually be interested in. The cabbie tells me that according to his calculations the end of the world is coming in 2013. “What month?” I ask. “I dunno, maybe September.” “Maybe?” I asked, “Why hedge your bets now?” “Hey what the fuck is a few months either way,” he replied. “Right now I still gotta go to work tomorrow, and the day after that.” I wondered, given this new information, if that was necessarily true. I gave him a three-dollar tip and asked “So what do you think this will be worth in 2013?” He looked away and drove off, unsatisfied with either my tip or my question or both. Hell if I care – I’ve got better things to worry about in the three years I’ve got left.

So with my newfound perspective I go inside and hit the computer. No, I mean literally. I punched the damn thing and almost broke my hand. It kept asking me if I wanted to reboot, and I clicked no, and it kept asking me, so I clicked yes, then no, then yes, but it kept doing the same thing so I finally ended it with a “Reboot this, asshole!” Boy, I showed that baby, didn’t I? Now who’s boss? Mr. I-don’t-have-a-computer-anymore-cuz-like-a-fucking-idiot-I-punched-mine-to-smithereens, that’s who’s boss. I panic. What am I going to do without a computer? But then I thought well with the end of the world coming and all maybe it didn’t matter so much. I went for a drive instead.

I parked at Fisherman’s Wharf and took in the sea air and the music leaking out from Lou’s Blues Club with no one around me. Just how I like it. That’s how I want it to be in “I-dunno-maybe-September,” 2013.

How did I ever become a psychologist anyway? When I was a kid I had no friends to speak of – They left me alone because they couldn’t figure me out. But here’s the thing: The same kids who kicked my ass in gym class would come up to me later when their friends weren’t around and tell me their problems. Don’t ask me why – It’s not like I ever reached out to them or welcomed them in any way. But for some reason I was a magnet for people with problems, people wanting advice, or just an ear. So I listened: Guys with girl problems, girls with guy problems. The fact that I couldn’t get a date to save my life didn’t seem to matter.

Nowadays I’m pretty good at putting the kebosh on that when I’m not working. I mean, hey, do you enjoy working on your time off? I try to avoid even telling people what I do. Inevitably someone will start telling me their problems, not as a friend, which I wouldn’t mind, but as a self-entitled consumer looking for free services. More frequently, and I just love this, are the ones who nervously ask some variation of “So are you analyzing me now?” Ok, you got me. You, in just a few seconds, have enraptured me to the point where I can barely hold back from delving into your psyche, fathoming your deepest motives, because I love working on my free time and because you are so special, unique and fascinating. Look folks, the truth is that I am naturally pretty basic in my social relationships. I stay present and interact and I don’t try to figure anybody out. I can’t even figure my own self out, so don’t worry, ok?

I got out of the car, walked toward some hip-hop coming from a corner bar and listened for awhile, watching the pretty people come and go. I love watching drunk girls walk around in high heels. They look funny. You can’t be drunk, wear 6” spikes and look sexy, but you sure can look funny.

I drove out to Chrissy Field where I just sat looking at the sky listening to Puccini’s La Rondine, my first opera. Celestial. My eyes closed.

La Rondine is an unusual opera in that nobody dies. At least until 2013, I imagine. After the second act I shifted into gear and went home. I found this 70’s movie on TV about mutant freaks who take over the world and the cops who kill them. Is that how it’s gonna be?

It’s not that I don’t like interacting with people. I just prefer it on my own terms. Sometimes I’m asked to fax a report to the courthouse. Instead I have my morning espresso and walk to City Hall. San Francisco’s a small town so I usually run into one or two people that I know along the way. I pick up a newspaper (from the store, not the dispenser) and stop for breakfast: Eggs, bacon, but always fruit instead of potatoes. As I get closer to Civic Center I enjoy watching all the hustle and bustle: The self-appointed parking guides, the makeshift food trucks, the politicians, the lawyers – Especially those lady lawyers in their suits with their glasses on and their hair up. One time I ….Uhm, never mind. Then I go into the courthouse, hand in my report and chat for a few minutes with people I’ve known for years – face to face. We talk about our lives, families and travels. On the way out I stop and get a hot dog at that little stand in Civic Center Plaza and look at whatever protesters happen to be out that day.

That’s why I don’t own a fax machine or a cellphone.

