 Cop cars and yellow tape block the intersection in front of the library. No matter how often you see it on TV, it’s still shocking to come home IRL (in real life) to find your street blocked off by cop cars and crime scene tape. When it happened to us the other day, I craned my neck searching for clues while Rich drove slowly past our street and tried to turn down the next — only to be stopped a fledgling police officer. “You can’t come this way,” the kid announced importantly. “Why not?” asked Rich. “It’s confidential.” Confidential? Who was he kidding? This is San Anselmo, a town so small that if you sneeze walking out your front door, the first person you see will hand you a Kleenex and the next three will inquire about your allergies. Rich drew breath to protest, but I said, “Let it go. If he tells you, he may have to kill you. Besides, we’ll find out soon enough.” We circled home the back way and discovered, with considerable relief, that our house was not part of the hullaballoo. Neighbors soon filled us in; someone had called in a bomb threat to the nearby public library because of Drag Story Hour.  Notice posted on the town's bulletin board Now, I realize that Drag Story Hour for kids is not standard Saturday morning fare in all public libraries across this great nation. But here in the San Francisco Bay Area (and many other parts of the US), it’s become a tradition during June’s LGBTQ+ Pride Month. “Join us for stories, songs, and laughs,” said my town’s website. “Drag Story Hour is a form of performance art that captures the imagination and play of childhood while giving kids a glamorous and positive view of a person being their authentic self.” For anyone who can’t fully embrace the idea, there’s a simple solution: skip the story hour. But that didn’t satisfy one disgruntled individual, whose sentiments could only be expressed with a bomb threat. Because nothing teaches children about decent behavior like lawless aggression and false statements to the police. No bomb was found, and the crime scene tape and cop cars soon disappeared. Still visible all over town were rainbow flags and store displays celebrating Pride Month. And this was nothing compared to what was happening in San Francisco, currently gearing up for the June 30th extravaganza known as the Pride Parade.  The Pride Parade is always a ripsnorter. That's Mayor London Breed (center) waving the rainbow flag on a float last year. Photo: Kori Suzuki/KQED “Let’s head over to the Castro,” I suggested to Rich. “Show our support.” The Castro is San Francisco’s famous “gayborhood.” It began gathering strength during WWII, when the US military decided to discharge thousands of trained soldiers in the erroneous belief their sexual preferences somehow made them unfit to fight Nazis. Fortunately this attitude no longer prevails, and these days the US Department of Defense officially honors Pride Month. "Pride is a celebration of generations of LGBTQ+ people who have fought bravely to live openly and authentically,” Commander-in-Chief Joe Biden said last month. "This country is stronger and more just when America's leaders reflect the full diversity of our nation." As the Castro lies six miles from the Ferry Terminal, Rich and I hopped on one of the F line’s vintage trollies, bought from other cities, refurbished, and now providing a pleasantly retro ride. We stepped off near the intersection of Market and Castro Streets and found ourselves, as expected, surrounded by rainbows. The rainbow flag, now flying worldwide, was created here thanks to SF Supervisor Harvey Milk. Arriving from New York in 1972, he became the unofficial mayor of Castro Street, rallied the LGBTQ+ community, and in 1977 became the first openly gay man elected to public office in California. Knowing the community needed a symbol, Milk asked gay activist and artist Gilbert Baker to dream up something for 1978’s San Francisco Gay Freedom Day. Apparently Gilbert was out on a dance floor when he had an epiphany about a rainbow; historians believe drugs may have been involved, and I’m inclined to believe them. Gilbert’s vision was translated into a 30 x 60 foot flag with eight colors. Later versions eliminated the pink and turquoise because those colors were hard to find in traditional flag fabrics. Go figure. Since then there have been countless permutations of the rainbow flag, and the original, damaged and thought lost for many years, was rediscovered, repaired, and returned home to San Francisco in 2021. You can see it in the small, deeply moving GLBT Historical Society Museum just off Castro Street. Younger readers may not remember the days when same-sex canoodling was a very serious crime throughout America. Vice squads regularly raided LGBTQ+ hangouts, publishing names and photos in the newspaper, destroying careers, families, reputations, and lifelong friendships overnight. And then came jail. Expressing non-conformist sexuality was not for the faint of heart. Thanks to activists, laws began to change (slowly) in the 1960s. One magnificent gesture of defiance came in 1973 after lesbians Mary Ellen Cunha and Peggy Forster took over Twin Peaks Tavern, a 1930s Irish pub on Castro Street. Years earlier, the tavern’s huge windows had been painted black so wives couldn’t peer in to see if their husbands were at the bar drinking away their paycheck. The two lesbians had the paint scraped off, sending a message to the community: it was time to stop hiding. “The bar has come to be a cornerstone within the community,” wrote Petey Barma and Bret Parker, who made the delightful Through the Windows documentary about Twin Peaks Tavern. “A place that changed the face of gay bars in the 70's, a refuge during the AIDS crisis in the 90's, and throughout it all, a gathering place: our very own ‘Cheers for Queers.’" Rich and I promised ourselves beers at Twin Peaks later, but first we visited the museum, which honors the 40 million who died of HIV/AIDS. Then we strolled through the Pink Triangle Memorial, America’s first permanent landmark dedicated to LGBTQ+ Europeans persecuted by the Nazis during the Holocaust.  Pink Triangle Memorial is small in size but packs a powerful message. To refresh our spirits after such sobering reflections, we had a hearty lunch in the whimsical 24-hour diner Orphan Andy’s. When the proprietor set down my giant bowl of soup, I said, “Wow, that’s generous!” They grinned. “It’s because we love you.” Awwww… We got an equally warm welcome at nearby Twin Peaks Tavern. I soon learned it was Mike the bartender’s first day, but everyone else looked like they’d been ensconced there since it opened, gazing contentedly out the windows and chatting with old friends. There and everywhere in the Castro, people were kind and friendly. Nobody seemed to embody the attitude I’d seen on a joking storefront sign, “I don’t mind people being heterosexual as long as they act gay in public.” I felt accepted for who I was. And that’s what the Castro is really all about.  We finally got our beers at Twin Peaks. The whole day provided the perfect antidote to the mean-spirited attack on our public library’s Drag Story Hour. Isolating ourselves from those we view as different is not the answer. As Harvey Milk put it, “How can people change their minds about us if they don’t know who we are?” And underneath it all, how different are we, really? “We’re all born naked,” points out cross-dressing performance artist RuPaul, “and the rest is drag.”  For more, check out: The Ten Best Things to Do in the Castro District Twin Peaks Tavern Documentary: Through the Windows Milk, the story of Harvey Milk's work & assassination Subscribers If you don't get a post announcement every week, 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.
