Monday, September 28, 2009
The Tonga Room, Updated
There’s nothing better to focus your direction than sitting in traffic on that boring stretch of northbound 101 near Olompali State Park well after dark being interviewed by your Grandmother. From our conversation, it seems that she has been under the impression I spend most of my days (and most nights) walking up and down Market Street with a sign, but in explaining the details of the things I’ve been finding around my beat, I actually worked out exactly what I was aiming for.
A huge issue in the Russian Hill neighborhood is housing. Given that most homes are already paid for and there are relatively few vacancies, the city’s planning department has begun motions to put in a few mid-rise housing units. I dug around some and found an environmental impact report for this which included more detailed information on locations for these new buildings, one of which is slated to go up in place of the Fairmont Hotel’s auxiliary buildings which house a number of rooms, parking, and most notably The Tonga Room, a tiki bar that holds its own within San Francisco’s history.
Naturally, I had to check this place out. It’s true; their Mai Tais will knock you flat.
So after poking around, I discovered groups to save the Tonga Room, as well as the actual historical significance report commissioned by the city. With all the documented information I need, I started to poke around more—especially to better hammer out the ‘character’ of the place. I talked to a lot of people when I visited the Tonga Room, but I’ve discovered that alcohol can make journalism very difficult—from both perspectives.
There’s that lady that always grabs your arm when she talks to you, which seems common lately. She was a great conversation because she slurred out a bunch of stories about the Gold Rush era in San Francisco (she’s an historian and museum docent in the city), which were fascinating despite the fact that it really wasn’t getting at exactly what I was trying to.
I’ve found that these conversations that happen without notebooks or recorders are really useful, though. The information about how the neighborhood came into its own during the latter 19th century was not only interesting but it shed some light onto the character of the neighborhood, which otherwise comes off as “oooh la-la”.
“Opulent” I guess would be the word.
The goal now is to talk to more substantive sources such as real estate agents, more Tonga Room bartenders and patrons (maybe the doorman; the concierges haven't been terribly helpful), and tourists. As much as the San Francisco native historian can gush about a place because it’s their own, I love talking to people who come from many thousands, or even hundreds, of miles away because that perspective is always unique.
The Tonga Room holds their happy hour nightly from 5-7 p.m. with a menu that is surprisingly affordable given how exclusive the hotel is, it's well worth the hike to Nob Hill's summit.
In the past, there have been sit-in protests during this time to save the Tonga Room, and petitions have easily amassed the proper number of signatures. The only thing left now for supporters is to convince the city.
I, of course love the place too, and therein lies the ethical issue because I could very easily become involved with this story. I just like their Mai-Tais too much.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Dresses and Aliens
After a long day of walking the streets of Hayes Valley I decide its time to eat. I remember going to Hayes Kebab spring semester during one of my photo shoots for photo 2. The thought of mediterranean made my mouth water, and I remember having a pretty dam good gyro there. I walked up to the window of the restaurant and became confused then angry. Hayes Kebab no longer existed. Instead of seats and glorious mediterranean food there were racks filled with frivolous dresses. I stood bewildered just staring into the window.
"Are you looking for something?" somebody asked from behind me.
It was an older man around my height and a heavier set. He explained to me that the store I had been looking into was filled with old dresses from the drag bar down the block. I told him no and proceeded to ask him questions about the neighborhood. I got some good stuff from him. He then asked me if I liked men. I told him no, sorry I like women. The man then told me how difficult it was to come out to his parents, and after that shit started to get deep.
Stories about how is grandma's spirit had visited him and told him to talk to his mother. How he saw spirits during his childhood, and then asked me if I had any experiences with aliens. I told him the truth that I've had dreams about them, but every kid who watches ufo hunters on TLC has had multiple dreams of ET. Apparently this guy has seen several ufo's and communicates telepathically with them. Throughout the conversation all I can do is nod my head and say wow, and sometimes that's crazy. Every time I said that's crazy I hoped I wouldn't provoke an attack from the man. After about thirty minutes of this he had to go to work. I went to shake his hand, but he went in for the hug. The guy had some great info about Hayes Valley, but that was a strange conversation.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Bayview
"There's something different about this place."
That thought crossed my mind as I stepped of the 29 MUNI onto Paul and Third Streets. The sun blazed throughout the area as a cool breeze swept on by.
"Gorgeous," I thought.
The thing about Bayview is that it houses some of the best weather in the city. Not only that, it has the most open space in the city. It's quite amazing actually. If you ride down Jamestown Avenue to Candlestick park, a breath-taking view of the bay and red clay deposits appear. From first glance, down on this end of Third Street, Bayview appeared calm, cool and welcoming.
It wasn't until I walked about half a mile down, near Palou Street, where the notoriety that the district received came to life. Between Palou and Oakdale were people strewn about the streets, who looked high, drunk or both. Plenty of residents were openly drinking alcohol, passed out in front of the Bayview Opera House. It was a weird juxtaposition to have a building, filled with culture and a history of civil rights action, prefaced with drunk, haphazard people. SFPD looked on by across the street, anticipating an act.
The one thing that gets me about Bayview, and also the Western Addition (another historically Black neighborhood in San Francisco that I work by), is that police and surveillance is commonplace. In both places, cops are as numerous as actually residents, and it seems an uneasiness clings to the people here. A hopeless darkness seems to captivate their steps. And yet, despite this image, the Sun shows itself brilliantly across the neighborhood, almost as if to get hope to rise from the spirits of these people.
That thought crossed my mind as I stepped of the 29 MUNI onto Paul and Third Streets. The sun blazed throughout the area as a cool breeze swept on by.
"Gorgeous," I thought.
The thing about Bayview is that it houses some of the best weather in the city. Not only that, it has the most open space in the city. It's quite amazing actually. If you ride down Jamestown Avenue to Candlestick park, a breath-taking view of the bay and red clay deposits appear. From first glance, down on this end of Third Street, Bayview appeared calm, cool and welcoming.
It wasn't until I walked about half a mile down, near Palou Street, where the notoriety that the district received came to life. Between Palou and Oakdale were people strewn about the streets, who looked high, drunk or both. Plenty of residents were openly drinking alcohol, passed out in front of the Bayview Opera House. It was a weird juxtaposition to have a building, filled with culture and a history of civil rights action, prefaced with drunk, haphazard people. SFPD looked on by across the street, anticipating an act.
The one thing that gets me about Bayview, and also the Western Addition (another historically Black neighborhood in San Francisco that I work by), is that police and surveillance is commonplace. In both places, cops are as numerous as actually residents, and it seems an uneasiness clings to the people here. A hopeless darkness seems to captivate their steps. And yet, despite this image, the Sun shows itself brilliantly across the neighborhood, almost as if to get hope to rise from the spirits of these people.
Trying to report above 0.08
As requested by my teacher I went into Noe Valley trying to find contacts. I was looking for not just people to get business cards from, but people who will talk to me and want to tell me things I wouldn't think to ask. I think being comfortable with a person is a big part of that and there are a few different ways to do that such as: being similar to a person, appearing non threatening, being nice, lying to them (unethical), or just listening to them. I am sure there are plenty more but you get the point. So far the method that has worked for me is one I didn't list, getting drunk. Yep thats right, getting drunk. Some of the most sincere, unsolicited info I have received this semester was from the bartenders and regular patrons of Noe Valley's best known bars, the Dubliner and the Valley bar. Both are owned by the same person. These bars are where I find the diversity in a neighborhood normally filled with hypo-allergenic dogs and strollers. The hardest part about this is saying no. I have never been one to turn down a free drink, I believe it is rude. The bar partons of Noe Valley such as David Brennan are kind souls though, who will buy round after round. This can be good and bad. The good parts are: being drunk is fun, I talk to more people, and I get more info and leads. The bad parts are: I can't read my handwriting as well, if i leave the bar to do reporting I risk losing credibility if I wreak of booze, and I am usually over the limit to be driving home on my motorcycle. So if you have a neighbor hood with a local bar, which everyone should, check it out, but be SAFE.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
BLOG 2
I was wandering around Mission Street the other day trying to figure out a story to write for the reporting class. I saw a firefighter hanging out on his cell phone, so I tried to talk to him.
(When I go into random conversations, I leave it up to the other person to set the topic. Sometimes it's awkward.)
Either way, the firefighter told me that there was a meeting going on in the library, and I stumbled into it 40 minutes late. I caught the end of residents and police talking about traffic and graffiti.
I decided to do the story on graffiti, so I walked to a liquor store to ask the guy there how it affected him.
He told me about how some people use an acid solution to burn their tag into glass. It costs a lot to repair because you can't just wash it off; it becomes part of the glass. He has to replace the entire window if he wants it gone. Huge bummer.
Then I went to a bar.
A friend met me there and we didn't leave until 3 a.m.
(When I go into random conversations, I leave it up to the other person to set the topic. Sometimes it's awkward.)
Either way, the firefighter told me that there was a meeting going on in the library, and I stumbled into it 40 minutes late. I caught the end of residents and police talking about traffic and graffiti.
I decided to do the story on graffiti, so I walked to a liquor store to ask the guy there how it affected him.
He told me about how some people use an acid solution to burn their tag into glass. It costs a lot to repair because you can't just wash it off; it becomes part of the glass. He has to replace the entire window if he wants it gone. Huge bummer.
Then I went to a bar.
A friend met me there and we didn't leave until 3 a.m.
