No she didn’t.
I just found out that my 9-minute miles are actually 10 1/2-minute miles. Thanks to Strava, an app that tracks your runs via GPS. This would explain why a woman in a double-stroller blew by me the other day. WAH-wah.
If you haven’t already heard, California is in a drought. We’ve had unseasonably dry, warm weather this winter, and it’s confusing the plants. Cherry blossoms, which usually bloom in early spring, have arrived in full force. They are everywhere and they are beautiful. But I’m afraid they won’t last. The sun was nowhere to be seen today and it’s supposed to be more of the same this week.
Michigan is known for their cherries. Traverse City in Northern Michigan boasts over 2.6 million cherry trees. And someday I want to drive up there just to see the miles and miles of orchard trees in bloom. I have no doubt it’s a sight to ooh and ahh over.
But there’s something special about seeing them in the City. There’s a wonderful element of surprise…their bright pink flowers against vivid Victorian colors or dull concrete buildings… it’s pretty magical.
And it’s little things like this that I don’t realize I’m going to miss until I come face to face with them. It seems like every other day I find something new. It’s bittersweet. I love that there are so many great things about this city and I love that I’m grateful for all of them. Of course it will make leaving that much harder, but better to have loved, as they say.
Photo Credit: Anomalous_A at Flickr (Click to view his full photostream.) Number 56 is on the right (with the window open), second floor from the top.
I moved to San Francisco at the end of 1996. I had been living in Reno, Nevada for two years and was itching to get out of its eerie strangeness (if you’ve ever been for an extended amount of time, you know what I’m talking about). I worked as Publishing Coordinator for Addi Galleries’ publishing division (limited edition fine art prints). When they announced that a new location (now occupied by the Martin Lawrence Gallery) was being built in Union Square, I jumped at the chance to relocate as the new gallery’s Administrative Director (for a cool $13 per hour).
366 Geary. Addi Galleries’ San Francisco location. Photo: Martin Lawrence Gallery
In one extended weekend, I set out to find my new apartment. My whirlwind search was a success (reminder there was no Craigslist yet); the rental agreement 820 Jones Street, #56 was signed at the end of my trip.
I believe the rent was $875, which covered 420 square feet of studio space, including a separate-ish kitchen, huge walk-in closet (which some tenants used as an office) and tiny bathroom. The basement housed a coin washer and dryer, and also the garbage bins, which more often than not had huge roaches scurrying about. (I have a phobia of roaches. No, seriously. Have you ever woken up to find yourself squishing a flying cockroach just inches from your mouth? Didn’t think so.)
The ad in the paper (the paper!) said the apartment was in Nob Hill, but some would say it was really in the Tenderloin. I think technically it’s Lower Nob Hill, (“Tendernob” came into use in the early 2000s, a term I’ve never liked nor used), but I always told people I lived in Union Square, as it was a short three and a half block walk to the actual Square.
I had the corner unit, so I could see across the street to Sutter. Back then, the Commodore Hotel (now a residence hall for the Academy of Art) ruled the block, with its popular Red Room nightclub (all red decor, as one would guess).
The Commodore Hotel. Photo credit: Phil H. via Yelp.
Next door to the Commodore was the Titanic Cafe (now the Cafe Bean), a small diner that served breakfast and lunch only. Sometimes on weekend mornings I would sit at the bar and treat myself to a their buttermilk griddlecakes for $5.75. It was the first time I saw the sign, “Tipping is not a city in China”.
My first few days in the apartment were spent trying to keep warm (one of the windows didn’t shut and my radiator was jenky) and to function on very little sleep. I didn’t yet have a futon; I slept on a bed made of my bathrobe and towels, and used my comforter for covering (why did no one tell me about heating blankets!? I would have bought one in two seconds!). I also didn’t have curtains for I can’t remember how long.
I arrived during the week between Christmas and New Years, so the city was even louder than usual and had a weird energy that made me uneasy. On New Year’s Eve, the the town went wild with people yelling, honking car horns and throwing calendars out windows (a tradition that has since stopped).
The inside of 820 Jones Street #56 on move-in day.
Soon I was sleeping through the 5am garbage collections, the wailing fire engine and ambulance sirens and the late-night revelers (whose sidewalk voices sounded like they were in the apartment). I looked forward to watching the transgender prostitutes walk the streets on weekends, getting into cars with their “dates” and arguing about who was on who’s turf. (This weekend ritual only lasted a year or so. I faintly remember some movement to “clean up” the area, which pushed the girls from Jones Street to Polk.)
One last look.
Coincidentally, 820 Jones was also my third San Francisco apartment. In 2000 I lived at #51 for about five months. This was during the dot-com boom and the rent was up to $1100. I saw an online ad dated October 2013 for a 3rd-floor unit. The rent was $1895.
I drove by it the other day on the way to get my hair cut. I pulled over and got out to take a couple photos and say goodbye. I had forgotten it was painted my favorite shade of pink – a realization that made me suddenly so happy. I smiled all the way back to my car.
I came across this photo (yes, I see the spelling error) while doing research on Detroit vs. Grosse Pointe. It illustrates the close proximity of the Pointes to Detroit, and it’s also a good example of the abandonment and decay that has been going on in the city for decades. There are walls (actual physical barriers in the form of guard rails, fences, brick walls) separating parts of Grosse Pointe from Detroit. A horrible realization at first, but… I get it. I mean, we’re moving to Grosse Pointe and not Detroit for a reason.
So what does the future hold for this broken city? It’s a question I plan to examine once I get there. I feel like I know San Francisco in such an intimate way; it’s going to be daunting being a stranger again . But as is true with almost every unknown, there’s an element of excitement, too. Looking forward to exploring and sharing my discoveries and perspectives.
Here are some of the burning questions that will be answered in this blog.
Add a question in the comments section and I will be sure to address it in a future post!
A quick Google search reveals that Grosse Pointe is a 10.4 square mile “coastal area in Metro Detroit…that comprises five adjacent individual cities.” Its dwellers are “urban sophisticates” who benefit from a “small-town atmosphere” and “strong sense of community.”
Scroll further down and you’ll find this: “GP, as it is called by some, is a hotbed for money, teenage marijuana smoking and a prodigious amount of alcohol, thanks to expensive fake IDs.” And “rich white people” and so forth. Did I mention Detroit? I started this blog as a way to process our family’s move from San Francisco to Grosse Pointe, my husband’s hometown.
When we first tossed the idea around, I was elated. Get me the bleep out of this child-hating, downstairs-neighbor-yelling, summer-is-winter-but-winter-is-also-winter, no-parking-spots-ever city. Enter the panic attacks. I’d be on a run in the Presidio looking down at the stormy grey Pacific Ocean…and in front of me the ever majestic Golden Gate Bridge. Then BOOM. Weakness, lightheadedness, shortness of breath, nausea, tears, etcetera. The truth is that I looooove this place. I freaking love it. I love its insane beauty, its crazy people (hippie, yuppie, techie, LGBTQ, homeless, I’ll take them all), its quaint and quirky neighborhoods, its progressiveness, its intensity, its demand for equality and betterment…there’s no place like it.
Note: Lake Huron is mislabeled. It is Lake St. Clair.
Still, I sanction the move. I’m ready for a change. For the comforts of suburbia. A suburbia that shares a border with one of the most turmoil-ridden cities in the country. Let’s do this thing.
Pointes of View 