Part 3: The San Francisco Years (29-30)
Ah, San Francisco you totally stole my heart. I arrived in summer and as Mark Twain so famously said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” Freezing! But stunning. The way the fog rolls in at the end of the day is simultaneously eerie and wonderful. You get that sense that night is coming and something mysterious is on the way. All around the hilly city, lights start flicking on, winking at you through the gloom. No matter how warm the day is you can’t afford to go out dressed in something light and breezy in San Francisco, it’s going to be chilly by the time the fog moves in.
I landed in the city in the early ’90s just when grunge was emerging, and the rave scene was building – the Punks had found a new way to express themselves. I was a teetotaler, dedicated to clearing my head and finding my way. I was intrigued by the coffee scene, the artists in SoMa (South of Market) and the groovy bars in the Mission district (sparkling water please!)
I had a few friends in the city and got a job as an assistant at an art gallery for $6.00 an hour. Yay! Because of what I’d been doing in Miami, I was particularly adept at working with artists, so they put me in charge of their shows. I usually like to keep my past under wraps, so they were surprised at how good I was at managing the talent (no joke, an ex-Factory denizen wanted to set me up with my own gallery back in Miami). I’d work in the gallery by day, taking my lunches at South Park, where I basically napped in the grass, and then out at night with friends.
Back then, my friends in the Mission, aka locals, were seriously worried about the yuppies taking over – this was pre-Silicon Valley. Sorry, I think they won that battle. But when I was making the rounds there was a genuine underground.
With my blonde hair and colorful Miami wardrobe, I had to fight to be taken seriously by some of the artists we hung out with. I remember one particularly earnest young poet admitting his shame over judging me because of the way I looked. That old story has so many facets.
One of the girls I met who became a good friend lived with a few roommates in an old, slightly decrepit mansion in the Mission. I’d stay with her on and off then, and years later after I had moved to New York. She was an original, this young lady. In fact, she was one of the first people I knew who went to Burning Man when it was still running under the radar. In a tent on a camping weekend I watched with fascination as she sewed fur onto the lingerie she planned to wear on the plateau. She had a bedroom in the manse with a bed fitted into the bay window. Jasmine grew in from outside and down onto the bedpost, sweeping your face as you slept. If you know anything about archetypes, she is totally the Child.
I loved San Francisco. All the cool restaurants and parks, and the great places to decamp to outside of the city if you need some warmth and to experience the beautiful California outdoors. There was a real underground art and club scene, like Miami. It was an interesting time, for me and the city, but I decided that if I was going to make the big move, I should go to NYC. I was inspired by all the artists I’d been working with. I’d started a new manuscript and I wanted to see if I couldn’t try again – to throw my hat into the ring as a writer. New York was the place to be: the big apple. So, I cut bait and headed home to Miami, to save some money before going north.