Monday, September 21, 2009
My Voyage Through China Basin: An Odyssey of the Mind and Stomach
My perilous journey began when I ventured South of Market one fine Sunday. The path to China Basin led through the notorious SOMA district known as South Beach, full of hazards like homeless sleeping under bridges, rowdy fans going to see the Giants, and most vile of all, the fearsome scuppie. There was a mass of the dreaded scourge at the Inne of The Brick House, but I girded my loins and claimed a table by the window. Needing strength for my venture, I decided on a scramble and soon found out why it was known as "The Odyssey." Over an hour after I was seated, the food arrived: tasteless eggs with bilgy spinach smelling as if it had voyaged for weeks in the hold of an old barge...
Since I'd survived meals that would kill most normal people, I ate it anyway, with no ill effects, then set out for China Basin proper. Just south of the Pac Bell Ballpark lies the gateway to the Realm of the Basin of China. The weight of a phantom portcullis seemed to hang over the old Third Street drawbridge, but I had no problem crossing to the enchanted region on my trusty dirtbike Goliath. The same dirt lots of olde met my eyes. What dark wizardry kept this valuable urban area looking like a freshly-covered landfill? I spent most of the day trying to pierce this mystery and here's what I found:
The Good:
This summer the Giants had a fair. A+
Plenty of parking at the waterfront bars. B-
No cops to interfere with the homeless people. C+
Photo by Marcie Franich
The Bad:
Sewage treatment center in central location. F+
This area really is a landfill. D-
Best bar in the area too far from ballpark. C-
The Indifferent:
The scuppies of the South Beach area unofficially "own" this area, referring to it mockingly as China Basin (flush) or "Dogpatch" although its name on most maps is Mission Bay. City officials seem unable to carry out any of the many and varied development plans that could have made this dangerous area more safe to unsuspecting visitors.
If you wish to view the vast untamed tracts of virgin landfill, never-before bartered by unscrupulous speculators, seek the favor of Dago, the Dark Knight of the Basin. Sir Dago is a welder who's worked in the Basin since before the shipyards closed and knows all the hidden charms of this ensorcelled stronghold.
Best-of-the-Basin Award:
My journey ended when I discovered a homey little place known as The Ramp (855 China Basin Street). They had a great Brazilian Zydeco band that day. Forró Brazuca plays some awesome tunes. The food was also edible and a good time was had by All and Sundry:
Zydeco Sunday at The Ramp
Since I'd survived meals that would kill most normal people, I ate it anyway, with no ill effects, then set out for China Basin proper. Just south of the Pac Bell Ballpark lies the gateway to the Realm of the Basin of China. The weight of a phantom portcullis seemed to hang over the old Third Street drawbridge, but I had no problem crossing to the enchanted region on my trusty dirtbike Goliath. The same dirt lots of olde met my eyes. What dark wizardry kept this valuable urban area looking like a freshly-covered landfill? I spent most of the day trying to pierce this mystery and here's what I found:
The Good:This summer the Giants had a fair. A+
Plenty of parking at the waterfront bars. B-
No cops to interfere with the homeless people. C+
Photo by Marcie Franich
The Bad:
Sewage treatment center in central location. F+
This area really is a landfill. D-
Best bar in the area too far from ballpark. C-
The Indifferent:
The scuppies of the South Beach area unofficially "own" this area, referring to it mockingly as China Basin (flush) or "Dogpatch" although its name on most maps is Mission Bay. City officials seem unable to carry out any of the many and varied development plans that could have made this dangerous area more safe to unsuspecting visitors.
If you wish to view the vast untamed tracts of virgin landfill, never-before bartered by unscrupulous speculators, seek the favor of Dago, the Dark Knight of the Basin. Sir Dago is a welder who's worked in the Basin since before the shipyards closed and knows all the hidden charms of this ensorcelled stronghold. Best-of-the-Basin Award:
My journey ended when I discovered a homey little place known as The Ramp (855 China Basin Street). They had a great Brazilian Zydeco band that day. Forró Brazuca plays some awesome tunes. The food was also edible and a good time was had by All and Sundry:
Zydeco Sunday at The Ramp
Ciao, bella!
I decided to swing by North Beach Saturday to check out the San Francisco Italian Athletic Club's Festa Coloniale Italiana, a FREE day of food, family and culture on Stockton between Union and Filbert. The festivities got underway at 11:30 a.m. but I arrived fashionably late (I'm sure showing up five hours late is fashionable somewhere in Italy) and found that the party was still in full-swing. The single block was flanked with merchants peddling Italian wares ranging from olive oil and red wine vinegar to murano glass jewelry. My personal favorite was a booth specializing in Italian license plate frames with slogans like, "There's no such thing as too much garlic" and "Italians never die, they just pastaway."
I eventually made my way over to the SFIAC's table where I met Jim Toland, a member of the club's board of directors. Turns out Toland studied journalism at SFSU, went on to write for the Chronicle and eventually returned to SFSU to teach reporting. SMALL world. I learned that the the 620 member SFIAC was founded in 1918 to give male Italian immigrants who came to North Beach looking for work a social outlet of sorts. Toland was quick to point out that the club welcomes "women and people of all backgrounds," a sentiment strongly supported by the diverse crowd that descended on Stockton that sunny (and eventually blustery) day.
Bella Ciao, an SF-based six piece band specializing in classic Italian tunes, was onstage by the time I made my way back toward Union. "Everybody’s Italian today! Are you feeling it San Francisco?" asked the lead singer. Her enthusiasm seemed to do very little to move the vast majority of festa-goers from their folding white seats. I suspect this had something to do with the vast quantities of pasta that had no doubt been consumed by the 5 o'clock hour. A less starch-stuffed crowd certainly wouldn't have been able to resist Bella Ciao's repeated requests to put their hands in the air.
I eventually made my way over to the SFIAC's table where I met Jim Toland, a member of the club's board of directors. Turns out Toland studied journalism at SFSU, went on to write for the Chronicle and eventually returned to SFSU to teach reporting. SMALL world. I learned that the the 620 member SFIAC was founded in 1918 to give male Italian immigrants who came to North Beach looking for work a social outlet of sorts. Toland was quick to point out that the club welcomes "women and people of all backgrounds," a sentiment strongly supported by the diverse crowd that descended on Stockton that sunny (and eventually blustery) day.
Bella Ciao, an SF-based six piece band specializing in classic Italian tunes, was onstage by the time I made my way back toward Union. "Everybody’s Italian today! Are you feeling it San Francisco?" asked the lead singer. Her enthusiasm seemed to do very little to move the vast majority of festa-goers from their folding white seats. I suspect this had something to do with the vast quantities of pasta that had no doubt been consumed by the 5 o'clock hour. A less starch-stuffed crowd certainly wouldn't have been able to resist Bella Ciao's repeated requests to put their hands in the air.
Colombian Scumbag
After bussing tables, running food and stocking sugar packets for eight solid hours at Caffe Museo, I began my victorious walk of freedom down Third Street to the Montgomery Train Station Saturday afternoon. I turned on Market Street to see the hustle and bustle of tourists and residents alike rushing here and fro. It was a sunny, beautiful day in San Francisco.
As I approach the stairs leading to the Muni trains, I notice two teenage girls ten feet ahead of me, and a short, stocky latino man following closely behind, but separate from them. Just before the 3 began their descent down the stairwell, the latino man quickly and aggressively stuck his hand between one of the girls legs and pulled up, grabbing her butt with enough intensity to temporarily lift her from the ground.
Obviously shocked and scared, the two girls made their way out of the Muni entrance, backing up against a 22-story building. Almost instinctually I stood in front of the man, stopping him from walking down the stairs, and asked him what the fuck he was doing; to which he replied in broken english, "Hey man, I'm drunk."
I looked to the girls as they stared at me with a dumbfounded look upon their faces, and asked them if they knew the man. "I've never seen him before in my life," the victim replied. For a moment I didn't know whether to tell this guy he's a piece of shit and go catch my train or to see the situation through. I saw tears beginning to stream down the little girls face and knew I didn't have a choice. I told them to call the police, which the did immediately.
I looked back at the man asking him the same question, receiving the same answer; "hey man, I'm drunk."
I said "That's no excuse. Look at them. They're just little girls. What if that girl was your daughter and I did that to her?"
The man seemed fairly responsive at first, admitting what he had done was wrong and that they should call the police. He said that he respected me for what I was doing and extended his hand to shake mine. I began to feel a slight sympathy for the man after he began taking personal responsibility for the situation, but refused to shake his hand anyway. He didn't seem to like that, and continued to negate any shred of sympathy I had for him.
"You want a bullet for your head.... my cousin is so-and-so from Colombia, he's crazy... fuck those stupid bitches...," and so on he went.
After ten minutes of being threatened my this drunk Colombian man, I saw him look over my shoulder to the police officers approaching on-foot. I had to smirk when I saw the glare of hatred in the cop's eyes before he plowed through the man, shoving him against nearby newsstands. The second cop came shortly after with the same look in his eyes and the same non-textbook style of apprehension.
I walked over to the two girls who were watching the arrest and asked them how old they were and where they were from. "16 - Berkeley."
The drunk Colombian was stuffed in the back of a squad car and hauled off to jail, for what I'm assuming is sexual assault.
One of the police officers took our information and detailed our report of the incident in his notebook. He told me I was going to be contacted by an inspector and that I could go. Just as I was leaving the victimized girl looked at me with her tear-filled eyes and said, "Thank you so much for helping us," and I was on my way.
