This was the first tableau I encountered in the Mission District after parking the car. Tech people chatting amiably next to a mural decrying the displacement of renters by tech people. The afternoon was off to a very meta start.
When we were younger and rather prettier Mrs. U and I once lived near Valencia street when it was known primarily for taquerias. Now you can buy retro sci-fi themed tchotchkes for $3200. Is there a viable business model for this? Probably not, but doesn’t matter. The people who start stores of this nature have already made their money in you-know-what and are doing it for fun, which would be an example of loose capital not displacing labor, rather sober capitalism itself, as historically understood.
For the hyper-aspirational parent, Valencia St. is also home to Aldea Baby and Paxton Gate Kids. In a city which has largely displaced young families, it is difficult to believe the register would ring often enough to pay SF rent. In the new paradigm one need not chase sales volume to be in the black, rather the loose money of a few undiscriminating uberwealthy couples who want their wunderkind to design rocket ships.
Staffing is an obstacle. As my friend Johnny explained it to me: “unless you pay $20/hr, no one shows up”.
So much muraling in the Mission celebrates matriarchal themes…ironic for a city in which matriarchal power, otherwise known as procreation, has been forsaken by the women who live there.
San Francisco is not entirely motherless. I was hosted by a mother of two, a dear friend who lives in a house which dropped on her head as a marital dowry. Inherited property and trustafarian arrangements are one workaround to the Google problem (the other being a time machine to 1992), but mothers anchored to paychecks tend to find raising children in communal rentals difficult and decamp for the outer commuter rings, or further.
SF is white AF now (and Asian), far more so than we lived there. The Mission is Latino no longer. Black people…? Well, there was once a lovely movie made about the disappearing black population in SF called Medicine for Melancholy, directed by Barry Jenkins, who went on to win an Oscar for Moonlight. You can no longer stream it on Netflix, which makes the memory piece of black SF also now a memory.
And yet…the nouveau riche, Chewish San Francisco loves its narratives of third world oppression.
As though to illustrate the point for tourists from LA, this woman, who appeared to be about 60, wearing designer clothes that mimicked what one might pull out of a dumpster, parked her Mercedes in front of Delfina restaurant, turned up rap music and began dancing ecstatically atop her seat. She shouted things about “black and white together” and held up a special issue of National Geographic.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say I loved it there. There are bike lanes everywhere, including through the freeway exchanges. I made full use of them.
Unlike LA, the bike is king! Befitting royalty, cars yield to you. Entire auto lanes have been displaced, to use the word of the day, in favor of pedal pushing. This is Market Street. Can you imagine LA City Council saying yes to this on Wilshire Blvd.? I can imagine it, but I wouldn’t bet on it. SF may be an unpleasant city for driving, but there is a tradeoff. It is much, much quieter, even the commercial districts, when cars move at slower speeds. As I had no job to which to commute I was free to ignore the annoyance of others, and live with entitlement for a few days.
You can also let your dog run off leash at the beach, from the Marina to Pacifica. As fate would have it I ran into Danny Glover, one of the last black men in SF (the other being Willie Brown) twice, jogging by himself on Sunset Beach.
It’s when you try to leave San Francisco fully reveals itself. This was me, 3pm, wasting 40 minutes trying to get on the Bay Bridge. Once you get through Oakland, you think…
Only when you get to Castro Valley do you realize your commute is not opening up, it’s just starting. Eight miles ahead of you, the Silicon Valley traffic from the 680 is funneling into the 580. You are one hour from Livermore.
After Livermore, clear sailing, right? No more on-ramps. Nothing but windmills and cows until Tracy. Wrong. Five miles an hour over the pass. Three hours from the city, limping into the Central Valley, one tired lion among many, extending to the horizon.
Here is San Francisco, you realize, not Valencia Street. The place you left is a theme park for the wealthy and for tourists. San Franciscans, to broaden the definition…live out here.
Define fragility: one roofing nail in the road.
More fragility: Millennium Tower, eighteen inches out of plumb already. The foundation piles do not extend to bedrock. They are held up by friction and they have begun to torque, twisting out of equilibrium.
Are we going to look back on this era of millionaires bicycling to dinner and retail workers driving home to Stockton as a harbinger of the future or an obvious signpost of folly?