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.

Mark

Bannam Place
North Beach
Wednesday afternoon

***

I meet a lot of people who recognize me from the documentary film, The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill. I find that there’s a fairly common perception of me as having led a lost and dissolute life until I found the parrots. I understand why people think that, but it’s not quite accurate.

When I was growing up there were a lot of people interested in self-discovery—the inner voyage. I didn’t know anybody who wanted to go into business. I was too young to catch anything more than the tail end of the counterculture, and by that time there were a lot of different schools of thought on what constituted “the true path.” The one I ended up following said that one needed to strip away all pretensions, give up all means of support, and have a tough one-on-one experience with reality. The best place to do that was said to be on the road or on the streets. You can’t really just march out onto the street and do that. If it were that easy of a place to get to, it would be just as easy to leave. But by believing in it as a path, I eventually did end up on the streets. In North Beach. Living on the street turned out not to be the transcendent experience I’d imagined. It was extremely difficult and taxing. But it was also the most disciplined period of my life. I’d once thought it was some kind of bohemian idea, that it began with the French poet Arthur Rimbaud. But actually, in its pure form, it’s an old spiritual yoga that can be found in many cultures throughout history. The Homeless Wanderer. The parrots were part of that path. There was something I wasn’t quite getting—something I needed to learn.

I was on the street for fifteen years. I’ve been off it now longer than I was on it. I have no regrets about having lived the way I did. I can’t overstate how much good it did me. I know it’s difficult for most people to understand—especially given this particular time in history, which is almost completely given over to material success. I’m working on a book that tells the whole story—Street Song. I have around three more years of work to do on it.

***

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

Mark’s writing and current projects can be found at:

Iqra

Pollard Place
North Beach
Tuesday morning

***

San Francisco and I are caught up in an ongoing game of peek-a-boo and over the years, this everlasting dance has allowed us to witness each other’s transformation, resilience and growth. San Francisco became my playground when I immigrated here with my family at the age of 11 from Pakistan.

While the city’s spirit allowed me to fall in love with my new home very quickly, I realized that to truly love this city unconditionally, I had to accept all parts of the city; its soft core AND its rough edges. While this city has been a safe haven for my personal growth and liberation, it didn’t take very long for me to realize that it is not, in fact, an equal playing field for all who live here.

While I was able to graduate from SFUSD schools and get a HS diploma, that goal was and remains a challenge for my peers and other young people struggling to make ends meet and survive the streets of San Francisco. While I feel blessed to be able to take mural walks in the Mission and soak up the rich histories of North Beach and Chinatown, I also see my closest friends fighting to maintain and protect those boundaries from gentrification and displacement of communities.

Growing up in San Francisco and being able to witness the city’s contradictory qualities has allowed me a space to accept the city as a whole. And with this acceptance comes a sort of dedication from deep down in my belly—this commitment in transforming this city to become an equal playing field for all who call it home—so that this city’s heartbeat can be heard and felt inside all of us.

***

You can see a slideshow of Iqra’s photoshoot here.

Cyril

Born and raised in San Francisco, I know it well. Certain streets have very clear memories for me. Moments locked in time, and triggered into view when I pass those streets. For instance, Masonic and Oak Street, Summer of ’67: seeing and meeting Mitch, Noel, and Jimi Hendrix. And that was a free gig. Or take Geneva Avenue, which is where the Cow Palace is, which is where I saw the Beatles.

Or on Van Ness Avenue where long ago I would see Captain Fortune walking down the street. He had the best and first kid show in town in the 50s on Channel 5, KPIX. When I was a kid, San Francisco was on the map. If a movie opened, the star of the film would be there at the opening. This is how I was able to meet William Castle.