As I approach the stairs leading to the Muni trains, I notice two teenage girls ten feet ahead of me, and a short, stocky latino man following closely behind, but separate from them. Just before the 3 began their descent down the stairwell, the latino man quickly and aggressively stuck his hand between one of the girls legs and pulled up, grabbing her butt with enough intensity to temporarily lift her from the ground.
Obviously shocked and scared, the two girls made their way out of the Muni entrance, backing up against a 22-story building. Almost instinctually I stood in front of the man, stopping him from walking down the stairs, and asked him what the fuck he was doing; to which he replied in broken english, "Hey man, I'm drunk."
I looked to the girls as they stared at me with a dumbfounded look upon their faces, and asked them if they knew the man. "I've never seen him before in my life," the victim replied. For a moment I didn't know whether to tell this guy he's a piece of shit and go catch my train or to see the situation through. I saw tears beginning to stream down the little girls face and knew I didn't have a choice. I told them to call the police, which the did immediately.
I looked back at the man asking him the same question, receiving the same answer; "hey man, I'm drunk."
I said "That's no excuse. Look at them. They're just little girls. What if that girl was your daughter and I did that to her?"
The man seemed fairly responsive at first, admitting what he had done was wrong and that they should call the police. He said that he respected me for what I was doing and extended his hand to shake mine. I began to feel a slight sympathy for the man after he began taking personal responsibility for the situation, but refused to shake his hand anyway. He didn't seem to like that, and continued to negate any shred of sympathy I had for him.
"You want a bullet for your head.... my cousin is so-and-so from Colombia, he's crazy... fuck those stupid bitches...," and so on he went.
After ten minutes of being threatened my this drunk Colombian man, I saw him look over my shoulder to the police officers approaching on-foot. I had to smirk when I saw the glare of hatred in the cop's eyes before he plowed through the man, shoving him against nearby newsstands. The second cop came shortly after with the same look in his eyes and the same non-textbook style of apprehension.
I walked over to the two girls who were watching the arrest and asked them how old they were and where they were from. "16 - Berkeley."
The drunk Colombian was stuffed in the back of a squad car and hauled off to jail, for what I'm assuming is sexual assault.
One of the police officers took our information and detailed our report of the incident in his notebook. He told me I was going to be contacted by an inspector and that I could go. Just as I was leaving the victimized girl looked at me with her tear-filled eyes and said, "Thank you so much for helping us," and I was on my way.
A Taste for Pacific Heights
So I tried the food out for size and it’s pretty damn good where I ventured to in Pacific Heights. I went to the Grove restaurant which is on Fillmore Street. It was a pretty nice vibe and everyone seemed pretty friendly and considerably happy so it made me considerably happy. The day was sunny and the streets were pedestrian populated so a friend and I sat outside and enjoyed a sufficient lunch. I got the cheese steak with onions and a refreshing, potent Chimay. I may have even gotten a little buzzed on the Chimay, which helped my attitude out a bit considering my meal alone was 17 dollars. ( I tried to copy and paste a picture of Chimay beer and it didn't work but you guys get the picture.)
I thoroughly enjoy hanging out in this neighborhood even though it hasn’t proven to be the most easiest neighborhood to report on because of the bourgeois that frequent the street. Yet, I can honestly say that the neighborhood is pretty cool. People smile a lot here which made me smile a little more. In fact, since everyone seemed to have shopping bags it kind of made me want to shop a little even. In a bizarre way, Pacific Heights has a contagious effect and I can see why people want to live around here although financially, it’s almost impossible.
Afterwards we walked to a park not to far away, Lafayette Park and it was awesome. It’s definitely a beautiful park tucked away in the city with an indescribable view and almost like a whole other part to explore at the top of the park. There was a playground and a tennis court, very different atmosphere than Dolores Park in the Mission district. It wasn’t very populated though on the side that were sitting, except for a guy chugging whiskey sitting a little behind us. I was actually surprised that I was surprised to see him there considering I hadn’t seen a single homeless person that whole time.
There’s a couple other spots that I would like to try out like Thai Stick and this one cool pizza joint, Dino’s, I think. I definitely have to make some stops in the Fillmore as well other than the frozen yogurt place I went to one night called Jubilee, which was so bomb. It’s brightly lit with an array of tasty options and it’s open late every night. All in all, as far as food goes, I have to say I am more than adequately satisfied with the all the options to appease my more than willing palette.
I thoroughly enjoy hanging out in this neighborhood even though it hasn’t proven to be the most easiest neighborhood to report on because of the bourgeois that frequent the street. Yet, I can honestly say that the neighborhood is pretty cool. People smile a lot here which made me smile a little more. In fact, since everyone seemed to have shopping bags it kind of made me want to shop a little even. In a bizarre way, Pacific Heights has a contagious effect and I can see why people want to live around here although financially, it’s almost impossible.
Afterwards we walked to a park not to far away, Lafayette Park and it was awesome. It’s definitely a beautiful park tucked away in the city with an indescribable view and almost like a whole other part to explore at the top of the park. There was a playground and a tennis court, very different atmosphere than Dolores Park in the Mission district. It wasn’t very populated though on the side that were sitting, except for a guy chugging whiskey sitting a little behind us. I was actually surprised that I was surprised to see him there considering I hadn’t seen a single homeless person that whole time.
There’s a couple other spots that I would like to try out like Thai Stick and this one cool pizza joint, Dino’s, I think. I definitely have to make some stops in the Fillmore as well other than the frozen yogurt place I went to one night called Jubilee, which was so bomb. It’s brightly lit with an array of tasty options and it’s open late every night. All in all, as far as food goes, I have to say I am more than adequately satisfied with the all the options to appease my more than willing palette.
More Mission Adventures
Last Tuesday, I attended the rededication ceremony for Community Thrift Store on 17th and Valencia. For seating, staff members arranged couches from the furniture section into a U-shape. A dining table was centered in the middle of the couches and filled with food from Il Fornaio. The store was open during the entire event and surprised shoppers helped themselves to the free food and booze.
Before the event started, I interviewed Jake Janzen, Community Thrift’s operations manager. While talking to him, we were approached by Gary Nathan, San Francisco Tavern Guild Foundation board member and publisher of San Francisco Spectrum. Nathan introduced himself and told me about his online news magazine. He also encouraged me to put on a nametag, so everyone would know who I was; despite my reservations, I obliged.
After feasting on tomatoes and mozzarella, I grabbed a seat on a couch and waited for the event to start. A young man sat next to me, plate of food and beer in hand. Fishing for information for HOOD1, I struck up a conversation with him. He informed me that he was just coming in to get a shirt and had no idea what was going on. He then leaned over to read my nametag. I explained what I was doing there and asked him where his nametag was, to which he responded, “I am too cool for a nametag.” Burn.
Hours later, I bumped into him walking down 18th street, between Mission and Valencia. He enthusiastically asked me how things went and we chatted for a quick minute before continuing to walk in opposite directions. Despite the minor jab, I was content with the friendliness I experienced in my hood.
As I was making my way back home, I stumbled upon Sweet Ride, a mobile bakery parked on 17th and Valencia. Specializing in cupcakes and puddings, Sweet Ride offers delicious deserts out of a hot-pink 1984 postal truck. If you happen to spot the Sweet Ride, do
yourself a favor and get a cupcake. I suggest the red velvet with cream cheese frosting or the banana bread pudding.
I went back again on Saturday, this time with my mom in tow. We did a fair amount of window-shopping, talking and walking. We ventured to Balmy Alley, a block-long street filled with murals, located just past Folsom on 24th Street. We walked along 24th Street, passing by Shotwell Street, where a man was shot Friday. Sunday, a day after our visit, two men were shot at Papa Potrero’s Pizza, on 24th Street and Potrero Avenue. The three killings this weekend mark the first in the Mission this year.
Drunken Craving
Long before Kogi Truck from Los Angeles twittered their way to success and Dessert Truck from New York joined the growing mobile foodie movement, there was Crepes A Go-Go from San Francisco. In result of the recession and shoe-string budgets, dining in fancy or medium price restaurants are a thing of the past.
Crepes A Go-Go located in the heart of the nightlife scene in San Francisco South of Market district, is ideal for patrons looking for a convenient place to grab something to eat, fast and on the cheap.
The truck is parked at the same place next to Butter Lounge on 11th Street and Folsom Street. From a business stand point, this location is a goldmine because direct competition is non-existent. Not a hot dog cart or pizzeria in sight.
When patrons from Slim’s Nightclub or DNA lounge stumbled out to regain soberness, the smell of made to order crepes was undeniably hard to resist. And after a few drinks, certain foods is just all the more satisfying.
The Crepe truck is operated by 3 frenchmen. They are flirtatious with the ladies and very patient with inebriated men calling them “Boss” and cracking jokes to lighten the mood. They appear to love being there and having fun. When they speak in their native tongue however, you never could tell if they are laughing with you or at you.
The wait in line could be long after last call of alcohol. But most people who were trying to buy time before they head home didn’t seem to mind the wait as they chat with other each and recapped their night escapades.
The menu itself was extensive with over fifteen variations of crepes both savory and sweet. Among the savory choices spinach, mushroom and cheese was popular. As for sweets, either strawberry or bananas covered in Nutella was a crowd favorite.
The cost of a crepe was under 5 dollars and fit cozily in the palm of your hands. No utensils required. The outside is flaky and crispy and the stuffing was warm and hearty. The cheesier crepes were the most difficult to maneuver, but so worth the mess.
