Hike SF

An unlucky walk through Potrero could easily remind one of the worst sorts of suburbs–vast oceans of homes devoid of parks or businesses. What Ellie and I found on Saturday was much more interesting.

On Kansas, a block long condo defies the neighborhood’s old rule: one home per structure, two if yer sneaky. Flat faces, plain windows and boring colors leave one thinking the architect had lost his will to live. Fortunately trees across the street cast a shadow on the west face, robbing its visage of monotony.

Rhode Island loves Gothic imagery, but fears commitment. Lions, dragons, gargoyles and assorted mythical hybrids guard doorways and gardens. The leafy monster above was growing up the side of an Inn. Farther up lions with gold mustaches shooed solicitors.

After winding around the beer mug shaped block, we found that the delineation of the projects was very sharp. Shitty cars with sparkling rims wove back and forth, a drunk (or crazy) old man howled and gesticulated wildly on a street corner, and crushed cans of OE littered the sidewalk. Not on hint of this was visible even 100 feet away, due in no small part, I assumed, to the nearby homeowners having popo on speed dial.

Hungrily we perused posted menus along 20th and 18th, settling on Goat Hill Pizza, wherein oldies chime from the radio, and even older pictures of the neighborhood decorate the walls. To work off cheap and tasty dinner, we chose the hilliest possible route home, and I bored Ellie with a half dozen walking stories.

On Saturday I moseyed down to Mission Bay to finish off a few stray roads, and came back over Potrero. And I discovered a few interesting things along the way. First off, many streets that appear on maps near Mission Bay no longer exist. Mostly they’ve fallen to UCSF construction, which is slowly turning Mission Bay into a concrete and glass oracles to nursing. The common theme is an otherwise empty lot littered with I-beams, mounds of gravel, vacant machinery and occasional security guards. Of course these guards insist that you’re trespassing.

Second, following 20th Street to its very bitter end, you’ll encounter a few interesting things. Just beyond Tennessee you’ll find an abnormally large number of people waiting for the bus. The neighborhood otherwise has all the qualities of a ghost town, but for some reason at least 75 people will be waiting for the bus.

After Illinois you’ll find yourself in the docks. Three rent-a-cops will ask you where you’re going. Remind them that you’re on a public road and they’ll begrudgingly go back to eating their subway sandwiches. A beaten up old truck will present you with messages of hate (e.g. “FUCK YOU LARRY, SUCK MY DICK”) and a strangely large number of cyclists will ride by. Because you’re going to a dead end, if you’re anything like me, you’ll assume these cyclists are buying drugs in the boat house. I’m not a connoisseur, but this seems like a good place to exchange contraband.

When you near the end, you may be awe struck by a gigantic pile of scrap metal that includes multiple MUNI buses. Gates with barbed wire surround this pile, and proclaim US Customs ownership.

On the way back, I wound up through Potrero, eventually making my way down Vermont, a street which some conjecture is curvier than Lombard. Given the height of the stairs, Vermont is clearly steeper, and seemed to be windier. But unable to recollect a rigorous mathematical definition of “curvy”, I abandoned hope of ending the debate.