photograph by Jessica Pezalla
When he was young (in the last century), dg had a thing for that 1936 (definitely before dg was born) Clark Gable movie San Francisco (with Spencer Tracy and Jeanette MacDonald). DG actually used to want to be Clark Gable when he grew up. Unfortunately, things turned out otherwise. But he did go around for a number of years humming that song to himself even though he lived in Ontario and did not see San Francisco until, um, 1969. But enough about dg. Here’s a lovely “What it’s like living here” piece from Danielle Frandina who actually lives in San Francisco and perhaps never even saw that ancient movie (forever twined in dg’s mind with SF)—a pleasant and striking contrast to the economic doom-sayers and the plate geologists who all see the state sliding into the Pacific figuratively or actually pretty soon. After reading Danielle’s words, I think we should all join Jeanette MacDonald for a rousing chorus or two of “San Francisco!”
dg
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What it’s like living here
From Danielle Frandina in San Francisco
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I grew up in Colorado, and if you’re from the West, but not the West Coast, you’re born with an innate suspicion and resentment of Californians. Back in high school, my boyfriend wanted us to move there after graduation, but I refused, choosing the deserts of New Mexico instead. During the mudslides and fires that plagued the Golden State in the mid-Nineties, I remember thinking some very insensitive thoughts about Californians, something along the lines of, “They’re getting what they deserve.” In my mind, California was Los Angeles, and Los Angeles represented all that was despicable and embarrassingly indulgent about Americans. But eight years ago, I loaded up a borrowed car with little more than my clothes, books and music and headed to the Bay Area for the sweet shelter of my two best friends, the debris of my former life smoldering in the rear view mirror.
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The Apartment
photograph by Joe Frandina
I live in a lemon-yellow building on Dearborn Street in the heart of San Francisco’s Mission District. It was built in 1910. This date matters. It means it was constructed after the 1906 earthquake, so I can’t gauge how the structure will hold up when another one of that magnitude hits. The Bay windows of my studio apartment face street-side onto three palm trees that guard a locally famous community garden, the oldest in the city. During a storm, the palms sway and shake so violently that it’s easy to imagine I’m witnessing a tropical storm. This sight always sends me back to the beach town of Mui Ne in Vietnam, where, as a lone backpacker, I was once bedridden for three days. In my fevered state, all I had the energy to do was watch the palm trees dance through the glassless windows of my bungalow as monsoon season really took root. Strangely, this is a soothing memory. I recall feeling no fear, no resistance, just letting the illness course through my body, being completely at ease with my surroundings and circumstances. I rarely feel that way. At ease.
My apartment is around the corner from what is now called the Gourmet Ghetto. Slow Foods Movement and Farm to Table restaurants line 18th Street. To explain to San Franciscans where I live, I just tell them my street is catty corner to Tartine, arguably the best artisan bakery in the city. On any given day, at any given time, there is a line around the block to get in and order a Morning Bun or Croque Monsieur. And it’s worth the wait.