As I write this, I wish I had a crepe right now at this very instant. I personally never sampled a crepe before a few drinks, but something tells me they are probably just as tasty. Before Twitter helped Kogi trucks spread the buzz via the Internet, Crepes A Go-Go gained popularity the old school way by quality food and good old word of mouth.
Joey's laundromat and cyber cafe, truly a one-stop shop
Joey's, a Tenderloin laundromat near Ellis and Jones Streets, provides more services than stores twice its size.
Tucked between an office and an extended stay hotel appears a sign that has been hanging over the sidewalk long enough to become nearly entirely overgrown by a neighboring tree. If you can make it out through the shrubbery, the sign reads Joey's laundromat, coffee ice cream sausage internet access. The background for the writing is a collage of the general store's products, which bring to life the creativity behind Joey's combination.
In its entirety the menu, and services available at Joey's include: coffee, espresso drinks, tea, four different kind of sausage sandwiches, a few kinds of pie, cake, bagels, pastries, ice cream,waffle cones, various sundaes, pay by the minute internet access and a laundromat complete with about 30 washers and dryers.
The mind behind this all-purpose laundromat, is a mid-thirties Vietnamese man who was happy talking with me as long as he didn't have to give me his name. I agreed, as I've learned that when reporting in my neighborhood, its best to avoid unnecessarily stepping on toes whenever possible.
The store was originally his fathers laundromat that he bought when coming to the United States in the mid 60s. The man I spoke with has been in charge for about the last 15 years as his father was not in good health for quite some time and passed away five years ago.
The son of the original owner has kept the store profitable through tough times by constantly redefining the family business. He explained that the evolution of the laundromat began when he decided to squeeze all the washers and driers into the back half of the establishment to make room for the latest popular craze of the mid-90s, a cyber cafe.
The laundromat now served everything you typically see at cafes: coffee, espresso drinks, sandwiches(though only sausage is a bit strange), and assorted pastries. However, it wasn't enough for this true visionary.
Hot days, though a rarity in this city, cut down on his coffee sales; thus, to fill this niche he began selling ice cream. In the following years he added a few other menu items like the varying sundaes, additional ice cream flavors, which now number nearly 20,and the cakes and pies that he told me are made from scratch by a relative of his.
The owner said he doesn't have any plans for the immediate future, and has had his hands full with the store as it is. Though adding smoothies, burritos, a full bar, or anything else may not be in the near future, Joey's should continue to prosper in an area where most businesses have been forced to close their doors.
As long as he continues to sell a large coffee and a sausage sandwich for under $5, and doesn't take down the enormous 6-foot wide plastic pterodactyl hanging from the ceiling, he will always have me as a customer.
How About a Date?
The first person that I interviewed was a young lady who spent a lot of time in Japantown. She was sweet and answered all of my questions. After I was done interviewing her, she said maybe I should also interview the guy who worked there. I was reluctant to do the interview in front of her because some people did not feel comfortable talking in front of many people. I said to the young lady if I would like to do that but maybe later. She kept saying I should do it now though. For the sake of returning her kindness, I asked the guy if he was available to answer some questions. He said yes.
These are some of the things that I asked
… the conversation continued
… the conversation continued
These are some of the things that I asked
Me: Why Japantown? Why do you choose to work in Japantown?
He: Hm… Can I be honest?
Me: Sure
He: There’s a lot of cute girls, here
(I blinked my eyes several times before I was finally able to continue my interview)
Me: Em… well…, okay
He: Oh… and because you go here (he said it to the young lady who sat next to me during the interview)
… the conversation continued
Me: What do you think about Japantown?
He: You know what… Japantown is actually a Korean Town
The young lady / She: What? No
(I looked at the young lady)
Me: Uh… yeah… I think it’s not like that
He: Japanese like me and my friends too only go here to work… (then, he continued to explain why he called Japantown as Korean Town)
(God, I felt bad for the young lady because she went there for the Japanese culture that Japantown may provide… I knew we should not show our bias but still I could not help it when I saw the young lady’s surprised face)
… the conversation continued
Me: Do you have any favorite place in Japantown?
He: Hm… oh… this café
Me: But you work here. Do you have any other place?
He: … … … Oh… there’s a good ramen restaurant down in Buchanan mall. The name’s Tanpopo. We can eat ramen. Do you have anything to do tonight? (he said it to the young lady beside me again)
Me: %@&#*$ (actually, I’m speechless)
She: … … … … …
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Haight in the morning
Since I was assigned the Haight-Ashbury district for this class, I have only experienced this area after 1 p.m. I decided today to change that and wake up early on a Sunday to see what it was like, and experience this part of town before all the shops opened and the tourists awoke to a new day of exploring this interesting part of San Francisco.I got there around 10 a.m. and, as I had expected, the only shops open were cafes and liquor stores. I walked toward the intersection of Haight and Belvedere streets, which were quiet, almost tranquil, and there was a cool, slight breeze. Once I reached Haight St. the peaceful mood remained, but for a quick second the breeze kicked up the smell of stale booze and body odor. I turned onto Haight St. and realized that smell was probably coming from a transient man lying on the ground outside of CocoLuxe Chocolate shop, occupying two-thirds of the sidewalk. I stood there for a second observing how passersby looked at him, almost studying him to make sure he was sleeping and not dead.
After I moseyed my way past the sleeping man (who was indeed completely passed out, but still breathing), I continued east down Haight St. There was a surprising amount on people on Haight St. so early, but it was still calm and quiet. As I got closer to Buena Vista Park, voices coming from the bar Bloody Mary filled the streets with some noise. The place was packed, as was Martin Macks Restaurant and Bar.
I continued east toward Buena Vista Park, where I passed a group of five or six transient men, all of which looked to be between 20 and 30 years old, hanging out at a bus stop at the intersection of Haight and Masonic streets. I could not understand what they were saying to each other, even though they were speaking very loudly, but as I watched them wrestling around and joking with each other, they all seemed to understand what the other person was saying, as if they have their own mumbled language. I watched some more as one of the men walked into a nearby liquor store and came out with a six-pack of beer. He didn’t share any with his friends while I watched from across the street.
I finally reached Buena Vista Park where I noticed a pile of blankets and backpacks, which likely housed homeless individuals underneath them. Up a hill and by an area surrounded by trees, I see some younger kids, obviously transient youth, sitting on the grass and keeping to themselves. Some have instruments such as guitars or flutes, and others have a few dirty duffel bags that look to be packed with clothes. It seems as if they are looking for something, or waiting for something, but they just aren’t quite sure what that “something” is. As I watch a young man who looks to be about 18 years old lean against a tree and smoke a cigarette, a vision of my cousin immediately comes to my mind. A couple of years ago he was a runaway teen in the Haight-Ashbury district and other area in San Francisco for about a month, and its heartbreaking to think about what he went through, and what these kids go through on a daily basis.
Friday, September 18, 2009
the angry, the happy, the rich, and the poor
The Civic Center was definitely the place to be on Tuesday, Sept. 16. My mode of transportation: the M line.
A teenager wearing a red sweater leaned against the wall and greeted folks taking the escalators to 7th Street and Market with tunes he played in a black bass guitar. Upstairs, a small lady swept the floor outside of the Oriental Restaurant on Market Street when a man hopped over her broom and said, “You’re a bad girl today,” as he pointed his finger at her and left with a smirk. The small lady swept faster. As she opened the door and walked back in, the smell of Chinese and Japanese cuisine diffused to the streets. As I crossed the light, I noticed a young man in a business suit with a sky-blue tie walking past a boy sporting a black shirt that read, “It takes the hood, to save the hood.” The ironies I see while strolling through the Civic Center fascinate me.
Later, I walked to The United Nations Plaza, which extends from Market Street to Hyde Street, and saw two nuns arranging a table with pots, trays, plastic utensils, and food. The homeless- male and female, young and old- lined up to receive red rice, a French roll, sausage, and a large M&M Cookie. Meanwhile, I spoke with Alberto, an immigrant from Mexico who’s been living in the streets for one week. He shared anecdotes about life in his pueblo- town- and in Mission Street and 16th; the neighborhood where he first arrived eighteen years ago at the age of 15. I felt overwhelmed and powerless after he told me about his second wife’s death. He said cocaine and alcohol filled the emptiness she left in his heart. I thanked him for his time and confidence to share such intimate stories. He congratulated me for attending the university and said, “God bless you.”
As I walked to City Hall, I saw a van from Telemundo, rows of white chairs facing a stage, and a set-up crew testing microphones and speakers. Pilar, a reporter for Telemundo told me that Civic Center was going to celebrate Mexico’s Independence and the independence of other Central American countries that evening.
As I turned away, a group of people wearing bright yellow shirts holding signs in front of City Hall caught my attention. The mob was composed of city workers who rallied to express their anger about lower wages, fewer health benefits, and lay-off notices. In the same building, a bride and groom walked out happily holding hands.
A teenager wearing a red sweater leaned against the wall and greeted folks taking the escalators to 7th Street and Market with tunes he played in a black bass guitar. Upstairs, a small lady swept the floor outside of the Oriental Restaurant on Market Street when a man hopped over her broom and said, “You’re a bad girl today,” as he pointed his finger at her and left with a smirk. The small lady swept faster. As she opened the door and walked back in, the smell of Chinese and Japanese cuisine diffused to the streets. As I crossed the light, I noticed a young man in a business suit with a sky-blue tie walking past a boy sporting a black shirt that read, “It takes the hood, to save the hood.” The ironies I see while strolling through the Civic Center fascinate me.