11 Comments
 Rich shows off a fresh helping of flash fiction at Café Zoetrope. When I first heard about the Short Story Vending Machine I was horrified. “Is this AI? Are robots plagiarizing published works by legitimate authors to compose cookie-cutter mini-novels while you wait? What fresh hell is this?” But no; I was charmed to be proven completely wrong. It turns out these stories are composed by actual humans. They (the stories, not the humans) are fed into the computerized brains of machines and delivered — for free — at the push of a button. Since 2016 French publisher Short Édition has placed Distributeurs d’Histoires Courtes all over the world to promote budding authors and the joy of reading.  Yes, of course, San Francisco has one. It sits inside Frances Ford Coppola’s cozy, European-style Café Zoetrope on the corner of Kearny and Columbus. Rich and I spotted it a few weeks ago and were so intrigued we rounded up some friends and went back to sample the literature and the food, not necessarily in that order. I should have known that Coppola — the gifted screenwriter of Patton, Apocalypse Now, and, with Mario Puzo, the Godfather films — would make us an offer we couldn’t refuse: great Mediterranean food, generous glasses of wine, and as many extra helpings of short fiction as we wanted. My first was a sweet piece called Six Feet (“The distance between two not-yet lovers…”). The second began with a description of Astrid’s “abject terror” and ended 36 inches later with the words, “At least Astrid would die happy.” I am still trying to summon the nerve to read what lies between. Café Zoetrope is surrounded by icons of San Francisco’s freewheeling literary history: City Lights Bookshop, Jack Kerouac Alley, William Saroyan Place, the Beat Museum, the vintage writers’ bars Vesuvius and Twelve Adler. Nearby Beat poet Herb Gold penned these immortal words: Even well into my eighties I thought I was a young man. I knew I would die someday But the diagnosis would have to be He died of the complications of young age.  Beat poet Herbert Gold died last November of the complications of young age. He was 99. “If free speech and individuality are American characteristics, there is no place more American than San Francisco,” said filmmaker Desi Del Valle. Sadly, her sentiments are not shared by everyone here in the land of the free. I was shocked to read this week that the American Library Association's Office for Intellectual Freedom documented 4,240 books targeted for censorship in 2023. In many school districts, a single challenge can require librarians to pull a book off the shelves while an inquiry is conducted. Then everyone gathers for a free and frank exchange of views involving plenty of shouting, table pounding, and name-calling.  What to wear to the meeting about banning books at your kids' school. Photo: Etsy So what are they trying to keep kids from reading — and why? Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn: coarse language, uncomfortable commentaries on race Jack London’s Call of the Wild: mistreatment of animals. (His work was also burned by the Nazis for socialist sentiments.) Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon: subversive communist views Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery: causing students “to question their values, traditions, and religious beliefs” Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird: “It makes people uncomfortable.” F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby: violence, adultery John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men: anti-business attitude, homosexual overtones Alice Walker’s The Color Purple: sex, violence, homosexuality E.B. White’s Charlotte’s Web: They "found the book’s talking animals to be disrespectful to God." Kind of makes you want to re-read the classics, doesn’t it? How did I miss all this exciting subtext when I was in school?  The good news? Kids all over America are sneaking around reading banned books. “It was the first time I had read a book where I saw something that I kind of felt similar to, related to,” said Texas teen Alex Reyes. Now, I don’t mean to brag, but the most frequently banned book in America — for the last two years running! — was written right here in the San Francisco Bay Area. We’re so proud. The book is the graphic (in every sense) memoir Gender Queer, by Maia Kobabe, who uses the pronouns e, em and eir. (These gender-neutral Spivak pronouns date back to 1890 and are enjoying newfound popularity.) E started writing to explain to eir family what it means to be non-binary and asexual. Critics went ballistic over drawings providing explicit guidelines for teens navigating complex sexual situations. “It’s pretty worrying that a scene talking about consent is considered inappropriate for young people,” Kobabe said. Seriously, are there any parents out there who think their kids aren’t online — right now, this very minute — watching stuff that would make your hair curl? “Childhood is terrifying. Adults forget this,” says Dave Rudden, who writes for middle school kids. “I used to sandwich Goosebumps between two other books on the way out of the library so my mom couldn’t see the cover. She thought they were teaching me about monsters … except that the news exists, and kids talk to each other. I already knew there were monsters in the world … The series taught me that monsters were beatable. More than anything, it told me that there were other kids facing them too.” When it comes to navigating the world, ignorance isn’t bliss, it’s a blindfold. And for heaven’s sake, what do they expect kids to read? The Wizard of Oz? Harry Potter? Goosebumps? All banned. The Bible? The complaint listed “sexism, sex, violence, genocide, slavery, rape, and bestiality,” although to be fair it was a counterprotest to ultraconservatives.  "What I tell kids is: Don't get mad, get even,” said Stephen King. “Read whatever they're trying to keep out of your eyes and your brain, because that's exactly what you need to know.” Last year, this poster inspired me to write Why Isn’t Anyone Banning My Books?  This week, I decided I had to do more. I printed out the ALA’s list of the most frequently challenged books and walked around the corner to Town Books, the second-hand bookshop run by volunteers from the public library in my village. “I want to start a collection of banned books,” I said. “It’s the only way I know to fight back.” The two women staffing the desk poured over the list, exclaiming aloud over the titles. A woman on the far side of the shop called over, “They banned The Kite Runner? Why?” Another shopper pulled out her phone. “Yep. Here it is. ‘Fear that the novel would inspire terrorism and promote Islam.” “Have they even read these books?” someone asked. By now everyone was scanning the shelves and coming up with titles for my new collection. I bought an armful and said I’d be back soon for more. It was the most fun I’ve had in a bookstore in years.  More to come! “We read to know we are not alone,” said C.S. Lewis (whose Narnia books have been banned). I cannot imagine my life without the company of books, without that sudden, glorious start of surprise when I read a line and an idea springs open for me. “A mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge,” said George R. R. Martin (also banned). Thanks to writers, publishers, librarians, booksellers, and the Short Story Vending Machine, I’ll never run out of reading material to whet my imagination. It’s up to all of us to preserve our intellectual treasures for future generations, so they have something worth writing about in school book reports and worth thinking about for the rest of their lives.  Café Zoetrope and the Short Story Vending Machine can be found at 916 Kearny Street in the 1907 landmark Columbus Tower aka the Sentinel Building. WHY I WON'T BE POSTING NEXT WEEK Rich and I have some family activities that will keep us too busy for excursions to San Francisco this week. But don't worry, I'll be back with all-new stories after that. 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.  Del Seymour, unofficial mayor of the Tenderloin, with Rich at the Tenderloin Museum “The Tenderloin isn’t always easy on the eyes,” says the museum poster, in a massive understatement. “But what the neighborhood is missing in polish, it makes up for in grit and soul.” Thrill-seekers that we are, Rich and I decided to take a walk on the wild side this week and visit San Francisco’s most notorious district, the 31 square blocks known as the Tenderloin. Naysayers consider it the epicenter of the apocalypse where crime, poverty, and drugs are dragging San Francisco down into the ninth circle of Hell. Young friends tell me they go there often, without fear, for work and play. So what’s the truth? I decided go see.  A typical block in the Tenderloin. Photo: Quora All this week, whenever I told friends that Rich and I would be touring the Tenderloin, I got horrified looks and questions about whether my shots, my running shoes, and my estate planning documents were all in order. I kept assuring everyone Rich and I had a very, very good chance of getting through the visit alive and unscathed. Not to keep you in suspense, we did. San Francisco’s Tenderloin is the last of its name in the nation, but a century ago many major American cities had a Tenderloin district where people went to commit shenanigans they didn’t want their neighbors to see. The name was allegedly coined in 1876 by NYC Police Captain Alexander “Clubber” Williams when he was assigned to a notorious red light district. Thrilled at the prospect of collecting higher bribes, he wisecracked, “I’ve been having chuck steak ever since I’ve been on the force, and now I’m going to have a bit of tenderloin.”  