I think it was the movie House on Haunted Hill, which opened at the Golden Gate Theatre, was the first time I met Mr. Castle. He was in the box office behind the ticket girl, counting the money with a cigar in his mouth. And I had recognized Mr. Castle from Famous Monsters Magazine and called out his name: “Mr. Castle!” He looked over at me and said “what’s your name?” and I told him it was Cyril. And he said, “Oh, I’ll call you Cy.” Overjoyed, I went back to school later that week and bragged to my friends that Mr. Castle knew me. And of course none of them believed me.

Anyway, when Mr. Castle’s next movie came out, 13 Ghosts, I took a couple of my friends to the opening and lo and behold, Mr. Castle went “Lo, Cy!”

My friends never gave me any trouble after that.

Paul

San Francisco is home. I was born and raised here, in the Inner Sunset, actually Forest Hills. Born and raised on rock and roll. As I travel throughout the world, enjoying every minute of it, I never tire of looking out the airplane window and seeing San Francisco come into view. It always does that.

I feel so lucky to have grown up in San Francisco during the 1960s. I mean, it’s always been a musical city… it was the first place to play “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “Cathy’s Clown,” etc. It was and still has such a magical, international feeling to it. Different cultures, different people all coexist together. There’s no place like it. Though it has changed, it still retains the smoke from the past.

I miss places like Playland (I caught the last few years of it), but San Francisco is still the town where Playland was and still is in my mind. Growing up here was a treasure: the characters, the neighborhoods. No matter how far I go away from here, there’s still a piece of San Francisco in me and I’ll always come back.

Justin

At Mario’s on Columbus
North Beach
Friday afternoon

***

Bimbo’s.

So we were all in line at Bimbo’s. It was probably 1999, because so many of my friends still lived here. We were carefree, and we took cabs. It was the North Beach Jazz Fest, that much I remember, but I have no idea who I was in line to see (I like to think it was the Innerzone Orchestra). Who knows?

It was me, my wife Anne (who wasn’t technically my wife yet, as we got married in 2000), my buddy Rob, and my college friend Pete. It was crazy that the three of us were together in line, and since Anne was with us, we’d done the prudent thing and gotten there early. The doors were just about to open and the three of us were poised to run in and try to find a seat.

Bimbo’s, for those of you who don’t know, is a pretty large club with tables on the floor in a semi-circle around a large stage. You’ll find more tables against the wall on the edges of the room, but those fill up so fast, and it’s never worth trying to get them. Then there are the corner tables. Large enough for an entourage, the corner tables have views of the whole room, the stage, everything. I surveyed the crowd. A long line stretched down Columbus toward Fisherman’s Wharf. It would be mobbed tonight. I’d probably have to hold my jacket, Anne’s jacket, drinks, and whatever else. It looked to be stuffy, hot, tiring.

But tonight, fate had adventure in store. As the doors opened, Pete and Rob disappeared inside. I walked straight to the bar, ordered a gin & tonic and a beer, thought better about it, and ordered a sparkling water for Anne, too. Caught up in the mad rush from the door to the main room, I saw Anne, and then found Rob. He was motioning to us both, pointing at Pete sitting in a corner booth. Pete had a table! Amazing. I ran over. Best seat in the house. Closest to the stage. One of those booths with a large round table and leather seats. Classy, but fleeting. It would be ours for only moments. The booth would seat at least 20 and we were only 4. In another minute some large group would move in and we’d be just as crowded as the poor saps in the middle of the room.

We all felt the pressure. Pete acted. He looked around at a pile of flyers lying on the table-top, and found one with an unprinted side. He folded it in half like a table-tent, took out a black felt-tipped pen and calmly started writing. He printed these three letters on each side of the fold: V.I.P.

I laughed. “Bro, that’s never going to work,” I said.

Pete didn’t laugh. He was a man on a mission. He waved down a waiter, ordered a magnum of champagne and a bucket of ice. He asked for half-a-dozen glasses, maybe more.

The effect was instantaneous. The rest of the club filled up, but our little corner stayed nice and empty. A long-haired Jazz fan with a backpack tried to back in and sit down on our couch. I made eye-contact with him, pointed at our little sign and simply mouthed “Dude …V.I.P.” He apologized with a wave, smiled, and left.

