San Francisco seemed to have aspect of city that a twenty-three year old wannabe hipster like me could possibly desire. As I began to know the neighborhoods, I planned out my daily life if I was lucky enough to be an American citizen. It would begin with early morning lectures at Berkeley, scribbling notes about muck racking American literature and ranting about saving the planet over a steaming espresso in a biodegradable cup. After several hours of this and feeling sufficiently ready to take on the real world, I would hope on the subway to the Haight; stoner capital of the city, for some Grade-A grass smoked out of a bong that looked like a post-modern vase (especially after a few hits). This would be followed up by a dazed stroll in the Golden Gate park, where hippies and homeless people lie sprawled in the sunshine, too happy or blazed to care about anything.
When the munchies began to set in, I would take a trolley car down the hill to the Mission district, and gorge myself on a Pacho Villa burrito, savouring every bite and assuring myself one again that this was the food of the gods. And then, feeling fulfilled and ready for some fun, it would be a quick stroll up to the Castro, where the men hold hands and rainbow flags blow in the wind. If you can't find someone to pick up here, you're way too straight.
And that isn't even everything. San Francisco also has City Lights; the bookstore that began the Beat generation and a wet dream for any English major worth his rock salt. Here, I forced myself to buy yet another book (the fifth in a week; I have no idea if slash how I will be able to keep this up) from the 'mmmm yeah I like it' recommendations shelf. The thin, grey eyed man behind the counter said nothing but gave me one of those 'good choice' hand gestures by making his thumb and first finger into a circle and pursing his lips. I nodded. We understood each other.
Unable to resist, I also made a reluctant tourist couple take a photo me grinning manically standing in Jack Kerouac alley with my copy of On the Road. I was amused and really, that is all that counts. Chinatown, also brilliant, spills over a few blocks away. It is always crowded, usually with withered old ladies buying sacks of breadfruit and the odd American husband-and-wife-tourist team, looking decidedly out of their comfort zone and trying to find the way out.
The homeless people of San Francisco are much more entertaining that in Los Angeles. Here, they love you even if you don't give you money, and if you do, they might even reward you for it. I threw a few quarters at a smelly woman in the Mission district and she was so stoked that she jumped up and began a kind of wasted tap dance. The best part was that she wasn't wearing any shoes. Everyone in San Francisco has a favourite homeless person story. My personal favourite
is the man with crazy eyes who we spotted on the subway. He had a boom box above his head which was playing Kid A at full volume and he was yelling the lyrics to everyone in the carriage as they tried politely (terrified) to ignore him. The thing was, the words he were singing didn't make any sense, but were instead some sort of nonsense language he had made up. It took me a while to figure this out though. I guess that's Kid A for you.
Perhaps my favourite part of the city though has to be Dolares park. It is here, on a Friday afternoon, that all the hipsters come to drink red wine and talk politics. You can hear them arguing several blocks away, but by the time the sun sets, everyone has mellowed down and even the anarchists have started playing Frisbee. My favourite part was when a blonde girl stripped down to her bra and knickers and went careening down the hill in a wheelchair (I have no idea where she got the wheelchair from, perhaps some kind paraplegic swapped it with her for a case of wine) . At the bottom of the hill, it hit a bump and she went sprawling onto the grass. For a few seconds, I thought the evening might have been over, but then she stumbled back up, unstrapped her bra and, with a wasted smile on her face, began pushing the wheelchair, topless, back up the hill. No one else seemed particularly impressed or surprised and I even heard some snarky hippy girl remark "She's not as good as that naked mime that was here last week."
People, we have come a long way from Japan. And thank god for that.
