San Francisco, Here We Come!
I used to spend a lot more time alone in the city. In my twenties, I would hop on the train and take it up to San Francisco. I'd sit by the window, preferably on the right side of the train and always somewhere in the middle of the train car. The train would pass by all the cities I grew up knowing from a distance, stretches of strip malls and homes and abandoned industrial lots seamlessly blending into each other. It was comforting.
After reaching the city, sometimes I’d walk up 3rd Street to go to the MoMa, where i’d wander around aimlessly for a couple hours, sometimes people watching more than looking at the art. I would feel silly for taking photos of my favourite art pieces, knowing my iPhone camera would never be able to really capture the essence, and then treat myself to lunch at the museum café where I'd splurge and order a starter, main, dessert and a glass of wine. Being alone in a city that felt so much bigger than me allowed me to romanticise being in my own company and appreciate how much life was happening outside of my own. I’d return home on the train around the time the San Francisco fog would start blanketing the city.
I decided to spend the day in the city alone. I haven’t done it since I was in my twenties, which feels like a lifetime ago, and in many ways, it is. I’m sitting on the ferry this time, instead of the train. It makes me feel more grown up and sophisticated: metropolitan or European or both. I sit in the big cabin of the ferry; it’s sparse with passengers and on the bar that’s stocked with generic liquor and energy drinks and bottled water is a white sign with big bold lettering that says closed. Out of the large window, the bay water glitters under the sun but is a sickly sea foam green that’s only made to look even more sickly by how blue the sky is. I decide there is no better way to get to the city. One woman sitting in the the front row is reading a book, and I’m impressed as the ferry gently rocks it’s way through the rolling waves. I sit behind a mother and daughter who speak quietly to each other and with a closeness that I observe tenderly. As the ferry bounces and rolls and gently tilts, I get a peek at the Bay Bridge between the space of their nearly touching cheeks. It’s a beautiful day.
The ferry docks at the ferry building on the embarcadero. We all get out of our seats and line up, patiently waiting to be let off. There’s that strange and unexpected moment of camaraderie that happens as we all quietly wait in line, giving each other knowing looks when someone is unsure of how to tag off their Clipper Card. As soon as we get off the ferry, we all scatter in different directions. I wonder where people are going, who they’re off meeting, what they will be eating today. I walk toward the ferry building because I decide I want to treat myself to lunch in the Ferry Market Building at Boulettes Larder, a restaurant I recently discovered on a whim with my partner on a day he decided to play hooky with me. The dining room of Boulettes Larder is dark and moody, which makes Wednesday afternoon feel like a Friday evening.
The bartender rushes me to the last seat at the bar, where I sit next to a young couple; the girl holds a single sunflower wrapped in cellophane on her lap. I’m charmed by the young guy sitting next to me telling the bartender that this is the best margarita he’s ever had and promptly orders a second one. I’m charmed by the bartender trying not to smile as he receives the compliment and starts assembling the second margarita with a renewed sense of purpose and vigour. I’m both charmed and irked by the man sitting across the bar who is stacking the crusts of his pizza as if they were Jenga blocks. The bartender asks me if I’d like a second drink. I think about it for a second, but I decide that I shouldn’t. He asks me if I need anything else, and I decide to order the berry crumble for dessert. He smiles and tells me it will be right out. I sit and wait and I listen to the chatter around me and the clinking of utensils and wine glasses and I watch the young girl with the sunflower on her lap open up her makeup compact and apply her lipliner perfectly. I notice another couple at the end of the bar where they both look bored and listless over their pizza, and I wonder if they’re fighting. My dessert finally arrives and I take my time and it’s then that I realise this is the best part about dining alone: it’s slow and deliberate and in the slowness, there is so much to be noticed.
I walk out of the ferry building, and it’s an abnormally warm day in the city. It seems as if the whole city is out, like everyone decided to skip work in celebration of a rare sunny San Francisco day. There is something about the weather that makes me want to walk all over the city; some people say that the best thing to do alone in the city is just to walk and walk and walk. So I do. I walk by the skateboarders doing tricks in the plaza, the vendors selling beaded bracelets, gemstone rings and woven bags and the stoic business men in their starched collar shirts. I walk through the Financial District and snake my way through the streets toward Chinatown. As I’m walking, the buildings change from cold and lifeless to something vibrant and weathered. I walk up Jackson Street under the floating crimson paper lanterns, and I can’t help but take a photo. I pass by the market stalls full of oranges, watermelon, mangos, bundles of chives and gai-lan, their prices marked on pieces of cardboard; glistening fish lie on beds of ice with their glassy eyes.