Do-gooders keep trying to rename San Francisco’s Tenderloin, most recently in 2011 when PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) pressured then-mayor Edwin M. Lee to call the neighborhood “the Tempeh District.” Not surprisingly, the idea of giving the Tenderloin a soy-based vegan makeover didn’t fly. Growing up in the Bay Area, I had a sketchy idea the Tenderloin’s history involved houses of ill repute, Prohibition-era speakeasies, LGBTQ bars, gambling joints, pinball parlors, jazz clubs, adult theaters, drug dens, and frequent police raids. Miles Davis, the Grateful Dead, Queen and other artists made music on its sound stages. Dashiell Hammett wrote The Maltese Falcon there. Muhammad Ali, George Foreman, and Sugar Ray Robinson trained in the boxing ring in the basement of the Cadillac Hotel. It was a happening place. But the tide of drugs and homelessness kept rising, and decades of election-year promises made by politicians to clean up this “zone of terror” were about as effective as most election year promises. Which is to say not at all. Luckily, the Tenderloin had its very own patron saint in Glide Memorial’s legendary pastor, Cecil Williams, and a street-savvy unofficial mayor called Del Seymour.  Tenderloin mural showing Del Seymour and Cecil Williams Among his many forms of outreach and public service, Del provides tours of the Tenderloin. “There’s a rich history here. I show what’s vibrant in a neighborhood that’s considered ‘gritty’ and ‘seedy,’” he says. Filled with curiosity, Rich and I signed up and met Del at his headquarters. “I run a school, it’s called Code Tenderloin,” Del explained. “And what we do, we take people as they are, right off the street, out of our shelters, out of our missions, out of our tents … and we get them ready for jobs in the tech industry.” He also assigns people to stand on street corners and keep the peace. Judging by the complete lack of violence or even raised voices everywhere I went, they are good at it.  Men with IDs on lanyards keep the peace at St. Boniface, a Tenderloin Catholic church that lets homeless people sleep in the pews. Our first stop was Glide Memorial Church. When Cecil Williams became pastor in 1963, it was a sleepy congregation of a few dozen souls. He transformed it into a countercultural icon and one of the most famously liberal churches in America. His pastoral vision included caring for “the least of these” with everything from hot meals to genuine respect. After mandatory retirement at 70, he was hired as the Minister of Liberation, a post he held until last year; he passed last month at the age of 94. Today the Glide Foundation runs 87 social services such as childcare, after-school programing, emergency supplies, shelter beds, HIV testing, Covid vaccines, and three meals a day. “It’s fried chicken day,” Del said, as the heavenly smell wafted through the pristine dining room. “It’s very popular.” Del wasn’t kidding about the chicken's popularity; the line outside extended for blocks. As we walked along it, I can tell you that yes, the general look was pretty rough — somewhere between the barroom scene in Star Wars and a demilitarized zone. But everyone was remarkably well-behaved; nobody was about to jeopardize their chance at that fried chicken. Dozens greeted Del by name, with a smile, a handshake, a few words of appreciation. Our tour took us all over the neighborhood: to the lively and engaging Tenderloin Museum, St. Anthony’s free family medical center, America’s first official Transgender community, and a new housing project. I began to appreciate the complex web of financial support — from government, churches, community groups, and private donors — that enabled 25,000 marginalized residents to come together and function, however loosely, as a community. I suppose to some this must seem like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. You might be wondering if there’s any point. Can the cycle of poverty and drugs be broken? Are such lost souls ever saved? Well, just ask Del about that.  Del Seymour at Code Tenderloin Del's life started off much like Rich’s, with Catholic schools and military service in Vietnam. After that he became a firefighter in LA, with a home and family. “Then I came to San Francisco, ran into a neighborhood called the Tenderloin, and to make a long story short, it took me 18 years to get that crack pipe out of my mouth,” he said in his TED talk. “Living homeless, living in tents — when I wasn’t in jail.” Then one day Walter Hughes, an elder of the Tenderloin’s San Francisco Christian Center, met Del in a park, bought him a suit, and invited him to church. “They embraced a crackhead in the middle of the church.” I could hear the awe and gratitude in Del’s voice as he recalled that day. “And we prayed together, we cried together. He wasn’t pushing me. He just started showing me the way to a better life.”  Del's words reminded me of the old story about a man walking along the beach after a storm had washed up thousands of starfish on the sand. He picked up one and threw it in the water, then another. A passerby said, “What are you bothering with that for? There are way too many, you’ll never make a difference. “ The man threw another into the sea. “Made a difference to that one.” Taking the Tenderloin tour was a valuable reminder that the world is full of stranded starfish; sometimes we’re one of them, sometimes we’re the guy on the beach, and sometimes we’re the passerby, wondering how to make sense of it all.  Del's Tenderloin Tour: [email protected] The Tenderloin Museum: 398 Eddy at Leavenworth Glide Memorial Church: 330 Ellis Street This post is part of my ongoing series OUT TO LUNCH IN 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. 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.  My Waymo: flummoxed, frustrated, figuring out its next move Waymo’s driverless taxis move through traffic like my high school driver’s ed teacher: maintaining the exact speed limit, meticulously obeying all laws, showing an excess of caution and courtesy at all times. Unlike some human cabbies I’ve known, my invisible robot drivers are never drunk, stoned, lecherous, lost, or seething with road rage. They never talk your ear off or expect a tip, either. So you can imagine how gobsmacked I was when my driverless taxi seemed to suffer a panic attack in a tiny cul-de-sac near the top of San Francisco’s Telegraph Hill. It happened last Friday, right after Rich and I got out and started up the steps leading to the summit. Our Waymo — apparently noticing for the first time just how tight the cul-de-sac was — began saying in a loud, cheerful voice, “Hey there, I'm planning to move but need more space. Can you back up please?” Unfortunately, it was making this request to a row of parked cars. Not surprisingly, they remained unmoved. “Hey there,” repeated the Waymo. “I'm planning to move but need more space. Can you back up please?” Maybe it was my imagination, but by the fourth or fifth repetition, I had the distinct impression a note of panic was creeping in to its tone. “Hey there…!”  “You do know that Einstein said, 'Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.'" Finally it fell silent, as if thinking furiously. By now a few amused pedestrians had gathered on the sidewalks to enjoy the spectacle of the flummoxed robot. What I suspect happened next was that a distress signal alerted somebody in the mothership — I’m guessing a human — who proceeded to override the vehicle’s programming and navigate by remote control. Eventually, with the reluctant air of one acting against its better judgement, the Waymo inched forward into the middle of the intersection and stopped, its rooftop sensors whirling around anxiously. Then it executed a glacially slow, cautious three-point turn and drove off, followed by the spectators’ chuckles. “Whew,” said Rich. “For a minute I thought we were going to have to push it out of here.” We resumed our climb upward toward one of San Francisco’s highest, most famous, and least visited landmarks, Coit Tower.  Coit Tower Every article I read suggested the best way — nay, the only way — to visit Coit Tower is to walk up the 600 stairs known as the Filbert Steps, so you can pause and admire the views from every angle. Obviously these articles were written by youngsters too inexperienced to realize you get the same views going down, with a lot less stress on your knees. Being savvy travelers, Rich and I took Waymo as high as we could; from the cul-de-sac, I’d heard it was “just” a three-minute walk up some steps.  Rich heading up the steps to Coit Tower Whew! Arriving breathlessly at the top, I paused to admire the 210-foot tower built to honor the dying wishes of the wild, wealthy, eccentric Lillie Coit (1842 – 1929). At the age of seven, “Firebelle Lil” watched her mother burn the family plantation rather than lose it. Two years later, SF firemen rescued Lillie from a flaming building. When she was fifteen Lillie ran to help firefighters struggling to push an engine up Telegraph Hill. She soon became an honorary firefighter, riding along when the brigade was called out, participating in banquets and parades. A true Victorian thrill-seeker, she was a sharpshooter and wore trousers so she could sneak into male-only North Beach clubs to gamble and smoke cigars.  “Firebelle Lil” Coit. Photo: San Francisco Public Library Upon her death, Lillie was cremated and interred with firefighting memorabilia. She bequeathed a third of her fortune to the city to add something to its beauty. Coit Tower opened in 1933, and to this day, officials insist it's NOT supposed to represent a firehose nozzle. They can’t understand why nobody believes them. I’ll let you be the judge.  Coit Tower appears in many films, including Vertigo, where you constantly see it behind Jimmy Stewart. Asked why, Hitchcock said, “It’s a phallic symbol.” I guess it’s all in the eye of the beholder.  Jimmy Stewart glances back at Coit Tower in the movie Vertigo. Inside, Coit Tower’s walls are filled with spectacular murals from a 1934 pilot project for what would become the New Deal’s WPA. Told to paint “aspects of life in California,” many artists indulged in sharper social commentary than expected. Shortly before the grand opening, horrified officials noticed commie themes — the hammer and sickle provided the first clue — and in the ensuing uproar, changes were demanded and refused. In the end, someone painted over the hammer and sickle and the banner for the communist periodical Western Worker, but everything else remained. Here, for instance, the man in green pulls out a copy of Karl Marx’s Das Capital (spelled incorrectly; it’s Kapital).  