Later, I walked to The United Nations Plaza, which extends from Market Street to Hyde Street, and saw two nuns arranging a table with pots, trays, plastic utensils, and food. The homeless- male and female, young and old- lined up to receive red rice, a French roll, sausage, and a large M&M Cookie. Meanwhile, I spoke with Alberto, an immigrant from Mexico who’s been living in the streets for one week. He shared anecdotes about life in his pueblo- town- and in Mission Street and 16th; the neighborhood where he first arrived eighteen years ago at the age of 15. I felt overwhelmed and powerless after he told me about his second wife’s death. He said cocaine and alcohol filled the emptiness she left in his heart. I thanked him for his time and confidence to share such intimate stories. He congratulated me for attending the university and said, “God bless you.” 
As I walked to City Hall, I saw a van from Telemundo, rows of white chairs facing a stage, and a set-up crew testing microphones and speakers. Pilar, a reporter for Telemundo told me that Civic Center was going to celebrate Mexico’s Independence and the independence of other Central American countries that evening.
As I turned away, a group of people wearing bright yellow shirts holding signs in front of City Hall caught my attention. The mob was composed of city workers who rallied to express their anger about lower wages, fewer health benefits, and lay-off notices. In the same building, a bride and groom walked out happily holding hands. Spending my summer vacation in Orange County made me forget I can’t leave my San Francisco home without a sweater. The cold wind tempted me to go home early. But I wasn’t willing to miss the mariachi band, the Aztec Dancers, or the traditional Mexican food that night. I decided to stay and I had a great time.
Today marked my fourth visit to the Civic Center. All I can say is that I enjoy the diversity that sparks life to the neighborhood and that I am very pleased with my experiences thus far. I saw it all in one day within the boundaries of Market Street, California Street, and Van Ness Avenue: the angry, the happy, the poor, and the rich.
Today marked my fourth visit to the Civic Center. All I can say is that I enjoy the diversity that sparks life to the neighborhood and that I am very pleased with my experiences thus far. I saw it all in one day within the boundaries of Market Street, California Street, and Van Ness Avenue: the angry, the happy, the poor, and the rich.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Cougars & Blues at The Union Room
Last night, I was invited to see my old friend Paul Steward and his dad Rich play a fill-in gig at The Union Room in what I also learned is sometimes referred to as the "Tendernob"-an area of Nob Hill on its border with the Tenderloin. Paul and Rich have played together in their band Twice as Good all over the country, maintaining standing gigs in Lake and Mendocino Counties, and my old stomping grounds, Santa Rosa.
The Union room is this tiny lounge above Biscuits & Blues and next to Jack in the Box at the corner of Geary and Mason. I got upstairs and ordered a drink just as Paul and Rich were starting their first set. Excluding the bartenders and doorman, I counted 6 people in attendance. I felt guilty, so I paid the cover, even though nobody was enforcing it.
It really wasn't long before the tiny lounge began to fill. I tucked my camera bag and jacket behind the bar and moved into the growing crowd of people. With the people came the dinners. They looked amazingly good, and the prices weren't bad, but Jack in the Box took care of me.
True to form, Paul and Rich entertained. Paul, the ever-consummate musician moved between various guitars, a keyboard, saxophone, and a harmonica while Rich held a steady rhythm, swaying slightly as he played. The set was eclectic too, especially given their relative lack of equipment and personnel.
"I'm gonna play a little keys now," said Paul moving to his keyboard. Stopping himself mid-sit to adjust his mic and address the audience, he added, "and by little, I mean it has half the keys of a normal one."
The show was great, and it was nice to see Paul and Rich again. They ran through three sets of chugging 12-bar blues progressions and all the wining and wailing that makes blues guitar what it is.
While this was a really fun outing, I felt that it gave me a lot of insight into the practice of journalism, particularly interviewing.
Somewhere around the second set, the cougars began to stalk around the outer perimeter of the lounge. Actually, it was really more like a gaggle of saber-tooths. I talked to a lot, but one in particular, a very intoxicated 'Miss Margaret' of Noe Valley provided the best conversation. I started with the basics, 'what's your name?', 'do you live here in town?', that kind of thing. Then, I had the unmitigated pleasure of meeting her daughter, who unfortunately lives in Vermont. She said to me, "journalism is about specifics, you're asking way to broad-a questions!"
That really was my intention, though. Especially given what I got out of it. Margaret started getting very friendly, and then a little too friendly. She is absolutely one of those people that grabs your arm when they talk to you.
Margaret told me all about the Southern Pacific Railroad and how she used to be a conductor until they made her a trainer. She lived in San Francisco in '68 and apparently knew Janis Joplin and the guys in Starship. She's now an community activist doing outreach for victims of domestic violence. She's fantastic, and I hope to talk more with her, but I'm going to do it when she's sober. She leans in a little to far.
After the night wound down, I headed back for Powell Station. I talked to some more homeless people then got on the train.
This neighborhood is definitely more fun at night.
Community Thrift Store rededication
An open rededication ceremony was held at The Community Thrift Store Tuesday afternoon in honor of the store’s recent renovation and 28 years of charitable work.
A new roof, seismically retrofitted, and storefront mural, by muralist Jet Martinez, were celebrated, as was Community Thrift’s charitable services. San Francisco Treasurer Jose Cisneros and Empress of the Imperial Council Donna Sachet served as master and mistress of the ceremony, which took place during store hours and encourage shoppers to partake, while selected speakers expressed gratitude for the non-profit organization’s efforts.
“We decided to have a party to celebrate the changes and still being in business,” Steven Rascher, the San Francisco Tavern Guild Foundation board member president, said. According to Rascher, what “started as a garage sale” has since grown from its humble beginnings.
Founded in 1982 by the San Francisco Tavern Guild, the first gay business association in the United States, Community Thrift has always accepted donations to sell in the store and given the proceeds to a charity chosen by the donator. Rascher , a 19-year-Tavern Guild Foundation board member, said in the first year of business, Community Thrift made enough to give to eight charities, compared to the more than 200 “partners” to date.
“We didn’t realize how much money it was until we did the math for this,” Project Open Hand’s Director of Operations Don Schuman said. Project Open Hand partnered with Community Thrift 21 years ago and has received $320,00 from the organization.
Unable to function without a staff and volunteers, Tavern Guild Board Member John Carrillo praised the Community Thrift staff’s dedication. “They really take care of the space,” he said.
A community driven non-profit to support charities, Community Thrift Store is symbolic of the culture in the Mission District. Executive Director of San Francisco Bicycle Coalition Leah Shahum called the Mission “a special place, […] emblematic.” Shahum, a Community Thrift partner, also expressed appreciation for the store’s donations to her cause. “It’s what makes San Francisco so special.”
A new roof, seismically retrofitted, and storefront mural, by muralist Jet Martinez, were celebrated, as was Community Thrift’s charitable services. San Francisco Treasurer Jose Cisneros and Empress of the Imperial Council Donna Sachet served as master and mistress of the ceremony, which took place during store hours and encourage shoppers to partake, while selected speakers expressed gratitude for the non-profit organization’s efforts.
“We decided to have a party to celebrate the changes and still being in business,” Steven Rascher, the San Francisco Tavern Guild Foundation board member president, said. According to Rascher, what “started as a garage sale” has since grown from its humble beginnings.
Founded in 1982 by the San Francisco Tavern Guild, the first gay business association in the United States, Community Thrift has always accepted donations to sell in the store and given the proceeds to a charity chosen by the donator. Rascher , a 19-year-Tavern Guild Foundation board member, said in the first year of business, Community Thrift made enough to give to eight charities, compared to the more than 200 “partners” to date.
“We didn’t realize how much money it was until we did the math for this,” Project Open Hand’s Director of Operations Don Schuman said. Project Open Hand partnered with Community Thrift 21 years ago and has received $320,00 from the organization.
Unable to function without a staff and volunteers, Tavern Guild Board Member John Carrillo praised the Community Thrift staff’s dedication. “They really take care of the space,” he said.
A community driven non-profit to support charities, Community Thrift Store is symbolic of the culture in the Mission District. Executive Director of San Francisco Bicycle Coalition Leah Shahum called the Mission “a special place, […] emblematic.” Shahum, a Community Thrift partner, also expressed appreciation for the store’s donations to her cause. “It’s what makes San Francisco so special.”
Monday, September 14, 2009
Saved by the bookstore
Yesterday marked my 5th visit to North Beach and it was, in a word, wet. The skies looked less than friendly when I left my apartment Sunday afternoon, but I threw caution to the wind and ventured out sans umbrella, sensible shoes, poncho, etc. This was not wise. When I stepped off muni, I expected to be greeted by the sun's rays rather than a torrential downpour. I decided to forgo the bus in spite of the soggy conditions and made my way from Kearny to Columbus on foot. I contemplated whether looking like a wet rat would hinder my ability to snag interviews.
I walked into a café/bakery somewhere along Columbus and made a half-baked (pun intended) attempt at extracting a quote or two from a friendly, but less than knowledgeable employee- when I asked how long the place had been in business, she looked for the answer on a to-go box. As good as it smelled in there, I decided to move on after a few minutes.
