San Francisco from the heights has been a blessed safeguard, allowing for immersion by inches, but I belong down in the City, in the deep end of the pool. It's strange to ponder how the minutiae of this City is so intriguing. San Francisco makes the best sense when footsteps go weaving between drops of rain, gusts of wind and voices chattering in bars, coffee shops, hotel rooms or alleys, where strains and/or strands of inspiration evaporate much more quickly, like a pen tracing a shape on a Zen board. Life's day-to-day things have always been a matter of fitting more and more into what little space is left inside boxes, while making sure they are taped together well enough. But duct tape is only the fabric of the material universe. Some boxes just need to stay upended.
A shopping list of seven SRO rooms has been narrowed down to three; two are in the Castro and one in Civic Center. Both Castro rooms are good for location, but not low-income friendly and lacking in charm and warmth. In contrast, the Civic Center room is the bear-managed/operated, which said "feasible" in February but says "act now" in April. The manager recognizes me vaguely from February, and provides keys to three room all fairly similar. The third room is upstairs at the end of the hall, just a few paces from the shared bathroom, and the walkway is five feet in on the left. It's a basic room, bed, dresser, open closet, secretary, television that gets one channel. That'll do, pig.
Finding the room satisfactory, I pay first week's rent plus key deposit at the front desk and take the key to Room #225 at 1139 Market St., the National Hotel. Even if it's not an SROs in the Castro proper, it's is clearly the best of the bunch for price range. From here, hop on the 35 to pack up, first walking up to tell everyone a room has been secured. Dusty follows behind downstairs to help pack and then we walk up for our last meal together. "I don't have words to express how grateful I am for your hospitality. If it wasn't for you, my adjustment period would have been much different. Thank you from the very bottom of my heart." We drive down the hill and park underground in the garage next to the building, taking three trips each up to the room, the last one ending around 8 pm. A hug and kiss etches this chapter closed.
I unpack a few things and station them temporarily Snugglefest is just three weeks away and there's not a moment to lose in the planning. An hour passes, but sleep is nowhere near; no better time for a long walk. The City is now a big backyard to walk from this perimeter to that, and one of the usual paths will be the 1.5 mile stretch down Market between 8th & Castro. These walks will become a staple during my residency, and they can happen any time, day or night.
On foggy evenings, these evenings will bring the illusion of isolation, so thank your lucky stars for friendships already struck. There's a lot of sticker shock at seeing all these 6- and 7- figure listings posted in real estate offices, for places with half the price tag in San Diego but not more charm. If all this mist gets too damp, hop on Kate Bush's "Rocket Tail" and fly above the Castro to Market St, halfway up to Diamond Heights, where cars line the streets to see 4th of July fireworks. Request your return trip around closing time, when the italic stumble of drunken bar critters spreads out in every direction. Pray that they live close enough or that there's a queen sober enough to get them piled in a cab and home safe. It's tempting to just laugh at their antics, but it's more sad than anything to see these queens and dolls carry on. Imagine being so white that you think you don't think you have to be aware of your surroundings. This will be the source of some incidents that smart like hell later that summer.
©2016 Eric Franklin Crow