So, having rendered myself cyberless, the next morning I took my coffee to the window instead of the computer desk and watched the boats sailing in and out of the bay. I thought about the day ahead, the work that was due last week, the people I didn’t want to have to deal with, the phone calls I didn’t want to return, having to shell out a lot of money for a new computer and how badly my hand hurt from punching out the old one.

But hey, what the hell, it’s not as if it’s the end of the world, right?

***

You can see a slideshow of Bill’s photo shoot here.

Bill’s blog: www.drbillsblog.com
His website: www.drbillperry.com.

Dennis

On Folsom Street
SoMa
Tuesday morning

***

When I first moved here in the Fall of ’97, as typical with most new San Franciscans of that era, I spent about three months looking for a place to live.  I crashed at a friend’s studio in the Tenderloin, and perhaps time has weathered my memories of those months, but now that I think back, I vaguely recall that I slept in the closet.  My first weekends here were punctuated by Critical Mass and Folsom Street Fair.  I clearly wasn’t in Ohio anymore.

I spent the first few years commuting down to the south bay to my internet job, so honestly, my most vivid San Francisco memories from that era were of hazy nights at nightclubs on the weekends.  I could have easily been mistaken for someone that didn’t live in the City.  San Francisco was where I slept, so a move from the Richmond to Noe Valley mostly meant that I could get 30 minutes more sleep before my drive down to work.  It wasn’t really until 2001, when my company moved their office up to the City, that I really started living here.  Now, instead of hours on the 101, I was introduced to the magical concept of happy hour and a weekday social life.

And then I finally started living in San Francisco.

I regularly attended Qool, the Wednesday night happy hour at 111 Minna.  I bought a bike and learned how to DJ and started promoting parties every month.  I conducted four pilgrimages to Burning Man.  I moved to a fantastic apartment atop Dolores Park and invested in a restaurant & club, Supperclub.  I started blogging.  I woke up early and played golf at the Presidio before work.  I swam regularly at Aquatic Park and ran at Chrissy Field.  I finished the Escape from Alcatraz triathlon with a smug feeling that the race was on my “home turf.”

For the first time, when I went to visit family for Christmas, I called San Francisco home.  And when I was home in San Francisco, I had a thick family of friends.  Most of my high school friends back in Ohio were married, with kids on the way.

My brother and I moved into a place in SoMa, where he and his fiancé are my downstairs neighbors.  We share a dog, a Boston terrier named Bailey.  I started a company with four guys named Mike, and though we all work from home, we are all here in the Bay Area.  I Yelp.  I Facebook.  I Twitter.  I write code.  I write stories.  I make mixes.  I eat a lot of Asian food without really realizing it.  I shoot trap at PRGC.  I bike everywhere and shop at Rainbow and Trader Joe’s.  I am trying really hard to be a Giants fan.  Cleveland teams, for better or worse, still have my true loyalty, so it’s a little weird for me to root for teams that actually win.

My original plan was to live in San Francisco for awhile, and then move east to New York City (a common plan, I think).  My family had moved from Ohio to New Jersey after I graduated high school, so NYC seemed in the cards.  Then, one by one, they all moved out west.  First, my brother, then my parents and our dog, followed by a handful of cousins, aunts and uncles.

Now, not only is San Francisco home, I’m growing roots here.  And it continues to grow its roots into me.

***

You can see a slideshow of Dennis’ photo shoot here.

Dennis’ blog is http://www.dennisyang.com/
Follow him on twitter: http://twitter.com/sinned

Nirmala

On Columbus Avenue
North Beach
Wednesday afternoon

***

Grew up in the city of angels, or that’s what they called it, but there was nothing there that filled my senses—no, not even in Technicolor, as my expectant adolescent pen pals fantasized film backdrops and West Hollywood intrigues, while I snaked in and out of the Day of the Locusts, watched the whole world burning through my suburban window like I was seeing it on TV. Nothing other than the dull drone of Santa Monica egos and ubiquitous traffic or the smog that filled my brain at 6:30 each morning, which I learned to put up with because I didn’t know that air quality was something you could blame. No, nothing in that city that spoke to me was divine or light-filled or augured wings so featherweight they could carry me away on a dream.

