stories from the haight

San Francisco is only a memory to me.

But a memory so strong, so delightful, so heart-wrenching that barely a day goes by that I don't yearn to be back on those hilly streets, in the (once) smokey bars, smelling the eucalyptus trees and salty, sweet air and thinking that maybe, just maybe life could truly be wonderful.

The memories that haunt most are of the Haight. No, not the Haight you think. The upper Haight ,where I once lived in a little stuccoed apartment complex called the Casa Madrona.

I moved there with my boyfriend on my 25th birthday - into that cozy little enclave with it's sunny rooms, it's wood floors, a dribbling little water fountain out front. It was ridiculously overpriced and frighteningly tiny. We laughed that it looked like Melrose Place. We laughed a lot back then. Maybe it was to hide the nervousness of our foray into cohabitation. Maybe it was just because we truly happy just to be with eachother.

I remember the mornings, waking up on that stupid old futon - full of lumps and mysterious stains and god knows what else and feeling the sun just beaming onto my face from the windows above. Turning over to see his strong arms, the shadow of his beard, his eyes, his face, kissing him over and over. But mostly I remember feeling like everything was good and right with the world.

I remember thinking walking home from the corner store with a loaf of bread at dusk one cool evening, remembering having forgotten to take my birth control pills for the last week, thinking "What if?". Crossing the tree-lined street and smelling the night air, I pushed my stomach out just so slightly and smiled, "What if?"

I rememer the morning I left. Of being so full of excitement about moving across the country to the unknown - to a city full of new people and new ideas that I could hardly pack my bags fast enough. But that final morning, as I waited outside those stuccoed walls, listening to the dribbling water fountain and looking into the rising pink sun I realized I'd made a mistake. My bags packed, my keys returned and my goodbyes said, I realized how much I was leaving behind in my haste to find something "new". As the airporter pulled away from the curb, I wanted to scream "Wait! I've made a mistake." But the apartment was rented, the jobs left, the movement towards the unknown inevitable. It was too late.

Maybe it couldn't have lasted, all that happiness. Then again maybe that's just a pessimist's view of the world. In any case, it didn't and it's all just a memory now. A pungently wondeful, orange-tinted, warm and cozy memory that I keep trying to wrap around myself.

So I remember the Haight. I miss the eucalyptus, the dribbling old fountain, the sunny mornings and the sweet smell of the ocean. But mostly, I miss thinking that maybe, just maybe everything was good and right with the world.

heather irwin

It's hot. Too hot for sleeping, too hot for SF. We get home at 11 and open every window in the studio. Still air, clear sky where the fog usually hangs, twinkling tower lights up on the hillside. "I wish I had a front porch", you say.

Head for the stoop with cold beer (hefeweizen for me, Pete's Summer Brew for you). A city porch, no chairs or crickets, just a few dirty steps to sit on. A cop car cruises by, shining a spotlight on the buildings across the street. A few homeless and late night wanderers stumble by. One skateboarder, gracefully navigating the asphalt (they're always graceful at night).

I like this darkened city. It feels calm, safe, approachable. "There's an earthquake coming", you say. Why, I ask. "This is weirdo earthquake weather: hot, dry. Strange."

We have lazy nighttime conversations. We dream up new titles for ourselves (mine's Thinky Media Girl). I tell you about summer nights on the East Coast: fireflies and thunderstorms, tv light spilling out of screen doors, laughter wafting over the fence from a neighbor's patio. Fireworks on July 4th that we could see from our back deck. I used to sleep out there, wake up covered in dew and mosquito bites.

I miss that place. I miss my roots. But I love my new home.

drue

Well, in all honesty it started in the Mission. I'd arrived in San Francisco with lots of impressions based solely on people I'd met from there. Everyone I stayed with had to work during the day - I had sets of keys jangling in all pockets (lucky me I'm fond of cargo pants), suitcases at each place, pockets full of old bus ticket stubs...

"Excuse me, what stop do I get off to get to the lower haight?"

