San Francisco is my city and I love it. But our 16-year relationship — at first superficial, then rocky, and at times tumultuous — took a long time to gel.
My husband’s job brought us here in 2003. We showed up with a small moving truck, a 10-month-old baby and, admittedly, a “what the hell are we doing on the West Coast” attitude. Torn from my family, friends, and career in New York, I made my husband promise that our Bay Area stint would be two years, max.
Ah, but it was September — San Francisco’s most enchanting month — and during those first few weeks the city managed to lure me in. I felt like I was floating through an extended California vacation. As I unpacked boxes in our modest Marina apartment, I stared out the window at blue skies, wide pedestrian sidewalks, and joggers setting out for the waterfront. At night, I was lulled to sleep by the deep moan of foghorns. We found San Franciscans more laid-back and open-minded than their Manhattan counterparts, less interested in a person’s line of work than in their interests and passions.
However, when the sunshine gave way to our first rainy season, homesickness set in. I began to lament the quality of the pizza and lack of late-night joints. I couldn’t understand how anyone could park on a 30-degree hill. I was turned off at dinner parties when the conversation inevitably turned to weekends in Napa or Tahoe; as a girl who preferred books and theater to wine tasting and skiing, I felt out of my element. And when December rolled around, the 60-degree temps made it hard to get into the holidays.
While San Franciscans assume newbies have come to make money and run, seasoned New Yorkers don’t question where you came from or whether you’ll stay.
Sure, I was being judgmental. But it felt like San Francisco was sizing me up too. I liked to wear dresses and heels instead of fleece vests and sneakers, and other moms at the playground teased me about it. If I brought a non-organic snack to playgroup or failed to compost food scraps, someone would sweetly reprimand me. People were taken aback when I told them I had never tried yoga nor worked in tech.
Our neighborhood was a mix of longtime residents and newbies, and there was palpable tension between them. Some who had lived in the area for decades complained about the young professionals coming in droves, driving up housing prices and traffic. They probably saw us that way too — nice folks, but outsiders who would breeze out of here as soon as another job took us elsewhere. At some point I heard that the women on my block got together once or twice a month, but newcomers like me were excluded. (I was eventually invited, but only after a couple years, presumably after I’d proven my loyalty.)
Looking back, as we approached three, four, even five years here, I honestly still didn’t consider myself a San Franciscan. Many people I know who have lived in the city this long agree. So why is it that, after that much time spent in, say, New York, it seems much easier to consider yourself a New Yorker?
Some would argue that assimilation is easier in Manhattan or even Brooklyn, where most everyone is a transplant (if just from within the massive tri-state area) and the ingénue experience is romanticized. While San Franciscans assume newbies have come to make money and run, seasoned New Yorkers don’t question where you came from or whether you’ll stay. They assume you are grateful to be living in the “greatest city in the world” — If you can make it here, you’ll make it anywhere — and see you as one more ambitious but soon-to-be-delusional player in a chorus line of hopefuls.
If San Franciscans view newcomers with disdain, New Yorkers regard them with “been there, done that” empathy. In addition, the sheer magnitude of a city like New York ironically makes it easier to blend in, because no matter who you are — writer or Wall Street trader, dancer or doctor — you will find your scene, your pocket of peeps.
Perhaps because of its smaller size and liberal vibe, San Francisco initially seems more welcoming and less dog-eat-dog than its larger urban counterparts. But with tech looming over every other industry, the city has become increasingly difficult to penetrate for those who work in more traditional or creative fields. Not only is it harder to find your social groove if you’re not doing the Silicon Valley thing, it’s also more financially challenging when you don’t benefit from stock options and IPOs. (How an insanely overinflated housing market is destroying the city’s diversity is a whole other important story.) On the flip side, if you do work for a startup, quality-of-life issues like long commutes and grueling hours can make it difficult to connect with people outside your company.