I stop to watch a man try to grab a large fish out of a tank with his bare hands for a customer. The fish’s tail slaps the water which sprays onto us. I don’t mind. I still stand to watch. The customer and the man are speaking loudly to each other, and I wonder if she’s trying to tell him a better way to grab it. The man drops the fish a few more times before he’s finally able to get hold of it in his hands, and he hurries to the back as the fish writhes and twists. I keep walking up the streets that are bustling with people, tourists and locals alike. I pass by Chinese bakeries selling custard egg tarts and pineapple buns. I stop at one and peer into the smudged and dusty windows. I am tempted to go in just to grab one or both as a snack, but I feel shy for some reason. I walk up Vallejo Street and decide to walk up to Ina Coolbrith Park. I climb the staircase, stopping every few minutes to catch my breath, and I think about how when I was 25, I walked up these steep flights of stairs on a first date, barely making it in high heeled knee-high boots, quivering and shaking, feeling like I wanted to die because I was too shy to ask him if we could please do something else when he didn’t notice my discomfort.
I finally reach Ina Coolbrith Park, and I breathe a sigh of relief. My upper lip is slick with sweat and I know my deodorant is failing me and I let myself crumble down onto a park bench to take in the view. I get up to take a photo of the skyline with my phone. and a girl who is sitting with her dog asks if I want her to take a photo of me. I shake my head a little too hard and I say, oh no no, thank you. She asks if I’m sure and tells me it would be a cute photo. I thank her again and decline her offer all in the same breath, and she shrugs and goes back to her book. I sit and as I stare out over views of the Bay, the crisp blue sky and the elaborate city skyline, I realise it’s beautiful but that it was more beautiful when I was 25, clueless and wanting to be loved.
I relax more into the bench, letting the sweat on my upper lip evaporate on it’s own. There are ten or so people doing the same thing as me. Some are reading books, some are sitting in a meditative way with their hands folded neatly in their lap, some are just staring in a dissociative calm at the view. I think about how in my twenties, the city held so much romance for me and how everything was beautiful to me; meeting a date at a shitty bar in the mission felt thrilling, hurriedly running in the rain without an umbrella near Hayes Valley to grab a quick dinner with a guy who wasn’t that interesting but I convinced myself that he was felt like a scene out of a movie, nursing a hangover at Monsieur Benjamin with a girl friend had me believing that I would figure everything out so soon if not now. Even a slice of white pizza from the pizza shop in the Mission after a late, late night had the power to make me feel so wildly free. I take one more deep gulp of the city skyline, and I wish i could go back in time, just for a moment, to tell 25-year-old me that the next time she comes to this park, it will be a decade later and she will be loved by someone who wouldn’t make her ask.
I walk towards North Beach and I text my partner to inform him that I haven’t called one Uber yet and I ask him if he’s surprised. He says he is. I put away my phone, and I walk toward City Lights Bookstore. I walk by Molinari Delicatessen, peep in to see if I’m hungry enough for a sandwich but decide I’m not so I keep walking. I love North Beach. I love that it feels garish with the fluorescent and flashy signs that scream: best girls in town! For the gentlemen’s clubs and topless bars and what seems like hundreds of Italian restaurants that boast the best this! and the best that! are crammed into just a few blocks. There is something that still feels untouched and pure about North Beach, and I have a strong affinity for this area of the city. I’m standing at a traffic light waiting for the light to turn green so I can cross the street when an older lady holding two packs of toilet paper and one pack of paper towels in her frail arms says something to me. iI pull out my headphones, and I ask, sorry?
She tells me she is a psychic and, although she never does this (this meaning approach strangers at an intersection) she must tell me the message she’s receiving. Her eyes are large and brown, heavily lined with thick kohl eyeliner, her hair is dyed a severe and harsh black that looks unnaturally crisp under the sun, but her dress is beautiful on her and drapes softly over her shoulders. She looks like she believes what she is saying and, for a minute, she makes me believe her too. In a raspy voice, she tells me to follow her to her shop, just over there, where she’s been for over 25 years, and I find myself following her while offering to help hold her groceries.