City of dreams. That was San Francisco. With its ornery, wind-swept soul and narrow, sheer cliff-drop streets, and vistas of blue and skyscraper, and heavy gates of gold. This peninsula of piers and back alley tricksters, this glorious theatre of fog and magic so fleeting you barely noticed it. City of sloping hills and unexpected greenery. Picture-perfect sailboats and bathhouse ruins and dive bars where I learn the art of performance from drag queens and dime-a-dozen savants of the Beatnik variety and tragic tangueros who craft origami from Zen koans. Poetry spouted by the wisdom stewards of public transportation. The museum where I fell in love with Magritte, collegiate and callow.

Barely an adult, I could only look on in wonder and soak it in—city, majestic city, with its congestion and its carefully circumscribed neighborhoods and its indefatigable lust for newcomers. Girls like me, who longed to be seduced. When you grow up and the world is separated by arteries of highways, San Francisco (that place only peripherally spied through glass and rocks and water and a Hitchcock sunset) comes as a surprise. So that’s how I entered, twelve years ago—a sad urban drifter who’d never known the lures of the kind of place where boundaries dissolve and contradictions brush elbows from bay to ocean.

Someone once told me that a city is a lie they would always believe, but my flashes of memory are far from disingenuous. Symphony of post-adolescent chaos. Love, for the first time. Cobblestone and fountains and midnight walks along the Embarcadero. Trash blowing around in its wild, windy ballet on Fox Plaza, where a boy breaks my heart and I consign myself to corporate anonymity for three months. Sit on a park bench in Pacific Heights and cry my eyes out while moms with strollers and cell phones walk indifferently past. But even then, even then, there is romance around every corner. Dancing in South of Market nightclubs, music blaring and filling my lungs, the scent of all-night taco stands and August heat sticking to my skin like sweat. Food so delicious that I burn my tongue in my eagerness to swallow. Laughter so contagious that I have to spit my beer out in Dolores Park to catch my senses, enough to contain myself. Contain myself.

There is no containing myself here. Most of the days will be mundane, unmemorable, one cocktail bleeding into the next bike ride through Golden Gate Park, one friend replaced by another, one infinite drunken manifesto of hope negated by the negligence I know each day when homeless people try to sell me a piece of paper and I walk by without looking. Because I can’t. City of transience. New rentals every year or so, a new hotspot or place to do yoga. A new excuse to leave your job or travel the world or say that you’re sick of it all.

I only know it’s my home years after the fact, touching down on the tarmac on a rainy day in February—grateful for the familiar sobriety of winter after three months of heat and tropics and traffic and hello kisses on both cheeks. Do we choose our true home, after all?

And throughout the changes, something else takes root within me. A quietness, a slowness, a leisurely walk through my own internal landscapes, as steady as my city is capricious, as endurable as the world around me impatiently cranes its neck toward the next big thing.

Like moonlight, a city will enter your blood and stay there, for better or worse. This is how it is for me. San Francisco: the place where I grew up.

***

You can see a slideshow of Nirmala’s photo shoot here.

Emilie

On Haight Street
Upper Haight
Friday afternoon

***

San Francisco is a town that can take tragedy.  It can handle rebellion, the break-down of families, and broken, frightened people – in short, it is a place that can deal with social hemorrhage.  It was when I officially broke with the Pentecostal church that I learned this about San Francisco, only I didn’t come here from anywhere – I grew up here.

My parents came to San Francisco in 1978, the year before I was born, from Northern Virginia.  My father came first.  His older brother was here and got my father (just out of jail) a job as a mechanic, in a shop still open at 26th and Shotwell.  My father asked my mother to join him, promising to marry her if she did.  He came to San Francisco for a fresh start; she came for love.

After having me, terrified at the prospect of motherhood and vowing that her (eventual brood of five) children would not turn out like their parents (both users and drinkers), my mother turned to the Pentecostal church to get sober.  I was to spend a large portion of the first 15 years of my life at the Voice of Pentecost (“VOP”), which is on Ocean Avenue housed in what used to be the El Rey, a theater (where the Mitchell Brothers apparently screened Autobiography of a Flea and served guests champagne and blotter acid) designed by Timothy Pflueger, an architect (himself a native of San Francisco) known for his skyscraper and theater design work.

