I have always loved San Francisco. I say this without shame or passion. It is a statement of fact, something unalterable, like the sun rising or the smell of coffee in the morning.
This is the city where I spent my childhood and as a boy would walk the streets for hours at night, with nothing but the song of the wind whistling in my ears and the city and the stars about me. This is the place where I imagined that perfect love could be found, and instead discovered something entirely different. There is something about this city that beckons you inward and something that carries you further into the future than you ever would have thought possible.
They say that the waves end when they wash against the shores of the western beaches. This is not so. The waves do not end at the beach; instead their energy washes up the shores, through the streets and into the hearts of men and women.
One day, as I stood on Grandview Peak facing the cold brilliance of the Pacific, I asked the city to speak to me and listened intently to the sounds rushing up from the land below.
"Tell them that my name is wind and water." A barely female voice passed through my soul. I stood waiting for more.
"Can you feel the waves?" she whispered.
I looked across at the full length of a tree-tossed Golden Gate Park and over to my right, to the Sutro forest and the colossal red-and-white broadcasting tower where Sutro’s mansion used to be. I could see the bridge and the bay and, above all else, the city of gray and pastel that was founded with Franciscan faith and gold rush dollars. The riches are still here, I thought as the waves of energy washed over me. There were no other voices that day, but I came down from the hill as satisfied as a man can be, the clear, nereid light of the city in my soul and eyes.
San Francisco has been added to and changed by every generation that comes to inhabit the peculiar geometry of space, time and nature that constitutes its nearly universal appeal. Most historians will agree that the city that arose after the destruction of 1906 was not the San Francisco of the glory days of gold and greed.
This was a city where bare-breasted woman lounged in gaudy parlors and live sex-acts were performed before the turn of the century. Banquets were served for the price of a drink in hotels that would be impressive even today. The city of the 1930s, 40s and 50s was, in turn, quietly fashioned by successive waves of Irish, Italian and Chinese immigrants, who gave the city the style of a well-dressed lady. She was named after a man, but that was merely an accident.
I am reminded of an old legend concerning the devil and California. The Wind asks the Devil why so many places along the coast are named after Catholic saints. The devil responds, "Strategy. I sent the Jesuits before I came, with instructions to take all the best places. As I would have the people, the saints might have the names, and so I have lived in friendly intercourse with the church ever since." Indeed, the potential closing of a number of lovely old parishes, based on merely economic concerns, shows that this friendly intercourse with the clergy has both continued and prospered.
My first memories of the city are of its parks. As a child I spent many happy hours fishing on Pine Lake, building tree forts and exploring the nastursia-scented trails of Sigmund Stern Grove. Sigmund Stern Grove is a chasm, a wound in the flesh of the city. There is something mournful and dark about it, even on the sunniest days. This is a place that lends itself to contemplation and brooding.
There are seldom many people in the Grove at any given time, so be watchful. In this day and age, the homeless and the morally disordered make it less safe than it was in olden days. Nonetheless, on a clear day a morning visit and walk through the Grove will leave you with a sense of that unusual fusion between mankind and nature, that is part of San Francisco.