The 91-year-old elevator was out of order, and Rich and I decided not to pay $10 for the pleasure of climbing 234 stairs (each way!) to see the view. We figured descending 600 Filbert Steps would be enough exercise to work up an appetite for lunch. The gardens along the steps were a delight, thanks to the green thumb of Grace Marchand. In 1949 the 63-year-old artist, former stuntwoman, and Liberty Ship builder moved into a house at the corner of Filbert Steps and Napier Lane. She began planting flowers, and over the next 33 years, the garden became a community treasure. After Grace died at home in her own bed at 96, neighbors kept up the gardens, protecting them from developers, coyotes, and other predators. I kept an eye out for the cherry-headed conures made famous by the heartwarming, award-winning 2003 documentary, The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill, the story of a formerly homeless musician who adopts a flock of feral parrots. The film is now being remastered to show in theaters. Sadly, I didn’t see any wild parrots, although to be fair I was too busy concentrating on my footing to look around properly. At the bottom of the hill, I stumbled gratefully onto level ground and made a beeline for one of my favorite bars, Pier 23. This classic waterfront eatery was a haunt of Rich’s back in the 1980s, when happy hour was enlivened by a woman who played two saxophones at once. There’s plenty of loony memorabilia, including a vintage condom machine, a poster for a 1951 noir film shot at the pier, and a plaque about local egg wars that concludes with “All’s well that ends shell.” Ouch! They offer some of the biggest and best chicken quesadillas I know; Rich and I split one ($21), and it says something about our keen appetites that it wasn’t until the next-to-last bite that Rich said suddenly, “Hey, aren’t you going to photograph this?” Catching the ferry home required only a short stroll down the waterfront, so we didn’t summon another Waymo, but I won’t hesitate to call one again. The meltdown on Telegraph Hill was caused by an excess of caution, and frankly, I’m fine with that. If I ever have to hang up my car keys for good, I’m hoping there will be an invisible robot driver at my beck and call, one wise enough to prefer looking foolish to making sudden, rash moves. Now, if we could only get humans to do the same.  They say the walk down Filbert Steps takes just 12 minutes, but be sure to allow extra time for gawking at the views, admiring the gardens, and looking for parrots. This post is part of my ongoing series OUT TO LUNCH IN SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover cheap and cheerful eateries in some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods while I check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? Stay tuned! These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. 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.  A thousand sea lions swarmed Pier 39 in San Francisco last week. Photo: Anadolu/Getty Images “It was crazytown here,” recalls one San Francisco resident. I know what you’re thinking: isn’t that always true of San Francisco? Yes, of course it is. But things got much nuttier than usual during the jittery aftermath of the 1989 earthquake, when hundreds of 800-pound sea lions began swarming the city’s docks, sending boat owners, tourists, and residents fleeing in alarm. The first sign of trouble came when a guy tied up his boat at Pier 39 around two in the morning. (Why? News reports didn’t elaborate; I suspect it’s best not to inquire too closely.) You can imagine the man’s surprise when he stepped off his boat directly onto the body of an eight-foot long sea lion. “I don’t know who screamed loudest, me or the big guy,” he said later.  Male sea lions are 800 pounds of muscle and hormones. You do not want to mess with them. Especially in the dark at 2 AM. Photo: Eric Risberg/AP When man and beast had recovered sufficiently to take proper stock of one another, the boatman realized his new acquaintance had a strand of plastic filament wrapped painfully around his neck. He (the human) flagged down some help, they somehow got the filament off, and sent the beast, now known as Melvin, on his way. “The good deed quickly became front page news in the sea lion world,” reported National Geographic. “Melvin told one friend, who told another friend…” Soon hundreds of Melvin’s pals were climbing onto the docks at Pier 39, a complex of shops, restaurants, and entertainment on the edge of Fisherman’s Wharf. After the initial pandemonium, the city realized this wasn’t an infestation, it was a free tourist attraction. Pier 39 could hardly believe their luck. To the delight of human and aquatic visitors, Pier 39 remains a major stopover for sea lions on the way to their mating grounds on the Channel Islands near LA. The beasts are frisky, with lots of boisterous barking, biting, and shoving matches. Last week their numbers suddenly surged to more than a thousand, thanks to a bumper crop of their favorite anchovies in the bay.  I love the idea that giant sea creatures have taken over one edge of a city famous for futuristic technology. Rich and I visited the sea lions this week, and although the surprise influx is over, there are still hundreds lolling about, gathering their strength for the romantic encounters they fervently hope lie ahead. This livestream captures the action but leaves out the barking and (thankfully) the eyewatering smell. The sea lions contribute to the back-to-nature feel that prevails along a surprising amount of San Francisco’s northeast coastline. Which is ironic because every inch of it is man-made, as this 1895 map shows; artificial fill is marked in pink.  Map: Oakland Museum The fill includes hundreds of ships abandoned by fortune seekers sailing into the bay during the gold rush. At our next port of call, the Maritime Museum, Rich and I viewed the rudder of one of the first arrivals: the Niantic, dug out of the earth in 1978 at the base of the Transamerica Pyramid. (In case you’re wondering, it’s named for a financial corporation founded in 1928, not transgender Americans.) Abandoned by passengers and crew in 1849, Niantic served as a warehouse and hotel before collapsing into the landfill. Another museum highlight is Mermaid, the 19-foot sailboat in which 23-year-old Kenichi Horie made his astonishing 1962 journey from Japan to SF: the first solo, non-stop voyage across the Pacific. Having set many more yachting records, in 2022 Horie retraced his earlier voyage in the opposite direction, becoming the oldest man to sail solo and non-stop across the Pacific. He was 83. And speaking of golden years, the surprising co-tenant in the Maritime Museum building is America’s very first senior center, which opened in 1951. Every day at 11:30 a hot meal is served to anyone 60+ or disabled at a cost of $2. Sadly, we’d arrived too late to get in on what was clearly the best bargain in the city, served in a dining room with a stunning view.  Aquatic Park Senior Center at Fort Mason Looking through the window, you can see Balclutha, an 1886 Scottish square-rigger. When I was growing up, every Bay Area schoolkid knew the story of the naked comedian found in her rigging in 1959. Loony comic Jonathan Winters was (allegedly) discovered in a state of nature high in Balclutha’s rigging, shouting, “Where am I from? I’m from outer space, man, outer space.” Even in San Francisco this kind of behavior attracts a crowd, and when the police dragged him away for psychiatric evaluation, he supposedly yelled, “This boat is a fake; it’s got an outboard motor on it.” Much later, Winters said in an interview that all he did was joke around with the ticket taker, suggesting the fellow ought to wear a tri-cornered hat, carry a parrot, and add outboard motors to the vessel. “I went and sat down and the guy called the harbor police,” said Winters. “He figured I was on drugs. Not everybody has a sense of humor… I was only in for a two-week observation.” Hmmm, two weeks in a psych unit for jokes? I leave it up to you to decide what version of the story you believe.  Cops escort comedian Jonathan Winters from Balclutha to the psyche ward at SF General on May 12, 1959. Photo: OpenSFHistory.org Leaving the senior center, Rich and I climbed the adjacent hill to one of the loveliest and least known places in San Francisco: the Community Garden of Fort Mason. At the base of the hill, the former military post is now a center for arts and culture; at the top sits a peaceful garden that attracts picnickers, artists, and an astonishing variety of birds. We could hear them warbling long before we arrived; half a mile away, the baying sea lions added a deeper counterpart to the birdsong. Rich, who had been waiting all day for this moment, eagerly pulled out his binoculars and field guides. In just a few minutes he spotted crows, a flock of six pelicans, hummingbirds, house finches, a western tanager, sparrows, a black bird with a yellow beak that might have been a European starling, and a plastic flamingo. There were many others too swift to identify. By now it was getting late, and having missed out on the $2 meal at the senior center (drat!) we hastened downhill to reach the Chestnut Diner shortly before closing time. The décor was delightfully retro, and our sandwiches — veggie for me; grilled cheese for Rich, about $12 each — were fresh and hearty. At $2.75 the giant, bottomless ice tea was a bargain in a town where coffee starts at $4. It was like stepping back in time, to the days when the Aquatic Park Senior Center was new, Balclutha was famous for her history instead of a naked comedian, and Pier 39 was just a comfortably shabby dock that hadn’t been discovered by sea lions. Zalophus californianus — the California sea lion — is said to be the most intelligent of their species, performing in circuses until that was banned last year and helping the US Navy attach recovery lines to equipment on the ocean floor. By lolling about looking cute, they have taken over a solid block of real estate in the city where land sells for $10 million an acre — the most expensive in the world. Well played, Melvin, well played.  Click here to see an interactive version of this map with details of the places we visited. This post is part of my ongoing series OUT TO LUNCH IN SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover cheap and cheerful eateries in some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods while I check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? Stay tuned! These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. 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.  