San Francisco and its Manic Monday: And the Sun Shines on the Bay

"When you get tired of walking around in San Francisco, you can always lean against it."

"They were a wonderful set of burglars, the people who were running San Francisco when I first came to town in 1923, wonderful because, if they were stealing, they were doing it with class and style."

Sally Stanford, San Francisco's most famous madam

Unable to sleep this morning, I tried to take the opportunity to strategize on this entry. Sadly, my thoughts were so convoluted, running from medieval history in Italy (I'm re-planning my trip out there) to feelings of sorrow that I had no adventure planned for today. I tried to rekindle my adventurous spirit, seeking out a new point of exploration, but felt strangely lost. And as this anxiety was starting to get to me, I remembered a conversation I overheard one of my first days here.

I was at a cafe in the Mission sitting next to a couple, and the woman was talking about how she'd love to know just how many people had a San Francisco tattoo of some sort, and though I don't know this statistic, off the top of my head, I can think of least forty people I know that have one, be they happy immigrants, natives, or people who have just found themselves here and in love.

Due to my fickle nature, I have no tattoos - commitment scares the crap out of me, but this sentiment I can understand. When I was first overhearing this, I found it odd that this was actually a thing. Having just moved here from Portland, a city where you spend all your energy pretending you don't like anything, I was shocked to see how brazen people's declarations were. And then, a few weeks later, the Giants won the World Series. Yep, San Franciscans are mad about this city.

I'm not sure when I realized how deeply in love with this place I'd fallen, or when the precise moment was that I knew this love walked beside me, everywhere. But this love is such a deep thing, an irreplaceable thing, an emotion that has surprised me in it's intensity. I didn't think myself capable of a love so strong. And just like I share in this love, I share the fear of change.

Instead of talking the same talk, I've decided to describe just a few small things that I love about my home.

Again, sleep deprived, I finally gave up and decided to go to breakfast in Noe Valley. I don't have kids nor could fathom raising a family here, so you can understand how little a fan I am of all the baby strollers in this neighborhood. And sadly, considering my days off are Monday and Tuesday, usually the only people I encounter on the streets are moms, nannies, and construction workers. But no matter where I'm coming from, every time I turn onto Dolores Street, my heart swells.

Those seemingly endless blocks of palm trees (planted for the Panama Pacific Exposition in 1915. *The California Historical Society is having an exhibit about the PPIE in the fall. Expect details later) silhouetted against the perpetually blue sky brings me both tranquility and a sense of history. There's something so deeply moving about palms and ferns for me, a reminiscence to the Victorian era, which leads me to another one of my loves: The Conservatory of Flowers.

Before his death, James Lick, a businessman, piano maker and real estate tycoon from San Jose, had purchased a kit in which to house his exotic plant collection. According to Wikipedia, this kit was rather anonymous- it doesn't site where it came from. But one of the displays in the entryway to the Beach Chalet described how he had it commissioned in London, as a replica of their conservatory. In both cases, he died before it was built. Again, depending on who you ask, either Leland Stanford and Charles Crocker purchased it and gifted it to the city, or it was one of his benefactors who offered it with the sole arrangement that it be made accessible to the public, with free days offered to all.

Whatever the case, walking through there, watching the light from the stained glass windows dance across the ferns lights me up.

During a recent adventure with my sister, in San Luis Obispo, we were talking about which tree seemed the most quintessential to us as Californians. At first, I said the Oak (we had a park at the end of our block called Three Oaks and I couldn't count how many hours I sat beneath the two - the name of the park was misleading). But then, my dad chimed in, reminding me of the Redwoods, the Cypress, the Poplar, the Firs.

(Did you know that because Redwood lumber has such a low resin content and porous grain, that houses built in this wood survived the great fire after the 1906 earthquake, being somewhat fire-resistent?)

For me, it might be the Eucalyptus, a non-native tree but one that will always be imbedded in my memories of this city. I remember, in the third grade, going to the Zoo on a field trip, while I stood outside the monkey cages, crying at their captivity, the almost overwhelming smell of Eucalyptus seemed to wrap me in comfort.

According to the Santa Barbara Independent, the effects of non-native species is detrimental. During the massive European migration of the early 1800s, non-native species grew from 16 plants to 134. "...today, there are over 1,000 non-native plant species living in California (and nearly 5,000 native species)."

The Eucalyptus came to us from Australia via Europe, through Captain James Cook and his team of botanists. It was the British who named the tree "because of how the flowers are in hard, protective cup-like structures: The Greek root 'eu' means 'well' and 'calyptos' means 'covered.'"

Considered exotic, the nouveau riche during the Gold Rush coveted this tree. That, and due to the massive deforestation brought on by the miners, The California Tree Culture Act of 1868 greatly encouraged the planting of many trees along roadsides to be used as lumber for the development of this beautiful city.

Again, in my inability to sleep and fantasizing about the beautiful architecture in Italy, it dawned on me how San Francisco has the exact same appeal: a constant repurposing of existing buildings during periods of growth. We have our "fortress walls" that shield out secret gardens. Many houses have multiple historic styles within a single frame. Buildings have changed from hotels to bars to post offices. And like Tuscany (in particular, and a landscape almost identical to the South Bay hills), this city's history is dotted with power struggles and property battles (though far less gruesome than Medieval style).

Little fact: During the Gold Rush, there were so many people flooding the bay that it became packed with abandoned boats. In order to compensate the need for development, these ships were repurposed into banks, homes and other businesses.

Also, during the Great Depression, not a single San Francisco bank went under, and in fact the city was so prosperous, both the Bay Bridge and Golden Gate were built in the middle of it.

Then, of course, is the never ending list of bizarre characters and their strange ideas of bettering this city. In this case, I'm thinking of Sutro's statues. Deciding that the classic look was something San Francisco needed in order to hold up as a world class city, Sutro scattered a bunch around town, including a line of them in Sutro Park. During World War II, afraid these statues would "make inviting targets for gunners aboard Japanese submarines," the city buried them. Apparently, they are still buried. Anyone got a shovel?

As I mentioned before, perhaps my greatest love of this city is it's self love. Everyday is a reason to celebrate, every afternoon an excuse to be with friends, to raise a glass, to ignore the passing of time. This too is a curse, in that it's almost impossible to stay indoors, productive, when that beautiful sunshine is beckoning. Well, that and when the mimosas start flowing...

According to legend, the mimosa was invented here, and, somewhat unlikely, invented by Alfred Hitchcock during a long night of drinking.

Long nights of drinking have also led to the creation of the Pisco Bunch, the Bloody Mary, and of course the Irish Coffee, just to name a few.

But before this gets too tedious, the last, and best thing I love about San Francisco is the people. As a kid, I found this city aloof, too damned cool, and though there is always the one sour grape, I have been truly amazed and blessed by the people who have chosen me as their friend. To my fellow adventurers, confessors, storytellers, musicians, artists, vagabonds and poets, stop leaving! This city, and yours truly, need you to celebrate every beautiful day in this breathtaking city, repurposing everything to meet our new needs.

"San Francisco itself is art, above all literary art. Every block is a short story, every hill a novel. Every home a poem, every dweller within immortal. That is the whole truth." -William Saroyan.

Expect more love letters to come...