I wandered aimlessly for what seemed like an eternity until I quite literally found salvation at Francesco Rocks, a Catholic bookstore on Grant that sells everything from crucifixes and frescos to a wide selection of religious texts. It was there that I had the pleasure of meeting Kathleen, an incredibly well-connected bookstore volunteer. I ended up answering as many questions as I asked which might have annoyed me if Kathleen, a former journalism student, hadn’t whipped out her iPhone and shared some very valuable digits. I now know how to reach a 20 year North Beach resident and a former Chronicle staff writer. Not too shabby.
Kathleen recommended that I hurry along and check out La Porziuncola Nuova of the National Shrine of Saint Francis on Columbus at Vallejo, but alas, it was closed by the time I found it. Who knew shrines had official hours of operation?
After further aimless wandering, I stumbled into the bar at the Basque Hotel located in an alley off Broadway- which sounds far shadier than it was. Aaron, the bar's owner/operator, looked like a cross between Jake Gyllenhaal and Justin Bobby of MTV's The Hills. I felt as if Saint Francis himself was testing my concentration skills. But that's beside the point…
I read somewhere that the average North Beach resident is 42 years old. When I told Aaron this, he said he figured it was probably true but added that the neighborhood seemed to be gaining popularity with a younger demographic. When I asked what he thought made it unpopular in the first place, he replied with Justin Bobby-esque charm that it had a reputation for being "douchey" thanks to the bar and club scene. Before I departed, I managed to get the names of some of Aaron's favorite area eateries. Naked Lunch, Macaroni Café and Mario's Bohemian Cigar Store Café are all musts, if only to run into a certain blue-eyed barkeep. Kidding, of course (sort of).
My last stop of the day was the Beat Museum. I chatted with Brandon who I found manning the museum store's counter, although chatting may be a bit of an understatement since I was there nearly two hours. We discussed everything from the upcoming Hardly Strictly Bluegrass (free!) concert in the park to the museum's ticket sales that day (just $75). I learned that Mark Alvarez is THE ultimate beat cop. According to Brandon's friend Mark (go figure) who happened to be hanging around the museum, Officer Alvarez "looks like a stereotypical cop" and his speech has a certain cop-like cadence (whatever that means). Needless to say, I'm looking forward to meeting this man. They also mentioned that it's almost difficult to get arrested in North Beach, a theory I don't plan to test.
When I asked Brandon about his craziest North Beach-related experience, he struggled to come up with one. He mused that this may have had something to do with the fact that living in San Francisco long enough has been known to alter one's perception of crazy. In the end, he came up with two particularly memorable moments...apparently it's not uncommon to find your neighbor launching bottles out his window in the wee hours of the morning or a used Christmas tree ablaze in the intersection of Stockton, Green and Columbus.
Perception altering indeed.
I walked into a café/bakery somewhere along Columbus and made a half-baked (pun intended) attempt at extracting a quote or two from a friendly, but less than knowledgeable employee- when I asked how long the place had been in business, she looked for the answer on a to-go box. As good as it smelled in there, I decided to move on after a few minutes.
I wandered aimlessly for what seemed like an eternity until I quite literally found salvation at Francesco Rocks, a Catholic bookstore on Grant that sells everything from crucifixes and frescos to a wide selection of religious texts. It was there that I had the pleasure of meeting Kathleen, an incredibly well-connected bookstore volunteer. I ended up answering as many questions as I asked which might have annoyed me if Kathleen, a former journalism student, hadn’t whipped out her iPhone and shared some very valuable digits. I now know how to reach a 20 year North Beach resident and a former Chronicle staff writer. Not too shabby.
Kathleen recommended that I hurry along and check out La Porziuncola Nuova of the National Shrine of Saint Francis on Columbus at Vallejo, but alas, it was closed by the time I found it. Who knew shrines had official hours of operation?
After further aimless wandering, I stumbled into the bar at the Basque Hotel located in an alley off Broadway- which sounds far shadier than it was. Aaron, the bar's owner/operator, looked like a cross between Jake Gyllenhaal and Justin Bobby of MTV's The Hills. I felt as if Saint Francis himself was testing my concentration skills. But that's beside the point…
I read somewhere that the average North Beach resident is 42 years old. When I told Aaron this, he said he figured it was probably true but added that the neighborhood seemed to be gaining popularity with a younger demographic. When I asked what he thought made it unpopular in the first place, he replied with Justin Bobby-esque charm that it had a reputation for being "douchey" thanks to the bar and club scene. Before I departed, I managed to get the names of some of Aaron's favorite area eateries. Naked Lunch, Macaroni Café and Mario's Bohemian Cigar Store Café are all musts, if only to run into a certain blue-eyed barkeep. Kidding, of course (sort of).
My last stop of the day was the Beat Museum. I chatted with Brandon who I found manning the museum store's counter, although chatting may be a bit of an understatement since I was there nearly two hours. We discussed everything from the upcoming Hardly Strictly Bluegrass (free!) concert in the park to the museum's ticket sales that day (just $75). I learned that Mark Alvarez is THE ultimate beat cop. According to Brandon's friend Mark (go figure) who happened to be hanging around the museum, Officer Alvarez "looks like a stereotypical cop" and his speech has a certain cop-like cadence (whatever that means). Needless to say, I'm looking forward to meeting this man. They also mentioned that it's almost difficult to get arrested in North Beach, a theory I don't plan to test.
When I asked Brandon about his craziest North Beach-related experience, he struggled to come up with one. He mused that this may have had something to do with the fact that living in San Francisco long enough has been known to alter one's perception of crazy. In the end, he came up with two particularly memorable moments...apparently it's not uncommon to find your neighbor launching bottles out his window in the wee hours of the morning or a used Christmas tree ablaze in the intersection of Stockton, Green and Columbus.
Perception altering indeed.
The Fillmore vs. Pacific Heights
Riding up the 22 bus as I past the Fillmore into Pacific Heights, the transition was staggering. At first you see a neighborhood that reminds me of what the Harlem would’ve looked like. It was a little more grungy with an air of neglect. I did notice some jazz spots which provided the neighborhood with some character and history but all in all, it didn’t necessarily provided a welcoming atmosphere.
And then you past the Fillmore into Pacific Heights and for some reason it seems literally sunnier in this neighborhood. There are more people out, more shops to glance at, as well as restaurants and cafes. The people that are out are well dressed with their coffees and designer shopping bags with their perfectly-behaved dogs. One could say that the people here are comfortably happy. Everyone is smiling or having what I could see as a pleasant conversation either on their cell phones or with a friend.
The bizarre thing was that you’d think that because everyone seems so happy that they’d be inclined to talk to a college student trying to write a story for class. That was not the case. The people who I approached were so warm and amiable until I said that I had a few questions I would like to ask them. And then all of a sudden an instinct to back away from me instilled skepticism in their faces.
What I think this was all about was that they may have felt that their comfortable happiness was in jeopardy. They didn’t really want to answer my questions because they knew that they had something to lose, which was their lifestyle. Maybe they didn’t want anyone writing about their enclave because it was so important to them. I get that. But I’m a college student who was just trying to understand something I wasn’t familiar with. There was nothing that I could’ve done to change their lives, at least not yet.
Perhaps next time I’ll venture out in the Fillmore because although the neighborhood didn’t look as welcoming, I’m sure the people had something to say about it. Not to assume that the people in the Fillmore had nothing to lose by talking to me, but I’m sure they know there could be a lot to gain by aiding someone who doesn’t understand something. And by helping me comprehend what their neighborhood was about, I could tell someone else who might know someone else who might be able to give them a hand or two.
I’ll keep you guys updated. As of yet though, I do know that the Fillmore and Pacific Heights seem like completely different realms socially as well as economically
And then you past the Fillmore into Pacific Heights and for some reason it seems literally sunnier in this neighborhood. There are more people out, more shops to glance at, as well as restaurants and cafes. The people that are out are well dressed with their coffees and designer shopping bags with their perfectly-behaved dogs. One could say that the people here are comfortably happy. Everyone is smiling or having what I could see as a pleasant conversation either on their cell phones or with a friend.
The bizarre thing was that you’d think that because everyone seems so happy that they’d be inclined to talk to a college student trying to write a story for class. That was not the case. The people who I approached were so warm and amiable until I said that I had a few questions I would like to ask them. And then all of a sudden an instinct to back away from me instilled skepticism in their faces.
What I think this was all about was that they may have felt that their comfortable happiness was in jeopardy. They didn’t really want to answer my questions because they knew that they had something to lose, which was their lifestyle. Maybe they didn’t want anyone writing about their enclave because it was so important to them. I get that. But I’m a college student who was just trying to understand something I wasn’t familiar with. There was nothing that I could’ve done to change their lives, at least not yet.
Perhaps next time I’ll venture out in the Fillmore because although the neighborhood didn’t look as welcoming, I’m sure the people had something to say about it. Not to assume that the people in the Fillmore had nothing to lose by talking to me, but I’m sure they know there could be a lot to gain by aiding someone who doesn’t understand something. And by helping me comprehend what their neighborhood was about, I could tell someone else who might know someone else who might be able to give them a hand or two.
I’ll keep you guys updated. As of yet though, I do know that the Fillmore and Pacific Heights seem like completely different realms socially as well as economically
Praying Mantis
I've had boring jobs before, but it must be REALLY boring to be a police officer.
The other day I was walking down Mission Street and I saw a police officer doing the crane like Ralph Macchio. Three other cops were laughing at him. A few seconds later he was holding his baton to the sidewalk, trying to get a bug to crawl onto it. Then he launched the bug into the street.So I walked over to the cops and asked, "Hey what kind of bug is that?"