A former military base in San Francisco, now a vibrant public park, reminds us that (every once in a while) we manage to make the world a better, kinder, more cheerful place. Remember how good it felt when the Berlin Wall came down, the Iron Curtain lifted, and the Cold War melted away? For younger readers, 1991 marked the official, peaceful collapse of the Soviet Union, which meant we could finally go to bed at night without worrying about nuclear war breaking out before breakfast. It was a banner year; the first World Wide Web page went live, people started wearing sweatpants and sneakers outside the gym, and Arnold Schwarzenegger was back in Terminator 2. Good times.  When the Berlin Wall came down, locals — and the entire world — rejoiced. Thanks to the “peace dividend” of the 1990s, the US army shrank by 40%. America’s oldest military base, the Presidio, which had stood at San Francisco’s northern tip under various flags since 1776, was demobilized and repurposed as a park. Newscasters went around quoting a biblical passage that suddenly seemed apt: “They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.” Obviously, this sentiment didn’t take hold as comprehensively as we’d all hoped, but hey, it was a nice thought while it lasted. One of my favorite spots in the repurposed park is the Presidio Social Club, once an enlisted men’s barracks, now a bustling restaurant where reclaimed medicine cabinets from the army hospital store bourbon above the bar. The menu features the California classic Green Goddess salad (the dressing was invented at San Francisco’s Palace Hotel in 1923) and truly spectacular parmesan truffle fries ($12). A successful conversion to civilian life indeed! Not all demobilizations go quite so smoothly. As you’ve no doubt heard, all too often US veterans return home with post-traumatic stress disorder, brain injury, hearing loss, illnesses caused by toxic exposure, and various wounds, visible and invisible. Some fall by the wayside, especially those of color who are statistically far more likely to be ignored or disbelieved by the doctors and administrators assigned to help them. Today about 35,000 American veterans are unhoused, and 10,000 of those are living in California, including 350 or so in San Francisco. The good news? Currently nearly 1000 vets are off the streets and living in decent apartments thanks to the hard work of an SF-based veterans advocacy group called Swords to Plowshares. Rich and I finagled an invitation to tour the apartment complex they recently built in the city's Mission Bay neighborhood, but first, staff member Aurora Dopp suggested a visit to their downtown service center.  The entrance to Swords and Plowshares SF Service Center on Howard Street To get there, we walked past dozens of homeless men and women, far more of them than Rich and I had seen on previous trips to the city, and frankly, some were in pretty bad shape. One slept in the middle of the sidewalk, his trousers at half-mast; luckily for all of us he was wearing a second pair underneath. Rich spotted someone preparing to shoot up. I happened to miss that bit of drama, but still, I was glad to leave the crowd behind and enter the clean, orderly service center. Aurora showed us staff offices, the clothing distribution area, and the legal department. One of their roles, she explained, is helping overturn undeserved dishonorable discharges stemming from misdiagnosed mental health issues or physical disabilities. As you can imagine, upgrading their discharge status gives an enormous boost to job prospects, social standing, ability to rent an apartment, and self-esteem. In their spare time, the live wires on the legal team have spent many happy hours decorating the walls with photos of young service people who went on to do astonishing things. Recognize anyone? The social center is a large, high-ceilinged room with comfortable couches, a big TV, computers, games, an art section, and more. A dozen men, mostly low-income vets who are no strangers to homelessness, were quietly taking their ease. I felt the same rush of thankfulness that had washed over me when I stood reading the list of the fallen at the Vietnam Memorial Wall — a profound gladness that Rich’s stint in the service had not ended this way. Our next stop was the Edwin M. Lee Apartments in Mission Bay. Here Swords to Plowshares provides permanent housing for 62 veterans, nearly half of whom (45%) are over 65. Mental healthcare, peer support, VA case management, computer access, and six meals a week are part of the package. Aurora showed us the central courtyard where Rich eyed with envy the thriving vegetable garden. In the game room, a staff member and a resident were engaged in a cutthroat game of dominoes. “Who’s winning?” I asked. “He is,” said the staffer. “As always.” They both chuckled, then bent over the battlefield again. When I asked another staffer for a lunch recommendation, I learned the apartment complex is just around the corner from the city’s legendary Spark Social Food Truck Court. Here 150 mobile food trucks rotate through offering lunch and dinner; they're surrounded by picnic tables, fire pits, miniature golf, and other recreational activities. I can only dream of something like that in my neighborhood! Rich and I chose pupusas ($5.50), El Salvador's national dish, which we’d come to love during a work assignment in a Salvadorian village. Pupusas are thick griddle cakes stuffed with refried beans, and while those at Spark were good, the cook had obviously cut way back on the lard, no doubt as a nod to California’s health consciousness. Health consciousness is big around here; in fact, “Drum roll, please! San Francisco is officially the healthiest city in America,” according to a recent poll, based on such benchmarks as time spent exercising, sleeping, and —perhaps most importantly — connecting with family and friends. And this is what Spark Social is all about. At a nearby picnic table, a group of folks wearing the gorgeous kurtas and salwar suits of the Punjab were laughing together over a meal. A half-dozen Buddhist monks in saffron robes ambled past. Small, chattering groups clustered around picnic tables and food trucks.  So to recap, we didn’t manage to secure the world peace that almost seemed within our grasp back in 1991. Worse, we now have war in Europe and the Middle East, and unprecedented strife and discord at home. And yet, as J. R. R. Tolkien said in equally turbulent times, “There is some good in this world, and it’s worth fighting for.” All around us are people fighting the good fight: making meals for the hungry, building shelters for the homeless, playing dominoes with the lonely, inviting the family to gather, posting photos of long-ago soldiers who accomplished great things, to remind us that somehow, against all odds, our future may be brighter than we could possibly have imagined. “Kindness is the only service that will stand the storm of life and not wash out,” said Abraham Lincoln. “It will wear well and will be remembered long after the prism of politeness or the complexion of courtesy has faded away.” He’s right; being kind is more than a feel-good gesture, it’s the front line in the everlasting struggle to make the world a better place. “Kind words can be short and easy to speak,” said Mother Teresa. “But their echoes are truly endless.”  The big green park in the upper left is the Presidio. Click here to see an interactive version of this map showing places I visited. This post is part of my new series OUT TO LUNCH IN SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover cheap and cheerful eateries in some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods while I check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? Stay tuned! These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. 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.  "Creativity is contagious," said Einstein. "Pass it on." As part of her ongoing (and largely futile) efforts to civilize her six children, my mother would occasionally round us up and herd us into San Francisco’s de Young Museum to appreciate Art. The museum opened in 1895 to show the snobs back East that we Westerners had culture. Yes, we did, dammit! And we weren’t afraid to show it off in a building created in Egyptian Revival style, because nothing says class like images of Hathor the cow goddess.  The museum staff gathers in front of images of Hathor, circa 1900. The building, thriftily repurposed from an international exhibition the year before, didn’t last long. They say earthquakes are caused by the laughter of the Egyptian earth god Geb, and the museum suffered mightily during Geb’s great guffaw of 1906. The next iteration, created in a flamboyant Spanish-Plateresque style that delighted me as a child, survived until the 1989 quake. I could hardly wait to see what the city would come up with next. In 2005, we got this.  The 2005 version of the de Young Museum in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park Beholding it for the first time, I thought, “Is this one of God’s little pranks? One of those quirky impulses that keeps Her amused at our expense?” Because otherwise why would anyone design a fine arts museum to look like a dystopian bunker, the sort of place humanity’s last, pitiful remnants will someday hunker down, eating rats and quarreling among themselves while waiting their inevitable extermination by [fill in the blank]? I gazed sympathetically at the two disgruntled-looking sphynxes out front, leftovers from Hathor’s reign. This must be so embarrassing for them. You enter the museum through a courtyard, stepping over cracks in the paving stones that you soon realize are carefully crafted faux fault lines that appear to cleave in half eight great blocks of Yorkshire stone. The German visitor beside me seemed a bit unnerved by this reminder of California’s frisky tectonic history.  