Because my husband worked at a financial institution and I freelanced part-time from home, we felt socially on the fringe. We were probably seen as too traditional for tech and too mainstream to be neo-hippie. Still, we met people through his job or by joining new-parent groups. We made friends with other transplants who felt the same uncertainty about San Francisco, but many moved out as quickly as they arrived. Some went back to the Midwest or East Coast to be closer to family. Others retreated to the Bay Area suburbs, citing the difficulty of getting their kids into good city public schools or a desire to be closer to Silicon Valley.
When we welcomed our second child, we began to look at the city’s various neighborhoods and explore long-term options. But the cost of owning, even back then, was astronomical, and the feeling that we would eventually go back east lingered. The nagging voice in my head — When is it time to give up already and move elsewhere? — is one that’s familiar to many who live here. For us, having an exit plan may have kept us in limbo, but it also cushioned us from the possibility that we would not make it in San Francisco.
At one time it would have sounded as woo-woo to me as chakra beads and ouija boards, but I think that once I fully immersed myself in San Francisco, I became more open to receiving its gifts.
Our test came in the shape of the 2008 financial crisis. My husband was suddenly laid off, and the decision of should-we-stay-or-go was thrust in front of us. We spent a month considering options on both coasts, but when he landed a new Bay Area gig we sat down with a bottle of wine, hashed out the pros and cons, and decided to give San Francisco another go — this time in earnest.
We thought about what we had here: My husband was usually home by six every night (not so possible in other cities). We had some great friends. The kids were happy at school. We enjoyed mild weather and fresh produce year round. We had to admit, life was good.
My husband took the job and we decided to stay. We managed to get our kids into a great elementary school and — after years of saving for a down payment and with the market finally softening a bit — we bought a house in the Richmond district. We even adopted a puppy.
It was our eighth year, and we finally felt vested.
In the decade since then, I have grown more and more committed to San Francisco. These days, I seek out organic food and compost. I drive up steep hills with dry palms. I shrug off minor earthquakes, notice subtle differences between the seasons, and even wear fleece vests from time to time. I chat with the owners of my neighborhood shops and forgive them for locking their doors before dinnertime. I meditate, and even tried yoga (although that one didn’t stick). I’m not sure if San Francisco grounded me or took the edge off my New York spunk, but it feels nice to be a slightly more mellow version of myself.
Looking back, I wonder if my life here finally clicked once we had planted roots, or because we merely surrendered to the possibility of a future here.
And if I’ve changed, our children seem like they were raised on a kinder, gentler planet. They are the quintessential San Francisco kids: socially progressive, environmentally aware, and mindful. I can’t say how they would be different had they been raised elsewhere, but I think it’s fair to attribute some of their hip, relaxed worldliness to this city.
I wonder if my life here finally clicked once we had planted roots, or because we merely surrendered to the possibility of a future here. At one time it would have sounded as woo-woo to me as chakra beads and Ouija boards, but I think that once I fully immersed myself in San Francisco, I became more open to receiving its gifts.
Around year nine, I remember going back to New York over the holidays and, in an interesting twist of fate, found myself bitching about it…Why were thousands of garbage bags piled up on New York’s sidewalks? Why did every driver lean on their horn? Why does my blood pressure soar as high as the Chrysler Building as soon as I land at JFK? I longed for my snow-free morning runs down Lake Street and restaurants that welcomed dogs and kids.
Not to say San Francisco is impervious to imperfection. As it’s grown richer and more populated, our city has assumed some of the negative attributes of other urban sprawls and whole new swaths of issues unique to here. My children’s school, once filled with down-to-earth, middle-class families, has been infiltrated by tech moguls who own private clubs. Obtaining a dinner reservation or a good doctor has become a competitive sport. And when you think about the incessant traffic, the lack of affordable housing, the homelessness crisis, and a rapidly expanding income divide, no wonder we are all getting grumpier and, yes, driving more aggressively. I hope that the city doesn’t lose all of what made it special, because the world needs more of it right now.
Even with the very real problems our city faces, San Francisco continues to win me over. Yes, you’re more likely to find me teetering down a steep hill in my stilettos than doing a downward dog. But I’m here, I’m all in, and I’m looking forward to lingering a bit longer in this city I’m proud to call home.
