 “Only one word can sum up this experience,” said Anthony Bourdain on his first visit to San Francisco's Tonga Room. “Cowabunga!” Did you do anything loony during the pandemic lockdown? Of course you did, but don’t worry, I’m not asking you to reveal details. (Unless you really want to — in which case, I’m all ears.) Europeans under strict lockdown, allowed outside only to fetch groceries and walk pets, took to strolling around with their cats, birds, even goldfish. Not all at the same time, but still. My sister-in-law and her sister entertained themselves carving famous faces into potatoes. And one evening in 2020, I took Rich “out” for drinks by recreating San Francisco’s famous Tonga Room and Hurricane Bar in our Seville apartment. The Tonga Room is one of the city’s goofier watering holes, hidden in the lower depths of the luxurious Fairmont Hotel on top of posh Nob Hill. It started out as a 75-foot indoor swimming pool where celebrity guests could show off 1929’s newfangled form-fitting swimsuits. In 1945, when the tiki bar craze was in high gear, the Fairmont hired MGM’s leading set designer to transform the pool into a lagoon surrounded by thatched huts where celebrity guests could drink rum from ceramic coconut mugs. Every fifteen minutes a “hurricane” swept the room with dramatic booms of thunder and heavy “rain” falling into the lagoon.  Musicians play in a thatch-roofed barge floating in the lagoon. Rich took me there on one of our earliest dates, and I hope you won’t think I’m totally shallow and tasteless for saying I loved it; it was the most hilarious and romantic bit of kitsch I’d ever seen. In 2020, I did my best to recreate the ambiance in our apartment. Sadly my shower nozzle didn’t reach far enough to recreate the downpour; upon reflection that was probably fortunate for our security deposit and our neighbors. It's been forty years since we visited the actual Tonga Room, and this week, we decided to go back. They don’t open until 5:00 pm, so we took a later ferry, lingered over lunch, and visited a few other landmarks along the way.  The Old Ship Saloon sits at Pacific and Battery streets, once the city's shoreline. Our first port of call was the Old Ship Saloon, once an actual ship called the Arkansas that ran aground during a storm off Bird Island — now Alcatraz — in 1849. She was towed to the city, and while passengers and crew rushed off to pan for gold, a savvy entrepreneur turned her into a saloon. The Arkansas served as a seaman’s bar, boarding house, and bordello before sinking and becoming part of the landfill that expanded San Francisco’s shoreline. The Old Ship Saloon stands proudly over her remains, providing a warm welcome and first-rate food. My quesadilla ($16) was a marvelously creamy mix of Jack cheese and lime-accented guacamole inside a crispy-seared tortilla.  The quesadillas at the Old Ship Saloon are irresistible. Next we visited the Cable Car Museum, an extraordinarily LOUD space where you get to watch (AND HEAR) the winding wheels pulling the steel cables to haul the cars uphill. Our ears were still ringing as we climbed Nob Hill and stepped into the vast silence of Grace Cathedral. Founded in 1849, Grace Church attracted miners who often dropped little envelopes of gold dust into the collection basket. That building burned down in 1906, paving the way for an upgrade that wasn’t completed until 1965. The Episcopalian diocese took its time creating an oddball blend of European tradition and San Franciscan what's-happening-now. Grace is built of modern concrete in French Gothic style patterned on Notre Dame de Paris. The front doors are reproductions cast from the original Ghiberti doors on the Florence Baptistry. The stained glass windows portray 1100 figures from Adam to Einstein (with his famous formula). The floor of the nave, copied from the medieval labyrinth in the cathedral in Chartres, France, is used for everything from candlelight meditation to yoga classes. The formal signing of the UN Charter happened at the Veteran’s War Memorial a mile away, but much of the heavy negotiating took place in meeting rooms at the Fairmont Hotel, just a block from the cathedral. While the hotel is clearly proud of its supporting role in re-defining world order, its most cherished bragging rights come from being the place where, in 1961, Tony Bennet first sang his iconic I Left My Heart in San Francisco. Shortly after his 90th birthday in 2016, Tony returned to the Fairmont to watch the city put up a statue of him and rename that block of Mason Street “Tony Bennet Avenue.”  Two crooners with a lotta heart After paying his respects to Tony, Rich said, “Hey, it’s nearly five. Come on. The entrance to the Tonga Room is around the side.” We turned onto California Street and trotted downhill.  