And the one that was doing the crane and threw the bug into the street, Officer Tom Hauscarriague, said, "I believe that is a praying mantis. You can go and get it if you want."
But the bug is in the middle of the street, cars are driving on it really fast, and I could really care less about saving the bug's life.
I didn't really know where to take the conversation after that. The guy just told me to go play in traffic. I just started thinking out loud and it was awkward. Then I noticed that one of the officers had his hand on his holstered taser.
I had to convince these guys that I wasn't an angry citizen wanting to call the insect cops on them and I didn't want to be tased so I pulled the "I go to SF State" thing. Then I left.
Sister cities
What is the point of cities having sister cities? For example, I went to Sebastopol California this weekend and noticed that it had a sister city, well actually it has two, Yamauchi, Japan. I started thinking what does the sister city status really mean, whose idea was this and who in Sebastopol knows what their sister city is? So I took a quick look over at wikipedia to find out that sister cities are used to promote commerce and cultural ties. Really? What commercial and or cultural ties could exist between Sebastopol and Yamauchi? As it turns out there was more to it than I thought. Sebastopol, and Yamauchi too I guess, won an award in 1985 from sister cities international for best first year, though I am not really sure what for...
I Scared A Lady
I was waiting in front of Brenda’s French Soul Food when the clock was moving toward 12 o’clock on a cold Saturday morning. I was in a big dilemma whether I should give up my more-than-an-hour waiting. I had an informal appointment with a lady at Benkyodo at 12 o’clock that day. Finally after sacrificing my primary need to eat something, I went to Benkyodo (a traditional mochi store in Japantown). It was 12 o'clock on the afternoon when I arrived there. My stomach was growling but I was glad the lady was still sitting there, sipping her hot drink.
I said, “Good morning. How are you?”
I felt a smile was blossoming from my face. I was really glad that I met the lady again. She was a Japanese senior citizen who spent a lot of time in Japantown. I talked to her the week before and asked her whether we can meet and talk again (only for talking not an interview). She said yes, she will be around on Saturday at 12 o’clock. The lady seemed to be quite knowledgeable with Japantown and I just felt that I had to talk to her somehow.
While she was sipping her hot drink and I ate my ohagi, I wondered what conversation should be used to break the ice. She just seemed distance and different from the lady that I met the week before. I wondered if she thought of me as a mere journalism student who was just poking her nose into other people’s business.
The week before we had a good conversation and then, when I left her, I bought some mochis to go and I thought, that was probably the time when she started to see me differently. I was quite persistent (more shameless probably) and refused to go before I got an interview with the owner of the store. I just went on looking at the articles and pictures on the wall while throwing a couple of quick questions now and then. I ended up getting a less than 10 minutes interview after I talked to the owner’s daughter who was there at that time. Deep down, I felt that I should not do this in front of her because I enjoyed talking to her as a person rather than a source.
However, she may see me differently after that little show of shamelessness. She threw a couple of quick questions before she finally said she had to leave. She did not even look at me and she just left like that while I was just sat beside her like a moment ago.
It seemed like she tried to avoid me. There was a little bit of anger for her to leave me just like that when I even had to cancel my brunch for her. There was a little bit of disappointment that I did not get to talk to her. But more than that, I felt sad. Despite of my eagerness of getting a story, I want people to look at me as a person and not just a journalism student. Hopefully, I am just thinking too much.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Looking for Dirt in China Basin
When I took the China Basin beat, I had an idea that there was some urban renewal happening there. A remnant of an old memory surfaced... I vividly recalled a panhandler gesturing to some dirt lots, saying: "We used to live here before they tore down the projects." But I couldn't distinctly place the memory from so long ago, so I geared up my street bike and headed south from the Embarcadero at the foot of Market St.
The dirt lots were there all right, but I needed to do my digging at the library to find whether there had ever been public housing in what's now China Basin (the waterfront area also known as Mission Bay located between the Mission Creek Harbor and Mariposa). Although I'm still trying to find out whether or not there had been public housing there, a search of Chronicle archives and the Planning Commission records showed that speculation and urban plans for the waterfront area had been stymied time and again over the years since 1961 or earlier. Sorting through the tangled web left by conflicting business and residential interests over time only led to the question: "Why is the area south of Pac Bell Park still such a mess?"
A few pictures of the area posted here include a crumbling jetty like so many other decrepit remains that dot the landscape, warning signs that fail to keep street dwellers out of off-limit areas, and a huge sign about a sewage-treatment "odor-control" project that could use some refining...a lot of refining, if you get the drift. Those are some of the more obvious signs of things amiss here, but are they the cause of the real problem, or just effects?
At least one environmentalist, Robert Da Costa, says that landfill like the China Basin area is subject to liquefaction during earthquakes. Some of the snapshots of the sagging structures at the waterline seem to bear out this probable reason for the haphazard development of the neighborhood. I'll post more pictures later.
The dirt lots were there all right, but I needed to do my digging at the library to find whether there had ever been public housing in what's now China Basin (the waterfront area also known as Mission Bay located between the Mission Creek Harbor and Mariposa). Although I'm still trying to find out whether or not there had been public housing there, a search of Chronicle archives and the Planning Commission records showed that speculation and urban plans for the waterfront area had been stymied time and again over the years since 1961 or earlier. Sorting through the tangled web left by conflicting business and residential interests over time only led to the question: "Why is the area south of Pac Bell Park still such a mess?"
A few pictures of the area posted here include a crumbling jetty like so many other decrepit remains that dot the landscape, warning signs that fail to keep street dwellers out of off-limit areas, and a huge sign about a sewage-treatment "odor-control" project that could use some refining...a lot of refining, if you get the drift. Those are some of the more obvious signs of things amiss here, but are they the cause of the real problem, or just effects?
At least one environmentalist, Robert Da Costa, says that landfill like the China Basin area is subject to liquefaction during earthquakes. Some of the snapshots of the sagging structures at the waterline seem to bear out this probable reason for the haphazard development of the neighborhood. I'll post more pictures later.
Setting Sail in the Mission
My first voyage to the Mission started in the foggy haze of the Outer Sunset. After a crowded ride on the N Judah, there I was standing in the sunshine on Valencia and Market.
I quickly decided the best approach to exploring my neighborhood was to dive in head first and walk the streets. Immediately I noticed the plethora of businesses: bars, restaurants, liquor stores, medical marijuana dispensaries, bookstores, bicycle shops, and the like. If nothing else, there would never be a shortage of things to do or see.
One of the first stores I popped into was Multikulti. This moderately priced store was filled with accessories and clothing, it was quite possibly one of the most random varieties of odds and ends I have ever encountered. I made a mental note to return come Halloween.
After walking down Valencia a few more blocks I cut over to Guerrero Street. What a difference one block makes! Mostly residential and speckled with a few bars and restaurants, Guerrero Street was much quieter than Valencia. Feeling a little bored, I wandered over to Mission Street.
Arguably the heart of the Mission District, bustling Mission Street was excitingly festive. I later found out that the street is the longest in the city, stretching throughout downtown. Yet, the Mission Street of the Inner Mission has a rich cultural and ethnic heritage.
Mission Street houses open-air markets, taquerias, bars and liquor stores. Less gentrified than Valencia and Guerrero, parts of Mission Street appeared older, thus more appealing to me. Perhaps it was the charm of slightly grimy street that I found intriguing, although the aromatic scent of bacon-wrapped hot dogs did not hurt. Yes, hot dogs wrapped in greasy bacon, grilled street-side and served with sautéed onions. It took all of my strength to resist, but I often think of what it might taste like, and have no doubt I will know by the end of the semester!
My first tour through my hood left me tired and, of course, hungry. With the help of people on the street, I decided to dine at Yamo, an inexpensive Burmese restaurant on 18th Street between Mission and Valencia. The place was as big as a studio apartment, with one long counter for dining, an exposed kitchen with two female cooks and a line out the door. The food was so good I ate on the street and decided to call it a day.
Walking back to Muni I hashed over the day’s events and wondered what I would do next visit. With so much happening on every street, and every block within that street, it surely won’t be hard to figure something out.
I quickly decided the best approach to exploring my neighborhood was to dive in head first and walk the streets. Immediately I noticed the plethora of businesses: bars, restaurants, liquor stores, medical marijuana dispensaries, bookstores, bicycle shops, and the like. If nothing else, there would never be a shortage of things to do or see.
One of the first stores I popped into was Multikulti. This moderately priced store was filled with accessories and clothing, it was quite possibly one of the most random varieties of odds and ends I have ever encountered. I made a mental note to return come Halloween.
After walking down Valencia a few more blocks I cut over to Guerrero Street. What a difference one block makes! Mostly residential and speckled with a few bars and restaurants, Guerrero Street was much quieter than Valencia. Feeling a little bored, I wandered over to Mission Street.
Arguably the heart of the Mission District, bustling Mission Street was excitingly festive. I later found out that the street is the longest in the city, stretching throughout downtown. Yet, the Mission Street of the Inner Mission has a rich cultural and ethnic heritage.
Mission Street houses open-air markets, taquerias, bars and liquor stores. Less gentrified than Valencia and Guerrero, parts of Mission Street appeared older, thus more appealing to me. Perhaps it was the charm of slightly grimy street that I found intriguing, although the aromatic scent of bacon-wrapped hot dogs did not hurt. Yes, hot dogs wrapped in greasy bacon, grilled street-side and served with sautéed onions. It took all of my strength to resist, but I often think of what it might taste like, and have no doubt I will know by the end of the semester!