Drawn Stone by Andy Goldsworthy Inside the museum, the art is breathtaking. Visiting this week, I paid homage to many favorites, including landscape paintings by European artists enraptured by the New World’s spectacular vistas. Call me old old-fashioned, but I still love representational art, which is a fancy name for stuff that looks like something in the real world. Contemporary artists favor more nuanced social commentary. Robert Bechtle’s Four Palm Trees seems like a happy place until you notice the background: a treeless suburban development overhung with smog. While palms are native here, the write-up explains, “Most were imported, and planted by real estate developers to convey a mythic ideal of California as a bountiful, Edenic paradise. Their presence … evokes the constant conflict in California between nature and development.” True, but a bit of a buzzkill, I thought.  What are these palm trees trying to say to me? Ideal Way to Make European Coffee had a more lighthearted attitude. It was created by Bay Area artist David Gilhooly, a leader of the bohemian underground Funk Art movement of the 1960s. At the time, everyone was raving about Jackson Pollack and other abstract expressionists, inspiring Gilhooly and his mates to insist there was still room in the contemporary scene for representational art. Hear, hear! To me this piece embodies Einstein's words, "Creativity is intelligence having fun."  Ideal Way to Make European Coffee by David Gilhooly But of all the works hanging in the de Young Museum, none is as talked-about as this one.  Last November, Gary Hobish spent his final moments dancing 100 feet from the de Young’s entrance at the weekly Lindy in the Park. When Hobish collapsed, a nurse started CPR, and Hobish’s friend Tim O’Brien raced to the museum’s front desk calling for an AED, an automated external defibrillator. The desk person didn’t know what that was. A security guard suggested O’Brien try the basement. The staff member in the basement had a defibrillator but hesitated to hand it over; policy said it wasn’t supposed to leave the museum. "I thought — 'He's dying. His heart has collapsed. We are doing CPR,’” O’Brien recalled later. “'We need this immediately. Can you run?' He's like 'I need to check in.' We got the 'no'." By the time he returned empty-handed ten minutes after his friend’s collapse, O’Brien found paramedics arriving at the scene, but Hobish was past help. The museum has vowed to update policies, retrain staff, and buy more defibrillators, but there has been, as you can imagine, considerable uproar.  Christmas Day 1978, hours after four paintings were stolen from the de Young Museum. Photo: SF Chronicle Like all major institutions, the de Young has weathered its share of crises over the years. Take the heist on Christmas Eve, 1978. Thieves dropped through a skylight and grabbed four 17th century Dutch paintings, including Rembrandt’s The Rabbi. Unfortunately for the thieves, art historians then discovered the painting wasn’t actually a Rembrandt (or a rabbi, for that matter), and its value plummeted. Even so, when it was anonymously returned 21 years later, everyone was aghast to see a botched attempt to clean it had removed much of the face. These were not the criminal masterminds we’d come to expect from The Thomas Crown Affair and This is a Robbery.  The stolen artwork in happier times, when it was believed to be a Rembrandt depicting a rabbi, and the face still had all its original paint. Wandering on, I found myself in a large room with spools of thread on the wall and a long table where the docent, Nancy, offered to adorn my clothing with a thread bow. Why? Nancy explained this was part of Rituals of Care, a participatory art project by Lee Mingwei. “It’s about sewing as a means of connection.”  Nancy, the friendly docent and expert seamstress at the Rituals of Care exhibition Seeing I was still confused she added, “I can tell you what inspired it in three sentences.” “Please.” “On 9/11, Lee was home and his husband was working in the Twin Towers when they fell. There was no way to reach him or find out what had happened to him, so Lee began doing all his mending to keep himself occupied while he waited. Six hours later he heard a key in the lock, and there’s his husband, blood on his face, with another person, who also had blood on his face, but — alive.” All these years later, Lee still spends time in his installation, sewing in homage to that moment.  Rich contemplates the deeper meaning of three gumball machines. A few minutes later, standing in front of Wayne Thibault’s painting of three gumball machines, Rich — possibly inspired by the subject matter — said, “How about some lunch?” The museum’s café has good but pricey food ($25/sandwich), so in keeping with our cheap-and-cheerful theme, we walked a few blocks north to Balboa Street in the Richmond District. There, nestled between a Russian bakery and a sushi house, we found the Foghorn Taproom, a no-frills neighborhood hangout. Sampling the craft beers, I chose the mellow June Shine Desert Cooler with hard Kombucha ($4/4-oz miniglass). My chicken Caesar pita ($12) was outstanding, the bread thick and warm, the chicken toothsome, the lettuce fresh and crisp. A work of art by anyone’s definition. In the Uber back to the ferry, Rich and I continued to keep a lookout for signs of the doom loop, but we saw no crime or sidewalk encampments and only two or three unhoused people. Where did all this dystopian talk come from in the first place? And then it struck me: from the de Young’s apocalyptic exterior. People have always regarded San Francisco as being on the cutting edge, and they naturally assumed the de Young’s designers had inside knowledge about the future. Let’s hope they’re wrong!  From the de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park to the Foghorn Taproom at 450 Balboa St., it's an easy 13-minute stroll. This post is part of my new series OUT TO LUNCH IN SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover cheap and cheerful eateries in some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods while I check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? Stay tuned! These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. 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.  Rich wanders through City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco. “I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted.” ― Jack Kerouac Much of the blame — or credit — goes to WWII, an event that obviously already has a lot to answer for. During the war years, millions of Americans — soldiers, sailors, and shipbuilders, including all those Rosie the Riveters — found themselves passing through San Francisco. And suddenly their home towns seemed too small for them. Over the next three decades, a thousand people a day would move to California in hopes of a larger, more colorful, more authentic life. One of them was my husband Rich. “I came from a conservative New Jersey family and was educated at Catholic schools and a Catholic college, then went into the Navy,” he recalled in an exclusive interview at our breakfast table. “Talk about a structured life! When I got back from Vietnam in 1969, I was stationed at Treasure Island in San Francisco and found a freedom I’d never seen before. I realized I didn’t have to take a pre-determined path, fit into a mold, or follow dogma. I could live in an environment of infinite possibilities.”  Janis Joplin, singer, songwriter, outrageous badass Janis Joplin, who arrived in San Francisco in 1963, observed, “Texas is OK if you want to settle down and do your own thing quietly, but it's not for outrageous people, and I was always outrageous.” Not all newcomers proved as outrageous as Janis (who could?), but among them were a lot of free thinkers, poets, philosophers, writers, musicians, activists, and artists who naturally gravitated to the literary heart of San Francisco’s counterculture: City Lights Books.  City Lights in the 1950s Co-founded by poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti in 1953, City Lights sold and published hotly controversial books. None caused more fuss than Allen Ginsberg’s Howl and Other Poems in 1957. “At the height of the gray-flannel conformity, Ginsberg’s bohemian rhapsody was a shocking cry of outsider dissent,” wrote Encyclopedia Britannica. “Suffused with sexuality and spirituality, horror and humor, despair and hope, ‘Howl’ is profane and profound, a gainsay and a goof.” The district attorney was not amused; he arrested Ferlinghetti for peddling obscenity. To everyone’s astonishment, the conservative judge found the poem had “redeeming social importance” and dismissed the case — a landmark victory for freedom of speech.  Lawrence Ferlinghetti stands with banned books. As we all should. We owe a lot to the Beat Generation, whose radical nonconformity changed social conventions, sexual attitudes, laws, and literature in ways that are still being felt today. The Beats remind us that words matter. Every word we speak, hear, read, write, or think contributes to the narrative that defines the shape of our lives and the character of our cities. “San Francisco itself is art, above all literary art,” said California author William Saroyan. “Every block is a short story, every hill a novel. Every home a poem, every dweller within immortal. That is the whole truth.” That truth is what brought me to City Lights this week, my first visit since Ferlinghetti died in 2021 at age 101. I’m pleased to report the bookstore is still as freethinking and freewheeling as ever. The neighborhood pays homage to the era with Kerouac Alley’s murals, famous old strip clubs gone to seed (including the Condor where Carol Doda pioneered topless dancing in 1964), and the wonderfully funky Beat Museum. In the museum I gazed at Ginsberg’s typewriter, Ferlinghetti’s desk, and photos of the Merry Pranksters having an uproarious time teasing mainstream society. The museum's shop is a treasure trove of vinyl albums, bumper stickers, radical literature, and a bathtub full of $2 paperbacks. “This is such a cool neighborhood,” I told museum staff member Brandon. “I went to a suburban mall yesterday and it was so sterile I could hardly breathe.” “That’s what happens when you suck all the joy out of it, when you lose the quirk,” he said. “San Francisco passed a law in 2006 prohibiting chain stores and chain restaurants in most neighborhoods. We don’t want to be like everybody else.” Quirk is everywhere in the city, as we saw at our next stop, the main branch of the San Francisco Public Library.  