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The WashBu

I live in Pacific Heights just a few blocks from Danielle Steele’s manse-strosity. I’ve loved my apartment since the moment I stepped foot it in 3 years ago, and continued to love it even when my building caught on fire and it delayed my move-in for 3 months. Sometimes, when the weather is really hot, the old wood heats up and releases the smoky char smell that I associate with my first few months living here. But, I’ll admit there was a time when I would cringe when asked where I lived, and almost apologetically answer, “I live in Pac Heights but really because when I moved here, I had no idea where to live, and since I live on my own, it seemed the safest.” It may have taken some time for me to realize and accept it, but I fucking love it up here on my high hill.
About a year ago, I started seriously considering a move to another neighborhood, and naturally, since I’m a 20-something in a creative field, the Mission was my first target. After weeks of combing Craigslist ads and comparing location, amenities and price, I realized I already have one of the best deals in the city. The rent I pay for a fairly large studio (which has been called a jr. 1-bedroom on more than one occasion) in Pac Heights would get me a standard San Francisco studio in the Mission. But that’s not all it would buy me. I’d also get the pleasure of slipping on piles of human shit, getting ignored by better than thou baristas (excuse me, “coffee producers”), and getting hassled at 16th and Mission by creepers shorter than me asking “You working? How much?”
It’s easy to miss, since it’s not all up in your face like those damn non-profit canvassers I’m always trying to get away from, but The Heights has its own culture and community. We don’t have pop-up punk bands on the corner at 1:30 in the morning, but we have a very talented jazz musician who regularly sets up shop outside Peet’s, and he’s not scary, and he makes people happy. When the weather’s nice, the neighborhood doesn’t smell like human waste heating up on warm pavement, it smells like hydrangeas and sea breeze and bliss. Yea, I just said bliss. And we have homeless people, too. Only, they’re Pac Heights homeless people. Like Crazy Can Man, who goes through recycling bins wearing a professor-esque blazer and loafers and whistles along to a portable CD player, and the Internet Bum, who unplugs the year-round Christmas lights on Fillmore so he can power up his scavenged PC monitor, steal wireless from one of the businesses and watch YouTube videos all night.
So, basically the only thing that’s ever going to get me to move out of here is death, after which you’ll have to pry the key from my cold, lifeless hand. That, or another fire.
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