My first tour through my hood left me tired and, of course, hungry. With the help of people on the street, I decided to dine at Yamo, an inexpensive Burmese restaurant on 18th Street between Mission and Valencia. The place was as big as a studio apartment, with one long counter for dining, an exposed kitchen with two female cooks and a line out the door. The food was so good I ate on the street and decided to call it a day.
Walking back to Muni I hashed over the day’s events and wondered what I would do next visit. With so much happening on every street, and every block within that street, it surely won’t be hard to figure something out.
Dreads, Drugs & Dreams - First day in Upper Haight
Having just moved to San Francisco in January from Orange County, a rush of intimidation came over me as I was reading the syllabus for JOUR 300. We have to explore a specific area of the city? We have to spend at least one day and night per week there? Needless to say, I was nervous. I hadn’t really gone into the city to explore with anyone, let alone by myself! But I knew it was time to explore sooner or later; I mean after all, I did move to San Francisco to LIVE here, not just BE here.
I did some research on the list of neighborhoods supplied to us in the syllabus, and got some feedback from people I know who have grown up in the city. Upper Haight seemed extremely interesting after hearing of its “bohemian,” hippie-like aura, so I decided to be gutsy and make it first of my list of choices, and I got it! It was time to be tough and go explore!
It took me about 45 minutes, on an extremely crowded bus, to get to the intersection of Haight and Masonic streets from my house. The icing on the “overcrowded bus cake” was that I decided to go into the city on the hottest day I have experienced here since I moved from Southern California. I survived the long ride, and finally reached my destination.
When I got off the bus, the first thing I noticed was a grungy-looking guy with dirty, tattered clothes yelling at the sidewalk while he dragged his two old pit bulls by leashes made of what looked to be shoelace. “Well, I guess I’m in the right place,” I thought to myself, remembering some of the stories I had been told of this area.
I wasn’t sure where to start first, so I walked toward Buena Vista Park to see what small shops I could find. As I was crossing the street, I looked up from my phone to see a short, heavyset elderly man lightly skipping in the opposite direction. No, it wasn’t odd that he was skipping. What was odd was that this man was stark naked, except for the fanny pack around his waist. This whole scene happened so quickly I didn’t have time to realize what happened until I noticed the people around me, looking at him in either disgust or surprise. There were also some people sitting at a café that seemed to be locals, as they didn’t really look shocked at all.
I continue down the sidewalk, trying to get the visual I just witnessed out of my mind. I reach Buena Vista Park and scope out the area. There are not many people on this side of the area, so I turned back around and went down Haight St. the opposite way. I was surprised by how many tattoo parlors and smoke shops there were on this street, and wondered if the competition was fierce in these parts.
After getting a feel for Upper Haight, I walked into Mom’s Body Shop, a tattoo parlor on Haight St. I took a look around and noticed the shop was small, but organized into open cubicles for each tattoo artist. I was referred to the owner of shop, Barnaby Williams. He is a self-proclaimed “Mama’s Boy,” and opened Mom’s Body Shop on Mother’s Day in 1998. He lived in the Haight area until June 2009, and had a lot of interesting insight on the area, expressing to me that working and living in Haight is “emotionally and spiritually corrupting.”
I could certainly see the reasons behind Barnaby’s emotional statement as I walked past young teenagers, some of them looking no older than 16 years old, sitting on the ground with dirty clothes and troubled faces. I kept walking down the street, making a mental note to come back in an hour or two to speak to some of the homeless youth, but soon figured out that if they are there one minute, they will likely not be in the same spot the next.
I did some research on the list of neighborhoods supplied to us in the syllabus, and got some feedback from people I know who have grown up in the city. Upper Haight seemed extremely interesting after hearing of its “bohemian,” hippie-like aura, so I decided to be gutsy and make it first of my list of choices, and I got it! It was time to be tough and go explore!
It took me about 45 minutes, on an extremely crowded bus, to get to the intersection of Haight and Masonic streets from my house. The icing on the “overcrowded bus cake” was that I decided to go into the city on the hottest day I have experienced here since I moved from Southern California. I survived the long ride, and finally reached my destination.
When I got off the bus, the first thing I noticed was a grungy-looking guy with dirty, tattered clothes yelling at the sidewalk while he dragged his two old pit bulls by leashes made of what looked to be shoelace. “Well, I guess I’m in the right place,” I thought to myself, remembering some of the stories I had been told of this area. I wasn’t sure where to start first, so I walked toward Buena Vista Park to see what small shops I could find. As I was crossing the street, I looked up from my phone to see a short, heavyset elderly man lightly skipping in the opposite direction. No, it wasn’t odd that he was skipping. What was odd was that this man was stark naked, except for the fanny pack around his waist. This whole scene happened so quickly I didn’t have time to realize what happened until I noticed the people around me, looking at him in either disgust or surprise. There were also some people sitting at a café that seemed to be locals, as they didn’t really look shocked at all.
I continue down the sidewalk, trying to get the visual I just witnessed out of my mind. I reach Buena Vista Park and scope out the area. There are not many people on this side of the area, so I turned back around and went down Haight St. the opposite way. I was surprised by how many tattoo parlors and smoke shops there were on this street, and wondered if the competition was fierce in these parts.
After getting a feel for Upper Haight, I walked into Mom’s Body Shop, a tattoo parlor on Haight St. I took a look around and noticed the shop was small, but organized into open cubicles for each tattoo artist. I was referred to the owner of shop, Barnaby Williams. He is a self-proclaimed “Mama’s Boy,” and opened Mom’s Body Shop on Mother’s Day in 1998. He lived in the Haight area until June 2009, and had a lot of interesting insight on the area, expressing to me that working and living in Haight is “emotionally and spiritually corrupting.”I could certainly see the reasons behind Barnaby’s emotional statement as I walked past young teenagers, some of them looking no older than 16 years old, sitting on the ground with dirty clothes and troubled faces. I kept walking down the street, making a mental note to come back in an hour or two to speak to some of the homeless youth, but soon figured out that if they are there one minute, they will likely not be in the same spot the next.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Saturday Morning in Civic Center
Even though I've lived in San Francisco for 3 years, I haven't explored much of the city. The only neighborhood, other than my home neighborhood- Stonestown/SFSU- I've spent more than 2 hours in is the Mission. I walked through Civic Center for the first time 2 years ago, my impression was that of a depressing and dangerous neighborhood.
A few days before our first Reporting class, I researched the Civic Center and realized it would be a great beat because of the protests, museums, and irony that exists between the homeless who find refuge in Civic Center Plaza and the rich who rent 1-bedroom apartments starting at $2,500 a month just a few blocks down the plaza. To me, Civic Center is a reflection of 2 extremes.
My first experience at Civic Center, for the purpose of this class, was a little bit frustrating. Not many people wanted to speak to me. Saturday morning was hot and the streets were crowded with tourists. I found two apartment buildings; however, the leasing consultants weren't willing to share information if I wasn't interested in resnting an apartment. The apartment's residents walked in and out in a rush. At Archstone Fox Plaza Apartments, located on Market St., the firefighters and police arrived to an emergency phone call. The concierge had no idea an emergency call had been made.
Later I walked into a $1 store where you can find from tailor sets to Mexican cooking spices. The manager was amiable. Unfortunately, he couldn't tell me much about living in the neighborhood because his hometown was Sunnyvale. Donut shops and liquor stores are found throughout Market. Later, I spoke with the security guard at the Art Institute of California. He said small thefts were common in the neighborhood.
That night, I went home and did more research. I learned that the Farmer's Market is hosted on United Nations Plaza every Wednesay and Sunday. My next visit was set for Sunday, Aug. 30. Stands with fresh fruits and vegetables, nuts and plants, were set up around the plaza. People walked around taking samples of nectarines, oranges, apples, and grapes. I bought 3 delicious nectarines myself. I couldn't resist! I spoke with 4 vendors. I learned a lot about their work in the fields and their drives to San Francisco every week. All for of the people lived outside of the city. They said San Francisco's weather was a nice break from Modesto's, Fresno's, and Bakerfield's heat. Later that day, I walked around the Main Library and approached a homeless man. He wore a jean jacket, a black binnie, and red sweatpants. He said Civic Center was "toxic." Usually, he spends most of the day reading in the library's fifth floor. Afterwards, I walked into a little fashion store that is popular in the nieighborhood for its 'human-hair' wigs, according to the store's manager.
I left Civic Center with more confidence and a sense of safety after my second visit. I look forward to builiding up skills that will allow me to approach people with better questions to acquire important information about the neighborhood.
Question About This Photo
Who's skyline photo is this? That is a great hood right there. North Beach. Lots of history, good weather, not to big, near Chinatown. Broadway gets crazy on Friday nights, but SFPD locks it down pretty good. There was an avalanche there a few years ago. Some rocks came tumbling down behind Show Girls and smashed in the back door. They used this giant crane to stabilize the cliff wall and so for about a week, half of Broadway was blocked off because of that monster. It reached up over the club and ferried men and supplies up to the top of the hillside. Anyway, sorry to be talking about sombody's neighborhood. Wait, did anyone get North Beach? If not, I'll post some stories about it from back in the day.
Anthony Myers
Anthony Myers
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