"beats me, I'm from New York."

my days in San Fran had consisted so far of occupying myself. Getting up around 11am, going and eating breakfast somewhere in the mission, having several cups of coffee then hopping on a bus/train/streetcar/whatever, and getting off somewhere. I intended to see San Francisco, dammit! But since he was newly in from Eugene, Oregon I figured we should get off at the same stop. Besides, although it's never happened before, I found myself quite attracted to his waist-length dreadlocks and huge brown eyes. Besides, what the hell. I was on vacation. And after Burning Man, I was primed for all the random occurrences I could take.

We got off at the wrong stop, and soon thereafter realized we were on the wrong end of the Haight. Oh well. I really wasn't going anywhere anyway, and he was going record shopping. Of course I should join him (people take note: do not EVER go to a record store with a DJ...).

We spent the day together, sharing coffee, bumming cigarettes off each other (i had some, then ran out, then he bought some), listening to records, eating lunch, finally parting ways back in the Mission, where, coincidentally, he'd just moved. I called before I left San Fran to return home to NYC.

"Oh man, yeah - well, ring me sometime. It was weird, it was random. But it was really cool."

And whenever I tell people about my vacation, that's usually the story that comes up first. The great thing about San Francisco is that you can DO that sort of thing...

damiana

Four years ago, my wife and I moved to the Lower Haight. When we first saw the neighborhood, we thought that we would live here, in this studio apartment, for a few months before getting a larger apartment in a “nicer neighborhood.”

That was four years ago. We still live in that same small, studio apartment on the corner of Page and Fillmore in the heart of the Lower Haight. What we never expected is that we would fall in love with the neighborhood, so much that we would tolerate living in this one-room box.

Our apartment is small. We can barely fit the two of us (plus our two cats) in the place. Four years ago, we would pace in circles, and complain about how we could never invite friends to our apartment. But what we have found is that the whole neighborhood has become our apartment. We invite friends to dinner parties at Thep Phanom. Most weekends, we entertain at the Toronado… inviting out friends over for good beer and music. We have learned that the size of where we like is not designated by the four walls surrounding the 350 square foot space where we sleep, but by the streets and shops of the neighborhood in which we live.

Now, when we look at larger apartments in other neighborhoods, we always decide to stay … because a larger bedroom in a closed-off community can never replace the living room that we have in the bars and restaurants of the Lower Haight.

Avery Glasser

The first time I came to San Francisco, in 1996, I stayed in the middle of the Haight. A friend had helped arrange accomodation at the Red Victorian Inn, which sounded harmless enough. The friend had enough New Age tendencies to assure me that the place would be fairly crunchy but not overwhelming. When I got out of the car, I didn't even look around, I just headed straight for the door and came face to face with a tall, waifish white woman with a headful of dreadlocks and henna stained hands - not the tatoos that are so fashionable today, but the faded orangish markings of someone who's been doing an awful lot of dyeing. She spoke in a fairy's voice - whispy and ethereal and calmly led me to the Peace Room - all pastels with a skylight and and an onstreet view of Haight. I was beginning to be overwhelmed. I spent the afternoon exploring parts of the city with a friend and came back to the Red Vic to fend for myself. My first foray, solo, onto Haight Street was terrifying. Before this trip, the biggest city I'd been in had been Washington D.C., but only briefly. I discovered that you can't walk more than five feet without being hit up for money. As I allowed myself to look up and around, I was shocked by the number of dirty, ragged teenagers sitting on the sidewalks, propped up against buidings. Later, I'd be told that you can't tell which of them is homeless and which of them are merely suburban kids slumming. I huddled into my cardigan, confused by the rapidly dropping temperatures. It was the middle of July and it felt like late autumn. I was hungry and dizzy but I couldn't force myself to go any farther, culture shock had fully set in and crippled me. I made it to McDonald's, did a double take at the only Asian staff behind the counter and ordered the Quarter Pounder Value Meal, glad to be somewhere familiar. It would take another few visits before I learned to enjoy and appreciate San Francisco.

gabby