Her shop, which is also her home, is palatial in a way that catches me off guard. Outside of her front door is a large orange sign advertising her psychic services; she promises truth and clarity that will set you free. We walk up the long narrow stairway up to her flat, and when she opens the door, it feels like a miniature Versailles. Large floor-to-ceiling windows take up one wall with a perfect view of Columbus Ave. There are enormous ornate velvety Victorian couches in her sitting room painted in a rich gold lacquer. Her armoires are filled with objects that look expensive and rare. Multiple crystal chandeliers hang from her ceiling, and the carpet is thick and plush and a deep baby blue that makes me think of Marie Antoinette. Her house smells of stale cigarette smoke, and on the coffee table is a beautiful gilded ashtray which makes her home feel even more opulent.
She urges me to sit on one of the gaudy Victorian couches, and she asks to see my palm. I tell her I’ve never done this before, and I suddenly feel nervous that I made a big mistake by following her here. She looks at me in my eyes, then back at my palm which I am embarrassed by because my hands are red and swollen from walking so much in the heat. She starts telling me about myself, which i’m surprised by because the things she says are somewhat true. She tells me I'm this and I'm that and I don’t always do this this but I have problems with that. Then, after a long dramatic pause, she tells me I am cursed. She tells me there is a deep and heavy curse put on me by someone close to me who wants me to fail, this curse is insidious and wants to take over my life and it will destroy everything good I am building in my life whether it be in my work life or my romantic life or my friendships. She tells me, with her eyes never leaving mine, that this evil spirit won’t stop until it succeeds.
She squints her eyes and looks in the middle of my forehead—it makes me self-conscious that my makeup looks patchy—and tells me that the light of my third eye is nearly closed and once it is fully closed, which can be in an hour, tomorrow or a week, nothing and no one can help me. Not even her. But, she tells me, for $800, she can rid me of this curse, find out who put this on me and make my life new again. She tells me it’s a 3-day-long spell where she lights candles at a holy place for 60 days and that within this time, the curse will be lifted and the evil spirit that is haunting me will be banished.
I choke back a laugh, and I thank her for telling me this but I cannot pay $800 even though I wish I could. She clicks her tongue and shakes her head almost in disbelief. Honey, this is serious, your life is in danger and I want to help you, how much can you pay today? I tell her I can pay her $20 for her time but I absolutely cannot pay $800. She tries to scare me again by telling me that this curse is almost done consuming me and what then? What will i do? There will be nothing I can do. I tell her I'm going to think about it, and she takes a deep exasperated sigh because $800 will not be made today. Okay honey, but don’t tell anyone about this because once the spirits know about it, it’s out of my control. She hands me her flier with her phone number on it before I leave and tells me that she’s been doing this for 25 years and she’s never felt the urge from god to stop a stranger to send a message like this. She tells me I am both special and cursed.
I quickly bound down her narrow staircase back to Columbus Street, and I nervously laugh at myself over this strange and ridiculous experience with a psychic in the middle of North Beach. I go to City Lights Bookstore, where I ruminate over what just happened while browsing their insanely well curated book selection. I decide to buy The Adult by Bronwyn Fischer and make my way to Washington Square in the heart of North Beach. I see a young child with a mop of brown hair eating gelato in a little cup with a plastic yellow spoon, and suddenly I need gelato to rid me of the unsettled feeling the psychic gave me.
As i walk to find a gelato spot, I know realistically what she’s saying isn’t true and it was a ruse to get me to spend $800 on this 72-hour magic spell, but I can’t help but wonder, what if? I walk into a random gelato place that looks promising on the outside but depressing on the inside. It’s painted a dull grey and dilapidated with scuffed up mirrors lining the walls, flies buzz around the cash register and the flavours are limited. The guy scooping my chocolate gelato looks miserable. I want to change my mind, but it’s too late. He hands me my little cup wordlessly, and I thank him as I turn to leave. I walk to Washington Square, and I sit on a bench that’s partially in the sun but mostly in the shade next to two older men sipping tall cans of beer out of paper bags. Because of the warm weather, people are spread all over the grass with their beach towels and chairs, tanning and drinking bottles of wine. There is a beautiful girl with long dark hair in a white bikini in the middle of the park’s square who sits up from her beach chair and stretches her lithe frame before gathering her things to leave.
One of the two men whistles under his breath, just barely audible, and they talk about her in a way that is full of a boyish admiration and longing; it strikes me that none of it sounds perverted but rather, there is a tone of gentle wistfulness. They admire her between themselves from afar, in a way that makes me feel they wish they could be young men again, where they would maybe be brave enough to walk over and say hello, but knowing their time has come and gone so this type of beauty is one they can never touch again.
