the Sugar Café

March 14, 2008. I am sitting in the Sugar Café located near the intersection of Stutter and Taylor streets in a San Francisco neighborhood, the name of which I am yet to discern. According to the handy city map that I have with me, I should be in Nob Hill, but I am not so sure. If I come across as geographically inept, don’t blame me, it is because this is only the third day of my first ever trip to San Francisco, a city so small (only 7 miles across) that it is sometimes difficult to determine the boundaries that separate neighborhoods.

(Case in point: within the space of a few blocks I circumnavigated, on foot, Nob Hill, China Town, the Financial District and North Beach all within an hour—ok, maybe a little more. Yes, San Francisco gives a whole new expediency to the term "walking city"! ) I wasn’t doing all that foot pedaling just to validate some taken for granted aspect of the city’s character. What I’ve been doing is hostel hopping and feeling a little bit like Joseph and Mary in Bethlehem hearing repeatedly from aloof hoteliers that there is no room in the inn.

That’s right. I chose, eyes wide open (and a little wide eyed too), to travel 7 hours from the New York City to San Francisco without prearranging room and board. Not that I didn’t try. I did, in fact, call everyone that I know in the Bay Area which, in any case, isn’t a lot of people, but none really had much to offer, although they probably would have if they could. I also spent considerable time browsing through craigslist where I actually found a few offers that seemed promising. But after corresponding with several potential landlords I realized that there was really no way that I could be sure what I was being offered 2582 miles away. Pictures aren’t always worth a thousand words. Most importantly, there was really no way to tell if I was being lured into a seedy neighborhood for the price of the Ritz. It is very unlikely that any landlord would tell you that their property is located in the underbelly of the city.

Apparently, landlords are also concerned about whom they rent to; there’s really no way to know you from a distance. This was a lesson I would learn when one seemingly promising landlord that I had spoken with over the phone sent me an email stating that he had rented out his room to someone else within the city area, someone that he was able to meet in person. So when I learnt that San Francisco has a lot of student hostels which rent out dorm space and private rooms at cheap prices, I decided that the best thing to do was to stay in one of those dorms for a few days while I explore the city and carry on a proper apartment search.

Admittedly, there was something adventurous, even apropos about traveling to a city known for its Bohemian flair on half a whim, but in retrospect, there probably weren’t many other options available to me. What I hadn’t counted on, however, was that San Francisco is a highly sought after tourist destination, particularly popular amongst students especially during Spring Break, and it was Spring Break. In the end, most of the hostels I contacted were either completely booked or had room for only one night, and this is how I ended up walking the walk in San Francisco and staying in two different hostels over three nights.

Somehow, in the middle of all my wandering, I have managed to find some respite at the Sugar Café. Every walker needs to stop from time to time, to recuperate and breathe the air around them and observe. This is even more pertinent in my situation considering the fact that during the course of my research over the last 10 or so months, I have traversed four major cities in two continents. Figuratively, if you like, I have been a walker. Because the three days I have spent so far in San Francisco have moved so fast, I have barely had time to ponder my observations. Today, as I sit in the Sugar Café enjoying a pulled ham sandwich, I notice things I have probably noticed before but this time through more critical lenses.

I notice that the clientele in here is really diverse: young, old, Black, White, Asian, etc. There are professionals in smug suits—lunch seekers from the nearby financial district perhaps, and, laptop armed students in hooded sweaters from the Academy of the Arts across from the café and plausibly other academic institutions. In between is a motley array that I have no way to place. To me, the diversity represented in this small space mirrors the much larger cosmopolitanism of the city. I am reminded of my first night in the city when I went to get dinner from a pizza store across from the Amsterdam Hostel where I was staying. The two attendants were a demure Mongolian girl who had been in the U.S. for only two years and a bubbly Russian girl, both of whom spoke perfect English. A couple sitting at a nearby table spoke in a European language (I don’t recall what language exactly), and I, of course, was taking it all in with my African eyes and ears. Such diversity is normal, you might say, for any major city like San Francisco, but I feel that there is something innately different about San Francisco’s diversity that makes it unique amongst cities like New York and Los Angeles.

I am still trying to place a finger on what makes San Francisco’s diversity unique. I am not yet quite certain but it is different. As diverse as New York City is, there is something insidious that rubs off on everyone regardless of where they are originally from; everyone ends up becoming a New Yorker! Los Angeles is the opposite of New York City, in this regard. So flat and spread out, and with prohibitive traffic, every group appears to simmer in their own enclaves, bubbling over only at transitional boundaries (i.e. Venice) where they sometimes create cultural expressions, often too marginal to outshine the suffocating glitz and glam of Hollywood. I think San Francisco’s (multi)cultural uniqueness has something to do with the distinct charm that each group: White, Latino, Asian, Black, bohemian, gay, straight, professional, collegiate etc. represented in the area bring to the mix. Each subculture contributes a brilliant sparkle to what might be considered an overarching San Franciscan culture without loosing their individual distinctiveness in the mix.

San Francisco’s charm becomes all the more compelling, cast against its breathtaking geography and architecture. Massive rolling hills and beaches characterize the landscape. The hills are sometimes so steep that your knees almost graze your chest as you ascend an incline (I am told this is good for the heart—sigh!). These lushly green hills form the backdrop for San Francisco’s unique Victorian houses which come in a flourish of brilliant colors and amazing baroque-like detail. Being at the summit of a hill is like being at an enormous picture gallery; every direction you turn promises a spectacular scene.

But right now, I am still inside the Sugar Café, typing on my laptop, and occasionally sipping hot apple cider from a mug. I look up and it is raining. Earlier this morning, it was windy and a little chilly, but showed no sign of rain. I take another sip from my mug and when I look up again, the rain has stopped. I am surprised. But such erratic changes in weather, I am told, are characteristic around here. In the three days that I have been in San Francisco, the weather has fluctuated, going from chilly to sunny to rainy. (The one thing I might regret coming here is being unable to bring more sweaters in order to keep my luggage from tipping the scale).

Like most of my experiences, even the erratic weather speaks to me in its own unique way. Field research can be like the weather. I suppose anything that involves human beings can be that way. You never know what you will find, who will respond to your calls for interviews, which events will come to fruition and which ones won’t. You don’t know when traffic will hold you back, or when you will loose your way in a strange new city. You can’t predict when an informant will become suddenly indisposed (when you might become indisposed), what new precious informants you will unexpectedly find, and which highly rated ones will turn out being obnoxious nuisances. Like San Francisco weather, you just never know!

For now, I can breathe easy—at least for a while, because I have found a lovely apartment in the Castro/Upper Market area. Buena Vista, I am told the neighborhood is called. I am finally moving into my own abode after three nights of hostel hopping, and I am looking forward to settling down. …and to the vagaries of research, and to experiencing fully, the charm of the city.