Michael

On Polk Street
Lower Nob Hill
Saturday afternoon

***

I’m in what I’d call a long term relationship with San Francisco. We’ll be celebrating 15 years together in October. It’s our Crystal Anniversary, in case you were wondering. I’m only mentioning that fact because I need a punch bowl.

Overall, the situation has been rewarding but extremely complicated, since The City is also seeing about 750,000 other people, not to mention all those tourists and conventioneers. Not that I am blameless. I occasionally like to spice things up by spending the odd weekend in another town when I find my relationship with San Francisco getting stale.  Fortunately, neither of us is the jealous type. We  just make sure to get tested on a regular basis.

It’s a sexually ambiguous town– I’ve never been absolutely certain of San Francisco’s gender. All the hills and valleys are unmistakably feminine– the place just feels like a woman. Or, at least, what I imagine a woman would feel like. I’m gay, which is one of the major reasons I moved here.

And yet architects have left unmistakably masculine marks like the TransAmerica Pyramid and Coit Tower all over town. And when I look at a map, I think, “It’s on the tip of a peninsula, for God’s sake.” You can’t get much more manly than that, topographically speaking.

This city is one, big gender-fuck, if you ask me.

I find it oddly appropriate that San Francisco is named for Saint Francis of Assisi– a man with a decidedly girlish name that’s been essentially butched-up with a Spanish accent. While our namesake and patron saint is most widely known for giving away all of his earthly possessions, his youth was spent throwing wild parties and wearing outrageous outfits. That is precisely how I spend my youth. And, though I would often prefer not to, I tend to give away all of my earthly possessions to my landlord regularly. I consider it my monthly devotion. The rents are obscenely high, but that’s San Francisco for you. It’s a small price to pay for living in The City.

This town is at turns both sophisticated and trashy– just walk three blocks in any direction from Polk Street and you’ll know what I mean. Hipster restaurants with $15 valet parking exist near dingy Chinese ones with chain smoking waiters hanging about the entrances. I find it strangely comforting to know that it could be a toss-up as to who serves the better food. Well-manicured Victorian row houses are neighbors to cheap pedicure parlors. Financial District suits walk past men in assless chaps without batting an eye. It’s glorious in its own way, really. These are just some of the reasons I love to live here.

I suppose it doesn’t matter what sex this city is. The masculine, the feminine, the outrageous dressers, the sophistication, the trashiness– it’s all here. As far as I can tell, I may very well be in a relationship with a 7 x 7 mile-wide drag queen. And that would suit me just fine.

I just hope we don’t fight over the punch bowl.

***

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

Michael’s blog is Food for the Thoughtless: http://michaelprocopio.wordpress.com/

Michael’s twitter: http://twitter.com/procopster

Kristin

On a rooftop on Clay Street
Lower Nob Hill
Thursday afternoon

***

San Francisco is a palette for the creative soul. As a writer, I revel in this tolerant characteristic. You can be whomever—or whatever—you choose, and no one will judge you for it. Rather, differences, imagination, innovative thinking, are celebrated. And no one is as he (or she) seems. A buttoned-up businessman in FiDi, for example, plays drums in a band by night and rides his motorcycle through the Mojave Desert on weekends; a pharmaceuticals rep practices fire-spinning after work, moonlights as a yogi and helms a Burning Man group in her “free time.” It’s eclectic personalities like these that convince me I’ve found my home.

I landed here by pure coincidence. My parents bopped around the Bay Area throughout the 70’s (free love, man) then moved back to Tennessee shortly before I was born. I’d visited San Francisco a handful of times as a child and loved it, but never really thought about relocating here. It was so far from the life I knew, both physically and metaphorically. (Plus, I dig the heat. The summer fog and July chill were enough to send me running in the opposite direction.)

I grew up a Southern belle from a Republican, Baptist family in the heart of the Bible Belt, where distinctions are not only frowned upon, but also not tolerated. Luckily, my parents were more freethinking and habitually liberal than the majority of the local townfolk and supported any rational decision I made. This familial openness and encouragement helped me create my own sense of individualism amid the sea of cardboard cutouts that surrounded me. While I claim no political or religious affiliation, I never really felt I fit in. I was too much of a nomad, a free spirit. Many of my classmates went on to become accountants or lawyers, still reside within a 30-mile radius of where we grew up and continue to hang out with the same circles since diapers; I, on the other hand, pursued my passion, travel writing, even though so many told me it couldn’t be done, that I should opt for a more “practical” career, one that promised steady work and—most importantly—a secure income. I left all familiar places and people to live my dream and made new friends along the way.

While living across the pond in the Netherlands in 2005, I met a guy, a Bay Area native. (Isn’t that how it always starts?) Our relationship was a series of complications, logistics being just the beginning, but in the end we both succumbed to love and, long, convoluted story short, I moved out here for him a couple years later. In May, we’ll be married on Muir Beach. Taking a chance on him—and a new, West Coast identity—was the best decision I’ve ever made.

More than anything, I’m glad the hunt is over. Not just for a mate, but for a sense of place and permanence. I’ve lived all over the map in the past seven years—the South, Arizona, Scotland, New York City, Holland and Denmark—and it’s nice to no longer be looking ahead to the next move, wondering where my transient life will take me, but rather knowing I’ve found a home.

I went from feeling like a minnow in a vast ocean in Manhattan to a shark in a puddle here. This is no testament to me, but to San Francisco’s intimate feel and welcoming nature. I like knowing that no matter where I go in this 49-square-mile city, I’ll inevitably run into a familiar face. It makes what some perceive as a sprawling metropolis seem more like one big, friendly neighborhood. Living here has opened a number of doors, both in my personal and professional life. I’ve already enjoyed the experiences it has afforded me, and I can’t wait to see what else it has in store. Bring it on, San Francisco; I’m ready and willing.

***

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

You can read Kristin’s travel blog, Camels & Chocolate, here.
And you can read her regular column for 7×7 Magazine here.