My half empty gelato cup sits on the sunny side of the park bench, slowly melting. The two men next to me see someone named Ronald on the other side of the park slowly making his way toward them. One of the two says, oh shit I don’t want to deal with Ronald today, let’s go. They quickly chug the rest of their beers, and they grab their bikes to leave. In my head, I wish them well.
It’s almost 5 pm, and I want a glass of wine. I gather my own things and dump my melted gelato in the trash. There is a man screaming on top of his lungs about his mother being a CIA spy, there are families waiting in line for a table at the pizza place across the street and young women in breezy sundresses oblivious to the men ogling them as they thank the gods for a warm summer day in the city. I stop by The Stinking Rose despite it being a tourist trap to sit outside and drink a glass of rosé in a failed attempt to relive a nice memory from years ago. I ask if they have french fries, but the server tells me they do not, only bruschetta. I order a glass of the worst rosé I’ve ever had and barely manage to drink it, as it goes down like vinegar. I think of how I could have made my way to Bar Jabroni instead but here I am, suffering through a glass of wine trying to relive a memory that cannot be relived.
I take my first Uber of the day to Zuni Café, hoping I can grab a seat at the bar. I walk in, and this SF iconic restaurant is already bustling but the bar seating is surprisingly open. The hostess guides me to a cosy nook in the corner, surrounded by windows and bathed in light. I love Zuni Café for the illusion it feeds me. It deludes me into thinking that, for an hour or two, I am a different person living a more luxurious life. I am a woman who eats steak frites alone on a random Wednesday evening. It’s the starched white tablecloths, the stoic bartenders, the exaggerated performances of other guests with their expensive polished outfits and snippets of their conversations that float through the air like a symphony. As I drink my Aperol spritz and pretend to read my new book, I observe the man across from me as he waits for his date nervously; his hands switch from rearranging his knife to his fork and then back to his knife again.
He fidgets and looks at his phone every couple minutes. Finally, his date shows up, and they embrace in a hug and he looks more nervous than before. My server comes by and tells me my steak frites should be out in a minute and asks if I need anything in the meantime. I order a glass of red wine, but I ask him if he’s comfortable choosing something on my behalf. Something lighter that goes well with steak frites, I think. I'm slightly tipsy from the shitty rosé and the Aperol spritz, and I can feel my tongue is thick and my knees feel warm and I don’t know how to pronounce any of the wines on the menu.
My steak frites finally arrive, and I exhale a sigh of happiness. It’s beautiful, and my slightly drunk self is in awe that I get to enjoy something so perfect. The meat is tender and perfectly seasoned, the frites are crispy and piping hot and so perfectly golden that I want my life to be illuminated in that colour. The act of enjoying something so delicious and simple feels euphoric, and I feel insane for enjoying it so much. I wonder if I am drunker than I think I am. The server who looks more and more like brunette Troye Sivan with every sip of wine I have drops off the dessert menu after I am finished demolishing my steak frites. I break my own rule by not ordering dessert because I am not sure i have the appetite for it, but as soon as I sign the check, I regret not ordering a slice of the gateau Victoire. This is good reminder that I should not break my own rules.
On the ferry ride back across the Bay, I think about my day alone. Sometimes I worry that, for many of us, spending time alone is a lost art. I think about how sometimes spending time with yourself isn’t really about doing as much as you can in one day or seeing the coolest things or making a point to go to visit every trendy café or restaurant. Instead, I think spending a day alone in a place that is so big and has so much to give is about letting yourself feel small. It’s about wandering and walking aimlessly, the sweat on your upper lip as you climb a flight of stairs, it’s about finding the strangers that make cameos throughout our day entirely charming and endearing. It’s about the shitty glass of wine, it’s about the way we let ourselves be overcome with delight from a great meal, it’s about the way we let ourselves reminisce without feeling nostalgic.
And, most fervently, it’s about the way we make the time to exist quietly for just ourselves.
Ethaney Lee
Tender and talented and wide-open to life around her, our friend Ethaney is the kind of observer we could only ever dream of being. Sharp and incisive (and with a strong understanding of what’s good and what’s not), she’s on speed-dial whenever we need great tips in San Francisco or Santa Fe or London or Copenhagen. When she’s not cooking up beautiful, delicious things in the Bay Area, she’s penning her moving newsletter, try a little tenderness, creating content for brands she aligns with or exploring the world with fresh, wide eyes.