The band played. We sipped the champagne, we ordered more champagne. It was classy. Then the strangest thing happened. Other V.I.P.s started coming over and hanging out. A couple here, a couple there. They wore sports coats and were very cordial. We all shook hands. I introduced myself as an “artist,” Anne and Pete were in “high-tech,” Rob was a “film-maker.” All of this was basically true, but it was more of how we wanted to see ourselves than how we really were.

Another V.I.P. couple sat down next to us, and the man introduced himself as the owner of a club in the lower Haight. It was the DJ bar, “The Top,” and “Had we ever heard of it?”

“No Fucking Way,” I said, but then got a little embarrassed. That’s not how V.I.P.s talk, you know.

The Top was just about the coolest club in town at that particular point in history. We talked to him a bit more. Rob actually made music videos, and I owned turntables so we were (kind of) in the same business … a little bit. We poured him some of our champagne, we traded music industry stories, we laughed. Then, as he left, he signed a few credit-card sized badges and suddenly we had year-round V.I.P. passes to his club. Amazing. And to think earlier in the day I was too broke to buy the super burrito at Pepito’s.

And then, as soon as it had started it was over. The lights came on. Our real lives returned. Pete would soon disappear back East (Brooklyn). Rob went on to work on movies (the three of us were extras in “Groove”), and screenwriting took him down to L.A. Within a year me & Anne’s life evolved, simplified, and got a lot more complicated. We got married, bought an apartment, had kids. Champagne was reserved for birthdays, New Year’s, and new jobs.

There are so many stories I have about my life so far in San Francisco, but this one just about sums up what I like best. The randomness of every single day. The way you can re-invent yourself a thousand times over. The way that no-one really cares one way or the other what you do, as long as you do it with style. San Francisco is a city where you can do anything, be anything you want. It turned me, a broke kid from Florida into a big-city V.I.P., if only for a night. And for the record, Pete, Rob and I must have gone to The Top every weekend for the next year, loving every minute of it.

***

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

His Flickr stream can be seen here.

Laura

Calhoun Terrace Stairs
Telegraph Hill
Friday afternoon

My motto: “Dance, like no one is watching.”

I recently figured out the exact moment when I knew I would be a creative adult. It was when I was ten. I got to freestyle in my ballet classes. The piano player would cue music that I hadn’t heard before and I danced my little heart out. This freedom and creativity has always stayed with me. The feeling that ‘I should dance outside of the box’ helped push me to move to San Francisco from Los Angeles (and away from my family and friends) seven years ago.

It took a lot of faith and courage for me to move away from L.A. I stored all of my belongings and thought I would give it six months in San Francisco before deciding whether to stay or move back to L.A. I didn’t expect and wasn’t ready to fall in love with our city and the freedom of the people as quickly as I did. To live in San Francisco you have to be accepting and open. People might not start that way, but they change. I knew I had to stay.

When I came to San Francisco, I did not have any contacts or had a job arranged. In fact, I had always lived near my family. I was in search of my passion. I was in search of my identity and my home. I quickly realized that San Francisco was my playground and I felt alive and free. In fact every time I traveled to other cities, I continued to feel a pull back.

San Francisco is a magical city where you always seem to find new nooks and crannies. When I meet other San Franciscan locals, they have their own special places to show me. Our versions of the city can be completely different based on our own experiences. Some of my favorite places and things to do in San Francisco are the Palace of Fine Arts, the art murals at Coit Tower, the Embarcadero famer’s market on Saturday mornings, window shopping in maiden lane, sipping lattes at Caffe Roma in North Beach, indulging on Nutella crepes at The Crepe House on Polk Street. Where are your favorite places to go and things to do in San Francisco?

***

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

Laura is the North Beach blogger for the Examiner.
Her lifestyle blog is Under the Sheets–shhh.

Kenneth