SFPL's new main library opened in 1996, constructed after the old main library was damaged in the 1989 earthquake. Believing books and ideas should be free to all, the library has done away with overdue fines, past and future. I know, right? Brilliant! When I think of the money that would have saved me over the years… The library staff invites everyone, including the poor and unhoused, to enjoy the books, reading chairs, computers, and restrooms. The restrooms are impeccably clean and staffed with security people to enforce such rules as no “basin baths” or laundry. An atmosphere of mutual respect prevails. (And how often can you say that?) In the library’s cozy African American Center, I found a handful of African-American teens reading quietly, surrounded by photos of 1972’s first African Liberation Day in San Francisco. Angela Davis, Stokely Carmichael, and Jesse Jackson were among the speakers showing solidarity to their distant kin fighting revolutions in Africa. The gifted Kenneth Green, who in 1968 became the Oakland Tribune’s first Black staff photographer, captured it all. I wondered if the teenagers knew the stories behind the images that surrounded them. But hey, they were kids and probably viewed this as ancient history, as bygone as the dinosaurs. Outside on the street, Rich and I walked among perhaps two dozen unhoused people, several in wheelchairs or struggling along with walkers. Many had the glazed expressions of the high or hopeless, but nobody seemed to be dealing drugs or hassling anyone; everybody was just hanging about with nowhere to go, nothing to do. I didn’t feel unsafe, just heartbroken. I wondered how many of these unhoused folks had come to San Francisco — like Rich, Janis, and all those beatniks and hippies — fueled by dreams of working to create a better life.  A man rests on the steps of the SF public library's main branch. Photo: AP/Marcio Jose Sanchez By now, feeling the need to reanimate ourselves, Rich and I were thinking seriously about lunch. We’d heard about Brenda Buenviajé, who arrived in San Francisco from New Orleans in 1997, eager to share recipes from her bayou childhood and her Sicilian, French and Filipino ancestors. Her legendary eateries include Brenda’s Meat and Three — a Southern expression meaning a portion of meat with three side dishes. At Brenda’s, lunch doesn’t start until 3:00 — how civilized! — but I didn’t care what they called the meal so long as I could satisfy my hankering for cheese grits. Never had grits? You slow-cook ground corn to a sort of porridge. Originally a Native American dish, it's so popular in the South the region is nicknamed the “grit belt.” Done right, grits are velvety food for the soul: hot, creamy, deeply satisfying. Done carelessly, they’re cardboard sludge. People top them with everything from shrimp to cinnamon, but the moment Mississippi friends fed me cheese grits, I was hooked. I soon discovered Brenda’s grits ($6.25) are perfection. Brenda wasn’t around, but the manager, Alicia, made us feel like old friends who had dropped by a favorite haunt. As I savored the last golden spoonful of grits, Rich asked, “So where to next week?” “No idea,” I replied. And suddenly I was enveloped by the freewheeling joy Kerouac must have felt when he penned the words, “We lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”  Click here for an interactive version of this map. Related stories you may enjoy: Symbolic Thinking and What We Mean by Words Who Is the Real Rosie the Riveter? This post is part of my new series OUT TO LUNCH IN SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover cheap and cheerful eateries in some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods while I check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? Stay tuned! These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. 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.  Friendly toy robots from the 1980s; forerunners of the apocalypse? Shocking news! I got attacked on the streets of San Francisco. The assailant was a big, badass pigeon with a menacing attitude and scarred feet attesting to a lifetime of street brawls. It all happened so fast. Rich and I had taken a long walk up Market Street, looking for signs of a dystopian hellscape, but failing to find even one unhoused person or scary moment. We paused for coffee, and I threw a few cashews from my trail mix to the pigeons pecking underfoot. When I stopped, Badass launched himself into the air and began flapping his wings violently in my face. It was my most alarming avian experience since Hitchcock’s The Birds.  I now know just how Tippi Hedren felt filming this scene. I yelled, the bird flew off, and I found myself — whew! — unharmed and still in possession of my trail mix. Trying not to take the assault as an omen, I had to admit it suited the ominous theme of the day. Rich and I were on our way to Moscone Center where the AI Apocalypse Simulation was attempting to help businesses become “future-ready.” “Participants will be briefed on a hypothetical future,” said the promo, “where advanced artificial intelligence systems have spiraled out of control, causing widespread chaos and threatening the very existence of humanity. From rogue autonomous robots to superintelligent AI algorithms, teams will delve into the various aspects of this dystopian future.” Next steps included analysis and (although this seemed rather overoptimistic) collaborative problem solving.  Tickets were $1500 apiece and you won’t be surprised to hear that Rich and I did not enroll. But we did head over to Moscone Center in hopes of catching a glimpse of wild-eyed participants stampeding out the doors screaming, “It’s already too late! We’re doomed! Run for your lives!” Surprisingly, all seemed peaceful and serene. Whatever horrors were unfolding, they were happening behind closed doors. Like most people these days, my sentiments towards robots — or as many now call them, our future overlords — are mixed. Artificial Intelligence is already streamlining technology, medicine, manufacturing, and other vital human endeavors. Yet every time I read phrases like “superintelligent autonomous robots” the hair on the back of my neck stands up. In my ongoing efforts to adopt a more positive attitude toward AI, and to keep my finger on the pulse of the city, I’d decided to have lunch at San Francisco's last fully robotic eatery, the ramen stand Yo-Kai inside Metreon, a mall near Moscone Center. To get there, Rich and I strolled through Yerba Buena Gardens, where half a dozen unhoused residents dozed quietly on the grass, and a lot of ordinary citizens went about their day. So far we hadn’t witnessed any criminal activity or threatening behavior, unless you count the avian attack, which of course, I do.  A peaceful midday crowd at Yerba Buena gardens I’d heard about Yo-Kai from our young nephew-in-law Brendan, who works in SF’s tech sector and was joining us for lunch and a discussion of human-machine relations. Unfortunately, when we rendezvoused at the mall, we discovered Yo-Kai had been terminated. “What a shame,” Rich said. “I’ve never had ramen.” Brendan and I stared at him. How does anyone get through college and a long career without late-night noodles? Luckily Brenden knew of a great ramen place nearby, so off we went to Ippudo to introduce Rich to this classic comfort food. The ramen was heavenly, and while Rich blissed out over his Shiromaru Classic ($19), I asked Brendan about his job. “I am a senior front end engineer.” (I nodded, as if I knew what that meant). “We solve business problems with software. I use AI to write code more quickly. Sometimes it’s tempting to just accept its suggestions without thinking too much about it, which could lead to some quality issues.” Familiar with the bloopers AI could achieve in something as simple as AutoCorrect, I could see his point. After lunch, Brendan summoned one of Waymo’s driverless taxis. “They won’t stop anywhere illegal or dangerous,” he explained. “Which in the city is just about everywhere. It’s two blocks away. We need to be there within four minutes or it will take off.” We hurried up the street to find a sleek white Jaguar waiting at the curb. When we drew near, door handles suddenly slid out of the sides. Inside, screens displayed our route and a disembodied voice provided details — in Spanish, as Brendan had programmed it to help him learn the language. Zipping along without a driver was ... surreal. As we rode, talk turned to AI art, and Brendan used his phone to produce images reflecting our day. As he typed, I heard him muttering “apocalypse, robots, ramen, Waymo…”  Image by Brendan Dugan and AI “Spectcular,” I said. “But the lettering …?” “Can’t be fixed. The lettering’s always gibberish.” “And why is there an animal in the road?” He grinned. “I mentioned a Jaguar, meaning the car. It took me literally.” The ride took 15 minutes and cost $8. As we pulled over, the Jaguar reminded us to take our belongings. Evidently it had been listening to our conversation and felt conflicted, because now it spoke in English — but with a Spanish accent. We’d arrived at the Misalignment Museum, which explores the potential for AI to destabilize civilization if robots don’t learn about context, nuance, and human values. Among the disquieting exhibits is the Paperclip Embrace, a reference to the famous thought experiment in which AI is instructed to maximize paperclip production and while doing so eventually uses up all the planet’s natural resources, including humans.  The Paperclip Embrace is composed of 15,000 paperclips. Nearby, a whimsical sign apologizes, “Sorry for killing most of humanity.” As a writer, it struck me as wildly ironic (and more than a little terrifying) to think the entire human race could be destroyed by poorly-worded instructions. Proofread carefully, folks! And then there’s AI’s tendency to make stuff up. Last year attorney Steven Schwartz was aghast to discover his legal arguments were based on six cases invented by ChatGPT, with false names, fake docket numbers, and fabricated details. Schwartz was fined and lost the case, but there was no way to bring ChatGPT to justice.  However error-prone AI may be, it’s booming. According to industry insiders, by 2030 it’s likely to be a $15.7 trillion industry. No wonder so many believe AI is already saving San Francisco. Worldwide, experts predict that over the next six years 800 million human jobs will be eliminated. As perspective on that worrying thought, ChatGPT offered this: “While there are risks and challenges associated with AI development, it is possible to harness the benefits of AI while mitigating potential risks.” Great! How? “Through responsible development, ethical governance, and collaborative efforts to ensure that AI serves the common good.” So all we need to do is control corporate greed, elect ethical politicians, and find a way for humanity work together in harmony. Easy-peasy!  