This article is part of I Love San Francisco, a feature series of essays that highlight what makes San Francisco iconic and irreplaceable.
People talk about Mission Bay like it’s not a real neighborhood. Just a sterile expanse of glassy biotech buildings and aggressively modern condos — and sure, there’s a lot of that. The cranes are still swinging, many sidewalks are wide and empty, and sometimes you get the sense that the whole thing was generated by an AI trained on phrases like “urban renewal” and “mixed-use development.”
But then I remember that Mission Bay isn’t actually soulless — it’s just playing hard to get.
It’s Cirque du Soleil defying gravity while I struggle to climb the stairs at Chase Center. It’s Bayfront Park, where I lie on the grass and stare at the sky like I’m in an indie movie. And it’s Cavaña, where I sit under mood lights, drink something with an orange peel, and pretend I’m in Miami.
Then there’s Spark Social, where I tell myself I’m just stopping by for a quick bite and somehow leave two hours later, slightly buzzed and holding a dessert I did not need. It’s a rotating parade of food trucks, lawn games, and fire pits — then suddenly, I’m roped into a game of giant Jenga with people I just met.
Not all San Francisco residents have been to Mission Bay, but all sports fans have. They know the pain of paying $40 for parking, the joy of sneaking in a burrito before tip-off, and the heartbreak of realizing the nacho cheese at Oracle Park is still the same after all these years.
Mission Rock is proof that if you build it, they will come — as long as “it” includes expensive coffee and at least one Michelin-adjacent restaurant. It’s got waterfront views, overpriced apartments, and Arsicault Bakery, which means buttery, shatteringly crisp croissants are now a Mission Bay birthright. Quik Dog has arrived to serve up high-end hot dogs, which somehow makes perfect sense in a neighborhood that barely existed five minutes ago.
This neighborhood refuses to let you be bored. Last summer alone, skaters launched themselves off a floating barge in McCovey Cove (because land-based tricks are so last decade), a free concert turned China Basin Park into an unofficial outdoor club, and kayakers in Giants gear bobbed along the water, proving that the best baseball seats are technically free if you own a paddle. And this was just one season. Give it a few months, and they’ll probably turn the whole waterfront into a pop-up surf competition-slash-food festival-slash-tech panel about the future of AI burritos.
Now comes Thrive City, which is what happens when a sports arena decides it wants to be a whole personality — and that personality is, “You should really start prioritizing wellness.”
It’s got outdoor workout classes, a place to buy juice that costs more than a burrito, and enough Warriors merch to make you believe you’ve been a lifelong fan (even if you just started caring in 2015). It’s got enough branded events to make you wonder if Chase Center is secretly running for mayor. Need a gigantic fake Christmas tree? Thrive City’s got you covered. What about a yoga class that makes you question your life choices halfway through? Look no further than the plaza, where you can stretch in public while strangers sip lattes and judge you.
At first, I assumed Mission Bay was what happens when city planners build a neighborhood exclusively for LinkedIn profile pictures. But then — bam! — parks. China Basin Park? Huge. Bayfront Park? Scenic. Crane Cove Park? Full of people pretending they don’t work in tech.
I came for overpriced lattes and glassy high-rises, but now I’m sitting on grass, watching kayakers in the middle of McCovey Cove, wondering if I’ve been an “outdoors person” all along. (Gross.)
Mission Bay is my favorite part of San Francisco, but let’s be real: It’s also a rental Hunger Games. I’m likely to get priced out just for existing.
My 700-square-foot dream apartment costs less than the current going rate for a particularly nice broom closet in Noe Valley. I love my place. It’s got a gym, a spa, a pool, and a level of tech-based convenience that makes me feel like I live in a high-end hotel. But reality check? My rent has already jumped 25 percent in a year, and I’ve seen my unit listed for $4,600.
I was never meant to live here forever. I’m just here for the two-minute walk to Giants games, the aggressively good weather, and the fact that Gus’s Market feeds me better than I feed myself.
Courtney Muro is a San Francisco-based content strategist, producer, designer, and creator.
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