The view from Ina Coolbrith Park on Russian Hill is one of the many fantastic sights in San Francisco.
Since moving to San Francisco from Sacramento last month, I’ve walked 10,000 steps almost every day, attended incredible shows and performances on weekends, and gone for frequent runs along the Embarcadero with this-will-never-get-old views of the bay on one side and Coit Tower on the other. I’ve eaten bullfrog at a famed Sichuan restaurant in Chinatown and clinked after-work drinks with friends at the Top of the Mark, soaking in the 360-degree views of the city.
Waiting in crushes of people to cross the street, I’ve had fascinating chats with strangers about everything from dating in the city to their favorite restaurants. I’ve boarded buses at 11:30 p.m., fearing they might be deserted and possibly dangerous, only to find them brimming with people and conversation.
In other words, it doesn’t feel like I’ve moved to a city in decline.
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Yes, San Francisco is entrenched in one of the most challenging moments in its history. To hear many people tell it, the city is a ghost of its former self. And yet, even in its diminished state — record-high office vacancy, shuttered storefronts an increasingly devastating drug overdose death toll — the city still pulses with vitality.
It’s an energy markedly different from other American cities I’ve lived in. Sacramento, where I spent the past four years, is undergoing a renaissance. Its population is rapidly increasing, largely due to Bay Area transplants, and its embrace of aggressive pro-housing policies is helping to revitalize its pandemic-battered downtown. Yet the city still feels suburban; it’s spread out and car-centric and fewer people are out and about, especially at night.
Philadelphia, where I went to college, is physically much larger than San Francisco, making its energy more diffuse. By contrast, dense and walkable San Francisco reminds me of a compressed spring always on the cusp of releasing its built-up energy.
I grew up in the East Bay, so I always knew San Francisco was beautiful. But living in the city, you’re constantly confronted by its beauty in new and surprising ways. The other day, not long before sunset, I went running along an unplanned route. Cresting a random hill, I stopped in my tracks as I unexpectedly entered a steeply terraced park — Ina Coolbrith Park, I later learned — that offered stunning views of Alcatraz and a glittering panorama of the city skyline. I stood in disbelief, catching my breath as orange and pink sunbeams melted together and slowly turned purple.
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I’ve been to Fisherman’s Wharf countless times, but only recently did I stumble upon the Musée Mécanique, a free museum filled with antique arcade games — some hundreds of years old — that are still in working condition and can be played for just a quarter or two. (Some are almost comically raunchy, including one that offers the chance to peep at “XXX images.”) The museum’s existence felt like a small miracle. At a time when stories of destruction and theft fill the news, how lovely it was to find proof of the public’s gentleness in the careful handling of the old machines, which are in near-pristine condition.
And then there is the energy that emanates from the city’s people, best experienced by walking or taking public transit. I relied heavily on my car in Sacramento, and although I was reluctant to give it up when I moved to San Francisco — where else was I going to sing at the top of my lungs? — I’ve quickly come to realize the extent to which it sealed me off from my surroundings. There’s a sense of community, camaraderie and connectedness that comes from joining masses of people on sidewalks and streetcars: the faces, styles and personalities you see; the snippets of intriguing conversations you overhear; the little shops and restaurants you discover.
It’s undeniable that this city is special. And yet San Francisco’s intrinsic allure — and the sense that it is too singular to fail — can also feed complacency.
Why did the city need to sell itself to prospective residents and businesses, when its beauty and benefits were so evident? People were willing to pay nearly any price to be here, so what did it matter if convoluted bureaucratic processes made it absurdly difficult to do everything from obtaining a parking permit to opening a small business to building new housing? What did it matter if entire neighborhoods, such as the Tenderloin and the South of Market, were de-facto containment zones for the city’s homelessness, mental health and drug overdose epidemics?
Just being in San Francisco was worth it — until, for many, it wasn’t.
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Since the COVID pandemic changed the ways we live and work, city officials have put forth numerous ideas to fill empty storefronts and lure people back downtown, including opening college campuses, relaxing retail zoning requirements, waiving fees for new businesses and making it easier to convert office buildings into apartments. Most of these plans, however, are still in their infancy, and their ultimate impact remains unclear.
Living here, I see the city’s challenges more clearly than ever. And yet I also sense a fierce hunger for togetherness. Why else, a few weekends ago, would tens of thousands of people, myself included, wait for hours in a line snaking around Union Square for the chance at a couple of free tulips?
Yes, San Francisco is struggling. But the buzz of energy and potential here is impossible to miss. If this is truly San Francisco at its lowest, well, I can’t wait to see the highs to come.
Reach Emily Hoeven: emily.hoeven@sfchronicle.com; Twitter: @emily_hoeven
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