December 25, 2005

Touristing in San Francisco

I am so used to leaving things behind that it seems counterintuitive that I should have driven away from California so ceremoniously last June only to return in winter on an airplane. It’s anti-climactic, this reunion. What I should have done was to go live a life in another country for ten years, and then return, a different woman, having lived a whole new life. Returning to old places and people and finding them largely unchanged almost never happens. I have wandered like a ghost though the towns of my former lives, Sun Valley, Sedona, Red Bluff, Andover… the memories layering themselves before me as I ride through the familiar landscape that are slightly altered. As I tourist my way through San Francisco, I look upon it as I did many of the towns I visited this summer… sizing it up, cataloguing trends I notice, categorizing in one of two columns: cities I could live in, cities I’m happy to pass through and leave behind. This one remains in limbo and for now is one that is nice to visit.

San Francisco has a few characteristics that jump out at me: the comic colors of victorian houses, pink, greens and purples, the relative abundance of well-kept Volkswagon buses and Vanagons parked in driveways, red leaves on trees still on the longest night of the year. The air is moist and cool and makes my hair spring up and frizz out. Jogging through town I have to remove my top layer after a few minutes, but the subtle humidity seems to make it harder to breathe, slowing me down. I jog past small groups of mexicans and central americans huddled on street corners, not doing much of anything- just standing around, maybe waiting for someone to pick them up and offer them labor for the day. The white boys of the mission have all dyed their hair black and wear tight 70s jeans with wallet chains and black boots, their quirky and culturally inappropriate t-shirts tight across their scrawny chests. The girls in the platform boots and printed skirts and jean jackets, hair piled high and stabbed with a pencil wander in and out of cafes, looking beautiful, ordering coffee, scrunching up their eyebrows as they read the news on their wireless internet connection. No one has to spend a few minutes taking off coats, scarves, gloves and hats when they walk into a San Francisco Cafe, as the temperature inside nearly matches outside. For my taste, the outside weather is quite pleasant, but it’s too cold inside. Chicago knows how to heat buildings, but San Francisco never figured that out, and every apartment I stay in does not invite me to pad around barefoot in my pyjamas. I find myself layering on the socks and sweaters, which I rarely have to do in the tropics of my Chicago hideout. But I walk to my hairdresser’s in the rain wearing only a light sweatshirt and not caring that I arrive soaked. It’s a lovely day despite the rain.

The relative proximity of all things cool in San Francisco is also a marked contrast from the rest of the nation, Manhattan being the only exception. This was something I was aware of during my 19 year tenure here, but it’s remarkable how from the house of my host, I easily walk to my hairdresser’s, my favorite old cafés (Atlas on 20th and Alabama, and the Revolution Cafe on 23rd and Bartlett), my favorite new Cafe (Ritual on Valencia and 21st), the climbing gym, Tony’s House, Eman’s house, a multitude of markets and grocery stores, innumerable bars and shops. Having a car in a city like this is more often a liability, though Miss Michelle did loan me her car for a day or two do drag a few things out of storage. I took the opportunity to visit friends and family across town, but was happy to be rid of the car and the risks of parking tickets and accidents.

While in San Francisco, everyone has a list of places they want to see, and so for the coming days I’ll be filling in that list with old haunts and landmarks I never made it to as an inhabitant.