We found the sign, but not the bar; there was nothing but an unassuming side door into a gymnasium. I said, “You don’t think they’ve turn the lagoon back into a swimming pool?” We trudged all around the outside of the enormous hotel complex, but aside from the old sign, there was no indication the Tonga Room — or the big awning we remembered — had ever existed.  This awning had apparently vanished, taking the Tonga room with it. Returning to the lobby, we were given elaborate instructions that led us through a maze of hotel corridors to the gym. Just past that we found the Tonga Room entrance, where people were being separated into the haves — as in “I have a reservation and can walk right in” — and the have nots — which would be us. “You need a reservation just to have a drink here?” I asked incredulously. I realize customs change over four decades, but hey… I went to find the bouncer. “We just want a quick drink,” I explained. “You see, we came here —" He didn’t even look at me as he snapped, “You can go in IF you stand at the bar. You can ONLY order drinks. NO food.” Yikes! In we went. The Tonga Room’s thatched huts and phony hurricanes were as kitsch as ever. The bartender, who had clearly gone to the same charm school as the bouncer, pushed a plastic price list in our direction without looking up. “Yeah?”  Last time we were there, drinks at the Tonga Room looked like this. Rich ordered a Mai Tai and the bartender reached for a plain glass. I’d heard that just this year they’d stopped using ceramic mugs shaped like coconuts and tiki gods, but I spotted a few on an upper shelf. “Any chance we could get it in one of those?” He looked at me as if I’d asked him to strip naked and perform a fan dance on the bar. “No.”  Nowadays, this is what a Mai Tai ($23.90) at the Tonga Room looks like. “I have to tell you,” Rich said as he took the first sip, standing awkwardly near the bar, “I prefer the Tonga Room you made at home during the pandemic.”  My version of the Tonga Room, Seville, April, 2020 I remembered how much fun we’d had in our version of the Tonga Room, listening to The Lion Sleeps Tonight and laughing as we recalled all the goofiest bars we knew — a remarkably long and varied list, as you can imagine — and watching the sun slowly set over the rooftops of Seville. “I have to agree,” I said. “And you want to know something else? It’s going to be at least another forty years before I come back here again.”  The Old Ship Saloon is at Pacific and Battery, several blocks from the waterfront. The others places I visited are all on Nob Hill — a steep climb, so wear good walking shoes or consider an Uber or Waymo driverless taxi! This post is part of my ongoing series OUT TO LUNCH IN CHEAP & CHEERFUL SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods so I can check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? And where should we eat afterwards? These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. BROWSE PREVIOUS POSTS HERE DON'T MISS OUT! If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so I can let you know when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. [email protected] ALREADY SUBSCRIBED? If you ever miss a post announcement, please check your spam folder. 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 "The Comedian." Price $150,000. You get an official certificate but have to provide your own replacement bananas. Remember the $150,000 banana duct-taped to the wall? Roguish Italian artist Maurizio Cattelan caused a sensation showing it at a swanky Miami art exhibition in 2019. Performance artist David Datuna caused another sensation by pulling the banana off the wall and eating it. Everyone else had an uproarious time coming up with memes and spoofs. Titled The Comedian (in case you didn’t get that it was a joke), the duct-taped banana didn’t delight everyone. New York magazine’s Pulitzer-winning art critic Jerry Saltz scoffed, “Joke art, shock-your-Nana-art, art about art about art: That’s all been DOA [dead on arrival] for a decade or more — of course idiot artists, collectors, dealers and critics don’t see that to even take it seriously is to put the gun to your own head.” Yikes, don’t sugar coat it, Jerry; tell us how you really feel. And then there's Gabe Langholtz’s 2023 work “The Big Book of Jerry.” Standing in front of the painting last Thursday in San Francisco, I had to wonder if Jerry had seen it, and if so, whether he was apoplectic that his book How to Be an Artist was sharing table space with a duct-taped banana. Could he appreciate the jest? Would he agree that art has to be challenging — even when it’s challenging his own attitudes