At the Misalignment Museum, cans of Spam produce email spam — another horror of modern times. Before I could spiral down into my own little doom loop over this, Rich said, “Isn’t it great that driverless cars and Waymo taxis will be everywhere by the time they want to take away our car keys? Just think of all the people trapped at home who can finally move around freely!” He’s right, there are lots of benefits to come. And I’m going to embrace them all. (Yes, I am!) But enough about me. How’s your relationship with AI going? Are you feeling future-ready yet? Let me know in the comments below.  Click the link below for an interactive version of this map: www.google.com/maps/d/u/0/edit?mid=1DEC_Bcrgh3JjRBnVR-GaJU-DmAp37DY&usp=sharing This is the third in my new series OUT TO LUNCH IN SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover cheap and cheerful eateries in some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods while I check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? Stay tuned! These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. 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.  Ross Alley, home of the thriving Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory It's true! The legendary Dim Sum Nazi is still around and hasn’t lost one bit of her edge. I saw her Saturday, presiding over her pots, steely-eyed as ever, prepared to quell inquisitive customers with a glare. In San Francisco's Delicious Dim Sum, everyone knows you don’t ask Ivy Z. frivolous questions about the living conditions of the chickens, the soil condiments used to improve the vegetables, or who caught the fish. That kind of foodie foolishness, I was told on my first visit 15 years ago, may result in a moment right out of the Soup Nazi episode of Seinfeld: “No dim sum for you!” That would be a tragedy, as her dim sum — small savory portions, the Chinese equivalent of tapas — is second to none, and at $3.80 for three hefty dumplings, one of the best deals in town. Rich and I arrived during the brief lull between breakfast and early lunch, gave our question-free orders, and received our dumplings and permission to sit at the single small table at the back among cartons of bao (doughy buns). I sat down gratefully, needing a moment to recombobulate. Minutes earlier, just off the ferry for this week’s Out to Lunch in San Francisco excursion, I’d been gobsmacked to discover what had happened to my favorite fortune cookie bakers. We think of fortune cookies as Chinese, but they originated in Japan as the miso-flavored tsujiura senbei (fortune cracker), migrating to San Francisco around 1900. Golden Gate Park’s Japanese Tea Garden reimagined them as sweet vanilla cookies that were a big hit until WWII, when Americans shunned everything associated with Japan. Chinese-American entrepreneurs filled the fortune cookie gap and now produce three billion a year in large, automated factories. Which is why the tiny, family-run Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory was in trouble. Their handmade cookies couldn’t compete on price but survived thanks to loyal customers and a few stray tourists. I’d often wandered in to watch the Chang family peel circles of freshly baked dough off the press and fold them around paper fortunes. Old Mr. Chang used to charge 50 cents to take photos and would give out broken cookies to nibble on.  Golden Gate makes every cookie by hand. Photo: King of Hearts But since the pandemic their rent has quadrupled, so who could blame the Changs for marketing their place as a tourist attraction? Nowadays, throngs line up to buy fortune cookies in various flavors, with regular or racy fortunes.  Golden Gate now makes up to 10,000 cookies a day. Sales are brisk. Marketing the Chinatown experience to tourists is nothing new, and in fact has long been part of the community’s strategy for survival in the face of overwhelming odds. Between 1849 and 1882, some 300,000 Chinese immigrants came to work in California, mostly in gold mines and on the Transcontinental Railway, often at half of standard pay. Railway baron Charles Crocker sent recruiters to China to get laborers he called “pets” who were “content with less wages.” He gave his white workers promotions and cabins while the Asians had to provide their own tents and do the strenuous, dangerous jobs.  Chinese laborers work a handcar while their white overseer looks on in 1876. Photo: Southern Pacific Railway Many white San Franciscans viewed Chinese immigrants with suspicion and hostility for being “different” and “taking away jobs.” (Hard to imagine now, of course; we’re so lucky to live in more enlightened times.) (And yes, I am being ironic.) When the 1906 earthquake and fire destroyed Chinatown, the National Guard was sent in and promptly began looting the ruins. Meanwhile city officials rushed through plans to resettle the Chinese residents in a remote suburb. Chinatown's leaders pointed out their community's vital economic role in trade with China and San Francisco’s growing tourism. While officials’ greed struggled with their xenophobia, the Chinese rebuilt their neighborhood as a dazzling new version of itself. “To counter the exaggerated negative stereotype of an overcrowded and dirty Chinatown,” wrote Google Arts & Culture, “a select group of Chinese merchants … planned a new 'Oriental' city that appealed to a romanticized and whimsical idea of China.” Bright colors and fanciful architectural flourishes — such as curled roof corners, which were traditionally reserved for temples — appeared everywhere. Not to keep you in suspense, Chinatown stayed. Since then it's survived many challenges, including the pandemic, which saw a sharp (567%) temporary rise in anti-Asian hate crimes and massive loss of income as tourists and residents stayed home. Things are slowly edging toward normal now. I saw no obvious drug activity, no encampments, and only two homeless people on the street. I felt as safe as I ever do in a US city. “Chinatown will hold its own,” said Tane Chan, who has owned the Wok Shop since 1972. “We’re going to hit some bad spots, but we’ll rise above that. That’s Chinatown’s attitude, you know?”  Tane Chan, 85, has been selling Asian kitchenware for more than half a century. Photo: Craig Lee, SF Examiner To fight the good fight, we need inspiring heroes. And as I learned from a visit to the Chinese Historical Society of America Museum, SF’s Chinatown found one in its native son, Bruce Lee. Most of us remember Bruce Lee as a martial arts master and the first Asian-American man to become a Hollywood star. He was also a philosopher and fearless advocate for anyone who had ever been marginalized, passed over, bullied, or discriminated against.  “I will tell you what Bruce Lee means to me,” said Frank, our docent on the museum tour. “I was born here in Chinatown, but when I was 12 my family moved away. I was the only Asian in my new school. I was bullied. I was scared. I began to have terrible pain in my stomach. The doctor said, ‘I never see this in boys so young. He has a bleeding ulcer.’ I had to go on a bland diet for a year and drink medicine that made food lose all its taste. One day I was in my room, and I was crying. And I looked up and saw this poster.”  Frank, standing by the poster that hung in his childhood bedroom. “I saw the poster through my tears. And then it was as if Bruce Lee spoke to me. Actually spoke to me. He said, ‘You can do this.’ And I realized maybe I could. It changed my whole life.” In 1973 Bruce Lee died of cerebral edema (fluid in the brain); he was 32. His pallbearers included Steve McQueen, James Coburn, and others he’d trained in martial arts. Today, he remains a legend and an inspiration to millions. Pausing to admire the Bruce Lee mural beside the museum, Rich and I headed out to lunch at Hang Ah, the oldest dim sum restaurant in America. We chose two signature dishes ($8 each): pot stickers and chicken feet coated with a thick, spicy black bean paste, which you suck off the bird’s toes. OK, yeah, that was a little weird. But vivid! I sat in the cozy restaurant, surrounded by a cheerful mix of people of various ages, races, and origins, enjoying the atmosphere and extraordinary food. Thinking of all those who fought to keep this community together in spite of everything, I felt deeply grateful and profoundly inspired by their courage and refusal to give up hope. Bruce Lee knew what he was talking about when he said, “Do not pray for an easy life. Pray for the strength to endure a difficult one.” Amen to that.  Click this link for an interactive version of this map: www.google.com/maps/d/u/0/edit?hl=en&mid=19IdltJRCpeeNUAQMR5Pfr9Vg8vNrifA&ll=37.79469571820258%2C-122.40806155000001&z=18 This is the second in my new series OUT TO LUNCH IN SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover cheap and cheerful eateries in some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods while I check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? Stay tuned! These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. 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. |
This blog is a promotion-free zone.
As my regular readers know, I never get free or discounted goods or services for mentioning anything on this blog (or anywhere else). I only write about things I find interesting and/or useful. I'm an American travel writer living in California and Seville, Spain. I travel the world seeking eccentric people, quirky places, and outrageously delicious food so I can have the fun of writing about them here.
My current project is OUT TO LUNCH IN SAN FRANCISCO. Don't miss out! SIGN UP HERE to be notified when I publish new posts. 
Karen McCann
Planning a trip?
Use the search box below to find out about other places I've written about. 
Winner of the 2023 Firebird Book Award for Travel
#1 Amazon Bestseller in Tourist Destinations, Travel Tips, Gastronomy Essays, and Senior Travel
BLOG ARCHIVES
September 2024
CATEGORIES
All
|