SF is Dead. Long Live SF.
Moving to San Francisco was hard on me. It was 2013, a very good year for startups. Twitter was still Twitter. Downtown was still hot. Travis was still at Uber. However, I was in shock. I missed Buenos Aires. I missed my friends. I missed walking the streets at 3am, and grabbing a slice of pizza on the way. I missed being able to listen to great live music any day of the week. I missed the architecture. I even missed the chaos. I hated the food. I hated that everything seemed to close at 9pm. I hated feeling unsafe, even during daylight.
My therapist told me that it takes two years to adapt to a new place, to a new culture, to a new language. It took me three. I was still stressed out and feeling let down by the city. The things that everyone kept pointing out as its strengths, I didn’t see them. There was no night life, no art scene, and no music scene. There was not a lot of walking in the streets and not a lot of community in any neighborhood. On the bright side, I was fond of the secret gardens, and they became my refuge at times.
When I got pregnant with my daughter, I decided we needed to move to the East Bay. I loved the warmer weather, the clean streets, the green spaces, and the swimming culture. The East Bay is really downplayed, but it’s beautiful, and vibrant, and a little crazy (hello, Martinez!) Then, the pandemic hit, and I was happy we were here where there was more space and fresh air. But as the news of the demise of the city kept coming, it hit me: I was feeling saudade for SF. At some point, I fell in love with the city, but I was blind to these feelings for the longest time.
Further news of SF’s death by a thousand cuts broke my heart bit by bit: Westfield is leaving and some want to tear the building down, stores and hotels are leaving, and there’s rampant crime. As an immigrant, you learn early on: you can never go home. Things change for better, for worse, for good while you are away. I was saddened by these events, and saddened by the voices that added fuel to the fire, and that showed glee at every new challenge the city faced.
I wanted to see for myself. Every bit of free time that I have, I find myself going back. When I visited a favorite restaurant and found it almost empty — which got me the best table — I felt like a Queen of Ashes. I spend time in my old neighborhood, Mission Dolores. I also walk new streets and find new restaurants and shops all the time. Downtown is dying, yes. But the rest of the city is booming. It’s not just booming: it’s full of people right out of college.
SF used to have a cycle: young people would arrive in September, excited about living in the Bay. You could tell the newcomers by the colorful clothes and uncomfortable shoes they would wear. By November, at least half had already moved out. Nobody ever says it, but SF is a city of old people (those 60’s hippies have to age somewhere, after all), hence the early closing of so many establishments. It really makes it hard on newcomers, especially younger ones.
It’s now July 2023, and restaurants are closing later, coffee shops are packed with people working and talking shop, bars and clubs outside of downtown have extensive lines, and the general mood is welcoming, cheerful, lively. It’s 2023, but it could be 2005, or 2008, or 2011. Anything can happen, any night, any day. Anything amazing. Anything brilliant. Anything swell.
Last Saturday night I went to see a movie at the Metreon. It was the closest theater showing my movie of choice, No Hard Feelings. I left the theater past midnight. I was lost in my playlist (Tim Atlas is so great) and I forgot to worry. Instead, I felt safe. I walked around a few blocks: Market, 4th, Mission, Howard. I walked past the Moscone center. These are some of the scary, ghost town streets du jour. There were other people walking. A handful sleeping on benches or stairs. I saw a group skating and drinking and smoking — in a good way. I took photos. I had the time. I was safe.
I’m done fighting San Francisco. Yes, it’s a difficult city. It’s expensive. It’s peculiar. The weather makes no sense. I once saw a gull fighting the Sunset Beach wind, struggling to fly. “You too, pal?” I thought. The thing is: all the annoyances we complain about now, James Stewart complains about in the classic 1958 film “Vertigo,” which is set in 1950s era SF. This is not about tech bros, SV money, or contemporary politics. It’s the soul of the city: thorny, and gorgeous, foggy and radiant.
It’s 2023 and It’s a new day. I’m done listening to the naysayers and I’m done being scared. I’ll lean into my newfound love. I’ll explore for myself and look for new spaces to appreciate and new streets to adore. I’d like to bring you along. Walk with me, won’t you? Let’s make this city ours.