toward art? But that’s the fun of modern art. You don’t always have to understand it, let alone agree with it; often works are meant to leave you scratching your head. It makes me think of what theoretical physicist John Wheeler once said about his own field: “If you are not completely confused by quantum mechanics, you do not understand it.” Same goes for contemporary art. Willing to risk finding ourselves dazed and confused by today’s rising stars, this week Rich and I went to check out the art scene in San Francisco’s quirky Dogpatch neighborhood. If you’ve never heard of Dogpatch, you’re not alone. Once a strictly industrial district on the city’s eastern edge, it’s said to be named for the packs of dogs that used to roam the area stealing scraps from slaughterhouses. The moniker may also refer to the comic strip Li’l Abner, set in the backwater town of Dogpatch "nestled in a bleak valley, between two cheap and uninteresting hills somewhere." There’s nothing bleak or uninteresting about San Francisco’s Dogpatch, where slightly gritty trades (plumbers, awning-makers, a boxing gym) share warehouse space with up-and-coming artists. But before facing the world of modern art, Rich and I felt the need to fortify ourselves with strong coffee. Dogpatch is known for great eateries, and we wandered into one of the oldest around: the Hard Knox Café, which has been serving “Southern homestyle cooking” for 25 years. In a moment of complete cultural cluelessness, I tried to order espresso. “We only serve coffee,” said the young Peruvian behind the counter; she managed to sound kindly rather than snarky. So we ordered plain, old-fashioned coffee and a couple of corn muffins — which were absolutely fabulous and I told her so. She and I chatted a while, as you do during the lull between the breakfast rush and the onset of lunch hour. And when we were ready to go, Rich and I discovered that not only had she not charged us for the muffins, she was gifting us four more to see us through our morning’s adventures. Now that’s Southern-style hospitality!  "Hey, she didn't charge us for the muffins!" No one else gave us free food, but I found all the denizens of Dogpatch surprisingly friendly. Everyone we met — the bouncer at the entrance to the marijuana dispensary, gallery staffers, a restauranteur, the saloonkeeper — all seemed ready to pass the time of day for as long as we cared to linger. Midday in midweek, Dogpatch is pleasantly free of big-city bustle. Muffins in hand, Rich and I made our way to the heart of the neighborhood’s art scene: the Minnesota Street Project, three giant warehouses that are now home to fifteen galleries. We wandered around enjoying the creativity, puzzling over the more obscure efforts, shaking our heads over some, falling in love with others. Next we headed over to Marcella’s Lasagneria, which is rumored to have the city’s best lasagna. I chatted with other customers, all of whom lived in the neighborhood and came in often for their favorites. The portions looked hearty, especially after a muffin-filled morning, so Rich and I split an order of the Bianca: white lasagna with caramelized onions, artichoke hearts, and house-cured pancetta (thin slivers of pork belly). The onions and pancetta provided just the right accent to offset the intense creaminess. Best lasagna in the city? I can’t swear to it until I do lots more research — something I’m selflessly prepared to undertake for the sake of my readers. But so far Marcella’s definitely has my vote. Our last port of call was the neighborhood’s oldest bar, Dogpatch Saloon, which has been serving thirsty locals since 1912. They claim they stopped selling alcohol there during Prohibition; it might even be true. I was glad to see they still welcome canine as well as human customers, but I confess I was deeply disturbed by a small sign below the beer taps and the condiments.  “Frisco?” I asked the bartender. “Really?” When I was growing up, it was universally understood that only out-of-towners used the F-word; to locals it was the City. “Is that term —” (I couldn’t bear to repeat it) “considered OK now?” “No,” said the bartender. “But we put up the sign because the Hells Angels have their San Francisco headquarters just around the corner. We want them to feel welcome here.” Very sensible. No good ever came of disrespecting biker clubs, especially on their home turf.  If they want to call it "Frisco" I'm certainly not going to voice any objections. You? Sipping my cold brew, watching dogs and humans drift cheerfully in and out of the saloon, I thought over all the wild and crazy stuff I’d seen that day and wondered what the duct-taped banana artist Cattelan was up to now. For one thing, I'll bet he's keeping a close eye on the upcoming trial of the men who (allegedly) stole one of his most famous works, the solid gold, fully functional toilet titled America.  