It’s funny, right?  People come to San Francisco to escape the things that fundamentalist Christianity spawns:  narrow-mindedness, judgment, and the loss of self-respect that results from a system of belief that will not let people be themselves.  Yet here I was, soon to be deeply steeped in the tenets of the Pentecostal church, in San Francisco – a place denounced by Pentecostals as the modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah chronicled in Genesis chapter 19.

Although this is a story about San Francisco, a brief primer on the Pentecostals seems appropriate.  Pentecostalism is a fundamentalist branch of Protestantism.  Fundamentalism in the United States was an early 20th century reaction to Modernism that stresses the infallibility of the Bible in matters of faith, morals, and as a literal historical record.  Pentecostal women mustn’t cut their hair, wear pants, pierce their ears, wear any jewelry save a promise ring (you know, a ring signaling commitment to complete chastity before marriage) or a wedding ring, or question their husbands.  In general, Pentecostals mustn’t drink, smoke, use, fuck (outside of marriage), swear, or question the Lord (or their pastor). These rules were drilled into my head during the three church services we attended each week, and everyday at school.  I spent most of my childhood attending Voice of Pentecost Christian School (still in existence as Voice of Pentecost Academy), the parochial extension of VOP, learning more about the power of prayer and how to please people in power than anything else.

At 15, my family started to crack.  My mother could no longer do sobriety, and she began to use and drink again with my father, who had never stopped.  Although she hid her use initially, I think I sensed her falter, and this caused my life to shift, too.  15 turned out to be a watershed year for me.  I was angry about my family and tired of the Pentecostal rules.  So I rebelled – I left VOP.  I chopped off my waist-length locks.  I drank. I smoked. I swore. I fucked. I pierced my ears. I wore pants.  And my mother continued to use.  The more she used, the more it became clear that we’d lost the family linchpin.  As we all started to drift, I turned to San Francisco, who it turns out had been waiting for me all along.

San Francisco dealt well with my tragedy.  San Francisco made it easy to be whatever I wanted or needed by not judging or chiding – San Francisco simply accepted me.  It watched me patiently, like a loving parent, and allowed me my anger, rebellion, sadness and confusion about who I was.  San Francisco introduced me to people who would become my new family. San Francisco let me be myself in a way I never could at VOP or with my family.  It satisfied my need to explore.  It’s easy to move around in this town.  After high school, I left Lakeview, the hood I grew up in, and moved to Noe Valley, then Bernal Heights, then back to Lakeview, then to the Excelsior, finally settling in the Castro for five years with the girlfriend (yes, the kind you have sex with) I’d picked up along the way.  I got a BA in English at SF State, a JD at USF, and moved again, this time to the Mission, Hayes Valley and finally the Haight, where I’ve been for almost five years.

As I found my new home in San Francisco, my family continued to disintegrate.  We no longer have a family home. But it’s remarkable how seamless San Francisco made my transition from one home to the next.  It’s part of the magic of this place – in its willingness to welcome tragedy, San Francisco creates space for things to come.

Crystal

Calhoun Terrace
Telegraph Hill
Saturday morning

***

I was born in a place of edges – the parallels that carved out the state boundary, the sharp angle of the winter snow. Our days were guided by temperature, watching the the rise and fall of a line against lines. The three lines that made up the horizon: highway, plains, and sky. When the sky turned purple, we knew to be scared of torrent spiral wind.  It was a foreign shape that would snap and zag, appearing suddenly, destroying mercilessly.

My life in San Francisco is marked by curves: sidewalks crawling over hills, curlicues in crema, the Victorian accents found in old houses straining under layers of paint. Palm fronds trace out drifts of wind. Below the city, the straight edges heave their weight. They lean into each other like impatient shoppers and every once in awhile, their fighting carries upward suddenly, destroying mercilessly.

I like to travel – so far, to over a hundred countries and all continents.  My work, my life, revolves around maps, one that’s plotted along lines and curves. There are many sweet moment of traveling but a notable one: it happens on the plane, usually when you’ve touched down at SFO. You are tired, happy, ready to go home. You’ve been to Rapa Nui, Spitsbergen, Villa Las Estrellas, wherever, and your seatmate leans over and says, “Is this home or vacation for you?” I say both.

***

You can see a slideshow of Crystal’s photo shoot here.

Crystal’s links: