By Daisy Barringer
Whenever I meet another person who grew up in San Francisco, inevitably the first question I ask is, “Where did you go to high school?” If it turns out that we’re around the same age, we quickly move to the name game, the “What neighborhood are you from?” game, and the one-up-each-other-with-childhood-memories game. (For the record, I was at the Pearl Jam/Nirvana/Red Hot Chili Peppers concert on New Year’s Eve in ’91 at the Cow Palace. And yes, that’s my idea of bragging.)
It goes without saying (although here I am saying it) that everyone who grew up here had vastly different experiences. I imagine, though, that we all have a few things in common. And if for some reason you never hung out at the Lyon Street Steps or never did donuts in your car in the Polo Fields in Golden Gate Park, well, I guess it’s not too late?
Now unzip that Starter jacket, kick off your Pumas, and crack open your 40 while I take you on a trip down (my) memory lane.
This is where we threw keg parties under the dome, climbed up the pergola to smoke cigarettes, and “macked” on each other. Hell, I even once went into that swan- and poop-infested lagoon. (In my defense, it was a dare.) It still blows my mind that the police never broke up the numerous late-night parties we threw at one of San Francisco’s favorite wedding-picture destinations.
This Broadway strip club was the place to go. Back then it was an all-ages music venue. We’d lace up our Doc Martens, tell our parents we were working on a school project at a classmate’s house, hop on the bus with our $5 Fast Pass, and, once there, push our way through the crowd of “grown-ups” until we were right in front of the stage. Alice in Chains, Extreme, and Mr. Bungle (more times than I can count or want to admit) were just a few of the highlights. Mostly, The Stone taught me to be respectful of the giddy teens I see at shows now that I’m an adult, because while I’m having an OK time, they’re having the time of their lives.
A rebellious teenager’s dream. Before picking up jugs of Carlo Rossi and heading through the (always slightly terrifying) tunnel to Children’s Playground in Golden Gate Park, a stop at McDonald’s was always in order. We smoked inside, ashing our cigarettes into the gold-foil trays, and poured Kahlúa into our shakes — the perfect way to hide underage drinking while out in public.
As a kid, I came here with my family to rent paddleboats and see the turtles. As a teenager, it was all about sneaking across the Rustic Bridge (you know, the double-arched one) after the park closed to climb Strawberry Hill to the highest point in the park before settling on the rocks next to the island’s artificial waterfall. It also happens to be the place where I accidentally set my French-manicured acrylic nail on fire and waved it in front of my face for a few minutes, laughing hysterically before finally putting it out. You can probably guess the rest of the details on that one.
The best part about being a kid in SF? There was always somewhere to go, even when we had nothing to do. I hear about kids who nowadays hang out and drink in Wal-Mart parking lots, and I thank the gods above that I was lucky enough to be able to imbibe in some of the most beautiful places in the United States. Sneaking into the Arboretum after dark was tricky, but once inside, we had the place to ourselves. We’d explore the landscaped gardens, run in the open spaces, and — fine — I totally danced in the fountain on more than one occasion. They kept it lit and running all night long, so I basically had to.
I haven’t been back to this Chinatown dive bar in a while, but when I was 16 and 17, Li Po Lounge (called just Li Pos by the kids) was the place to go for underage cocktails. We’d hole up at a table and smoke cigarettes until last call or curfew — usually, the latter for me. (Thanks for nothing, Mom.)
These are the intersections of the corner stores we routinely hit up for our two-dollar 40s of Mickey’s, Olde E, and St. Ides. I only put this secret out now because I am sure the places to “buy up” have changed since my day. And I can only hope that today’s kids are smart enough not to drink malt liquor. Why did wine coolers have to be so uncool? Why!?
Two words — rope swing. I’ve heard it’s gone, but nothing was more thrilling than swinging out and across the lake, only to desperately pray that you’d make it back to the shore without falling in.
One of the most interesting things about being a kid is the intense desire to be old enough to make the rules, coupled with holding on to the things that keep us innocent. My friends and I grew up playing tag in Alta Plaza Park (when the bushes by the playground were still thick enough to hide scary peeping Toms, or at least that’s how I remember it). But the park was also our go-to “meet up” spot for our nighttime debauchery. This duality always struck me as sweet, if not weird. As you’ve gathered by now, 40s were involved, but we also swung on the swings while staring out at the city lights, spun on the merry-go-round until we felt sick, and camped out on the jungle gym. Ultimately, we’d end up lounging on a bench, our hoodies zipped up, winter hats pulled down tightly, laughing and telling stories, enjoying a perfect night in July.
I’ve fallen out of touch with a lot of the people I hung out with growing up, but my very best friends are still the ones I met when I was younger. Sure, now we go to wine bars and football games and things that cost more money than we ever dreamed of having back then, but when it comes down to it, all those days and nights spent roaming the city and creating crazy adventures and memories let me know that, ultimately, all we need is each other and this glorious city we’re lucky to call home. (OK, fine, and beer.)
What are you favorite SF childhood/teenage spots? Let me know in the comments. And for the record, my mom sent me away to boarding school. Hella harsh, I know.