America. Solid gold, with standard plumbing. Price: $6 million. Current whereabouts: unknown. Created in 2016, this work of “satirical participatory art” pokes fun at gilded excess; it was linked in the publicity materials to a certain presidential candidate of that year (and this one). America was installed in a cubicle at the Guggenheim Museum in New York for visitors to use, and more than 100,000 people stood in line to do so.  Visitors waited in long lines at the Guggenheim for an interactive experience with the work known as "America." Then in 2019, just weeks after it was sent to the UK and exhibited in the Blenheim Palace water closet formerly used by Winston Churchill, America disappeared. Four men were arrested for the crime last November; their trial starts in February. So far they haven't revealed America's whereabouts. As you can imagine, Cattelan is in his glory. "I always liked heist movies,” he said, “and finally I'm in one of them." No doubt he’s already cooking up ideas for a piece to commemorate the experience — something even more outrageous than a solid gold toilet or duct-taped banana. I know, right? The mind reels. And that’s contemporary art for you. Done right, it’s never dull. SUBSCRIBERS If you miss a post announcement, please check your spam folder. Internet security is in a frenzy these days. This post is part of my ongoing series OUT TO LUNCH IN CHEAP & CHEERFUL SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods so I can check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? And where should we eat afterwards? These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. BROWSE PREVIOUS POSTS HERE DON'T MISS OUT! If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so I can let you know when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. [email protected] And check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  The longest short cut in the world I never learn. Really, I ought to have my head examined. “We should go out to Angel Island,” Rich has been saying all summer. “Take a picnic.” I was tempted. I’d never been there before, and Rich had fond memories of a visit 50 years earlier; cue the montage of soaring trees and spectacular views of the San Francisco Bay. On the other hand, the island is prone to cold and fog in summer, and every time we considered going, the weather report was so hideous we abandoned the plan for fear of hypothermia. Until this week. “It’s going to be sunny all day Thursday,” Rich reported excitedly. And before I knew it, he’d booked the ferry tickets.  Angel Island ferryboat But Thursday had its own ideas about the weather and chose to dawn gray and chilly, with gusty winds that didn’t dispel the fog, just sent it slithering down collars and up shirtsleeves. I huddled in my light jacket, glad it was such a short ferry ride across Raccoon Strait, named for the British 26-gun warship, HMS Raccoon, which was damaged at sea and limped into San Francisco Bay for repairs in 1814. No doubt His Majesty’s sailors felt right at home in our pea-soupers. The man at the information desk sold us a map for a dollar and told us the island’s major historic site — the US Immigration Station — was a mile up the coast. “Don’t worry, there’s a shortcut.” He waved vaguely toward the northeast. “Just follow the signs.”  We found the trailhead and started up. And up. And up. Haphazardly placed wooden risers, eroded dirt steps, erratic or missing handrails — these were conditions I often encounter in other countries, inspiring me to remark, “You’d never get away with anything this unsafe in the US!” And yet, here we were in a State Park on our way to a National Historic Landmark. How standards have fallen. I froze during the first part of the endless upwards slog; then the sun came out, and I sweltered. Emerging at last onto the paved Perimeter Road, I stood gasping for breath. And then I was gasping in astonishment as a shuttle drove by, filled with holiday makers taking their ease, waving cheerily as they breezed past. “There’s a shuttle? Why didn’t anyone tell me about a shuttle?”  The shuttle that I missed completely Slogging upward, we met a young couple trudging downward. “Did you see that shuttle?” I asked. The woman rolled her eyes. “Yeah. They refused to let us on. Apparently you have to sign up for a tour. In advance.” We heaved “had-I-but-known” sighs and soldiered on past one another. Eventually Rich and I spotted our destination and began the steep decent to the Immigration Station.  Immigration Station entrance, with modern concrete additions From 1910 to 1940, nearly a million people passed through its doors, each one hoping to build a new life here. And if you’re thinking “Oh, just like Ellis Island,” think again. Although many stories of hardship emerged from Ellis Island, apparently that immigration portal was “Welcome to Disneyland” compared to Angel Island. The difference? Here they processed mostly Chinese arrivals. The late 19th century was rough there, thanks to droughts, floods, and two opium wars fought against the British, who objected to the loss of revenues when the Chinese government cracked down on the drug trade. Thousands of Chinese farmers and laborers were destitute, and having heard about California from relatives and friends who came over to work in the Gold Rush and build the Transcontinental Railway, they decided to join them.  Chinese immigrants detained at the Immigration Center in 1923. Photo: US National Archives Unfortunately, America's post-Civil War economy was in a downturn. Looking for someone to blame, public opinion and laws began to demonize Chinese-Americans for “taking jobs” and “draining public resources.” Everyone blithely ignored the fact that in those days, most Chinese immigrants were healthy adult males who provided cheap labor that enabled American businesses to prosper, and who required little or nothing from government schools, hospitals, or other public services. It didn’t matter. By 1883, a series of laws led to the Chinese Exclusion Act designed to screen out “undesirable” workers; only wealthy professionals were allowed in. Officials would go out to arriving ships and fast track the first and second class passengers, including most Europeans and a few prosperous Asians. Everyone else was herded into crowded barracks for weeks or months of interrogation and delays at Angel Island’s Immigration Center. Standing in those barracks, I tried to imagine what it must have been like: families separated, new mothers caring for babies in cramped quarters, men never permitted outside except in a tiny exercise yard. Hope was always in short supply. Heartache was carved into the wooden walls in the form of poetry.  Of course, there were many health and safety complaints — all ignored, until the Administration Building burned to the ground in 1940. Then the whole shebang was moved to San Francisco. And just three years later, to please China, our new ally in the Pacific, we finally repealed the Chinese Exclusion Act. I’d like to report that attitudes towards immigrants have become much more enlightened since then. Sadly, many Americans still demonize new arrivals — ignoring all evidence that immigrants actually help this country. You don't have to become rich or famous to help the US economy. “How immigrant workers in US have helped boost job growth and stave off a recession,” reads a recent AP headline. “More workers filling more jobs and spending more money has helped drive economic growth and create still-more job openings... Though U.S. inflation remains elevated, it has plummeted from its levels of two years ago.” And you’ll be happy to hear “There is no migrant crime surge,” says The New York Times. “In reality, immigrants are less likely to commit crimes than people born in the U.S. Immigrants have had lower incarceration rates — a measure for crime — than native-born Americans for at least 150 years, a recent study concluded.” The influx of immigrants in New York, Chicago, and Denver coincides with lower murder rates. Texas borderlands have less violent crime than the rest of the state or the nation. The statistics went on and on, but frankly, my eyes soon glazed over. After wandering around the Immigration Station a while, Rich and I suddenly realized we’d have to hotfoot it down to the port if we were going to have time to eat our picnic lunch before the ferry home.  "Goodness, Rich, it wouldn't be a picnic without ants." When I was a kid, this was one of my favorite Charles Addams cartoons. From the New Yorker, 1949 “I think we’ll be on time, so long as we take the shortcut,” Rich said. I groaned. As I stumbled down the raggedy steps, I thought about my own ancestors, who had the good fortune to slip into this country before the government established official immigration procedures in 1891. Who knows if my folks could have passed the stringent tests given today’s new arrivals? And I remembered Rich’s grandmother, who braved a terrible ocean voyage in steerage from Ireland to Ellis Island, vowing she’d never to set foot on a ship again (and she never did). Let’s face it, 97.1% of US residents are immigrants or descendants of immigrants. Nobody has exclusive rights here. As President Franklin D. Roosevelt said, “Remember, remember always, that all of us, and you and I especially, are descended from immigrants and revolutionists.”  Angel Island can be reached by ferries from Tiburon and San Francisco. They don't run often, so be sure to check the return times carefully. And remember: book in advance if you want to ride in the shuttle! SUBSCRIBERS If you miss a post announcement, please check your spam folder. Internet security is in a frenzy these days. This post is part of my ongoing series OUT TO LUNCH IN CHEAP & CHEERFUL SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods so I can check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? And where should we eat afterwards? These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. BROWSE PREVIOUS POSTS HERE DON'T MISS OUT! If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so I can let you know when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. [email protected] And check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  Running across this wonderful meme yesterday, I paused to think about the women in my family. My great-grandmother Mary Langley crossed the continent by covered wagon, arriving on the West Coast around 1889. Her daughter Ramona would spend her youth as a silent film star and her later years as my outrageous grandmother. My mom led civil rights marches. They were among the countless lionhearted women who have given the devil a run for his money throughout California’s history. Take, for instance, “the Founding Mother of San Francisco,” Juana Briones de Miranda (1802 – 1889). A lesser woman might have considered birthing eleven children and adopting a twelfth to be occupation enough for anyone. But Juana was also running a medical and midwifery practice, a cattle ranch, and a thriving grocery business while developing real estate in what would become the city’s North Beach neighborhood and the suburb Palo Alto.  Juana Briones de Miranda, the Founding Mother of San Francisco When she dumped her deadbeat, abusive, alcoholic husband, Juana faced an uphill battle to keep her properties. In 1844, a woman on her own, especially one of mixed African-American, Native American, and Spanish descent — who couldn’t read or write — wasn’t considered capable of handling her own affairs. She gave those naysayers their comeuppance. With the help of a trusty lawyer friend, she remained a powerful influence in the city and matriarch of her family until her death at 87. Incredibly, I’d never heard of Juana until I started researching San Francisco’s Museum of the African Diaspora for a visit this week. I’ve always been fascinated by the idea that all eight billion humans living today share common ancestors from East Africa. According to paleoanthropologists (who know a lot more about this stuff than I do), fossil remains clearly indicate that Homo Sapiens first emerged there around 300,000 years ago and after hanging around for 100,000 years, began to spread out across the globe.  Known as the "Out of Africa" theory, this is the most widely accepted model of the geographic origin and early migration of anatomically modern humans (Homo sapiens) aka all of us. “When did you first realize you are African?” a sign asked all visitors when the museum opened in 2005. Today, says the website, the museum "celebrates Black cultures, ignites challenging conversations, and inspires learning through the global lens of the African Diaspora." Imagine my surprise when I arrived on Thursday to discover it’s been turned into a fine arts museum. “Wait, what?” I said to the person at the front desk. “Why?” Shrug. “Is there still information here about the diaspora?” “Of course. It’s everywhere throughout the museum.” Really? Because Rich and I hiked every inch of the three exhibition floors, eyeballing all the art and reading every text, seeking any hint of information about the most significant migration in human history. And we found nada, zip, zilch. I had been hoping the museum would tell me more about the African-Americans who helped build this city. But Juana was never mentioned, nor was Mary Ellen Pleasant, the first self-made millionaire of African-American heritage, often called “the Mother of Human Rights in California.” Like so many San Franciscans, Mary Ellen has an obscure past. She may have been the daughter of a voodoo priestess and a Hawaiian merchant on the East Coast. As a young woman she amassed a fortune in real estate and finance, spending much of it to free slaves and fight for civil rights. During the Gold Rush, she moved to San Francisco to establish the Underground Railroad there and remained, rescuing fleeing slaves and women in need. For many years she worked as a cook and housekeeper, overhearing the city’s movers and shakers, picking up insider tips that helped with her make even shrewder investments.  Mary Ellen Pleasant, first self-made millionaire of African-American heritage and the Mother of Human Rights in California Among her many legal battles, Mary Ellen fought to change the laws that prohibited Blacks from riding in San Francisco’s streetcars. Her success paved the way for 15-year-old Maya Angelou to became the city’s first African-American female streetcar conductor in 1943. “The thought of sailing up and down the hills of San Francisco in a dark-blue uniform, with a money changer at my belt, caught my fancy,” she wrote in her famous memoir I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. At first, transit officials wouldn’t even let her fill out an application, but Maya went back every day for two weeks, and they finally relented. On the paperwork, she lied about her age, made up a “fable” about driving for a white woman in Arkansas, and got the job. “I clanged and cleared my way down Market Street,” she wrote, “with its honky-tonk homes for homeless sailors, past the quiet retreat of Golden Gate Park and along closed undwelled-in-looking dwellings of the Sunset District.”  Poet and author Maya Angelou in 1981. Photo: Oakland Tribune Maya’s checkered career included stints as an actress, singer, dancer, composer, playwright, and theatrical producer. She was a tireless civil rights activist who worked with Martin Luther King, James Baldwin, and Malcom X. But she is mostly remembered for her brilliant poetry and fearless memoirs. Her daily writing ritual began with checking into a hotel and lying on the bed with a legal pad, a bottle of sherry, a deck of cards, Roget’s Thesaurus, and the Bible. “I also wear a hat or a very tightly pulled head tie when I write. I suppose I hope by doing that I will keep my brains from seeping out of my scalp and running in great gray blobs down my neck, into my ears, and over my face.” This is the kind of stuff I’d hoped to learn at the Museum of the African Diaspora, but hey, I guess that’s why God, in her infinite wisdom, gave us Google: so we could dig out the facts for ourselves. The museum was part of then-mayor Willie Brown’s 1999 project to redevelop a blighted “skid row” into the park and cultural center now known as Yerba Buena Gardens. Emerging from the museum, Rich and I lingered on the park's sunlit lawn, listening to glorious tunes from legendary saxophonist Charles Unger.  A rapt audience listens to Charles Unger play the saxophone. Afterwards we headed across the street to lunch at The Grove. "We make honest, thoughtfully crafted comfort food,” says their website. “We’re independently owned, warm, woodsy, eclectic, outdoor, with a zillion details and oozing with soul.” Incredibly, this turned out to be an understatement. Co-owner Anna Zankel wanted to create “San Francisco’s living room,” and the atmosphere is delightfully homey. The breakfast burrito was some of the best food I’ve found in the city. This week, at the Tenderloin block party "Love Fest SF," former-mayor Willie Brown officially declared the death of the “doom loop,” the narrative that San Francisco is on a dystopian spiral into hell. Amen to that! As I looked around the Grove at the laughing, chatting, munching crowd, I thought of all the people who love this city not despite its oddball character but because of it. Yes, we are not like the others, and that’s fine with us.  Former SF Mayor Willie Brown (right) declares the "doom loop" narrative officially dead on August 3, 2024. Photo: Benjamin Fanjoy SF Chronicle. This is a gutsy, vibrant city and I'm not afraid to say so. In fact, I cherish the belief that when my feet hit the floor this morning, somewhere the devil of doom-loop misinformation was shouting, “Oh crap, she’s up! And working on another post about cheap and cheerful San Francisco. Dammit!”  Yerba Buena Gardens in downtown San Francisco is a pleasant half hour stroll from the Ferry Building. SUBSCRIBERS If you miss a post announcement, please check your spam folder. Internet security is in a frenzy these days. This post is part of my ongoing series OUT TO LUNCH IN CHEAP & CHEERFUL SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods so I can check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? And where should we eat afterwards? These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. BROWSE PREVIOUS POSTS HERE DON'T MISS OUT! If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so I can let you know when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. [email protected] And check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it. |
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