“It’s not as giddy as before, but the old spirit and style is back,” Don says. “There’s a lot of optimism, even at a time when the rest of the country isn’t doing so well. San Francisco is feeling pretty good about itself and its place in the universe again.”
After drinks, I take a stroll through some of my old stomping grounds. I’ve never known a city—not London or Tokyo or New York —to change so much from one street to the next. And that is the case walking the three blocks between my hotel and Chinatown: the vibe turns on a dime, from urban sophistication to ethnic helter-skelter.
Forget trying to pigeonhole this city’s essence, any more than you can predict its capricious weather. San Francisco’s soul exists among a multitude of little quarters and neighborhoods, each and every one of them—the Latino-flavored Mission District, flamboyant, anything-goes Castro, old-money Nob Hill, new-money Hayes Valley—a reflection of the rabid individuality that makes this town tick.
Beyond the dragon-topped gate at the entrance to Chinatown, I’m comforted to see that Grant Street had changed little over the years: the funky Li Po Lounge is still there, smelling of stale beer and joss sticks; as are the shops bursting with oriental kitsch and a stupefying variety of cheesy souvenirs. I don’t remember them stocking knockoff Chanel as they do now, but in a way that makes North America’s oldest Chinatown feel even more like backstreet Hong Kong. And the way they do it—the shop attendant ushers you into a secret room in the back packed floor-to-ceiling with contraband luxury goods—gives the transaction an air of intrigue that ordinary souvenir hunting just can’t muster.
I’ve never known a city—not London or Tokyo or New York —to change so much from one street to the next. And that is the case walking the three blocks to Chinatown
At the top of Grant, I stumble upon another familiar sight, City Lights Books, whose shelves I used to plunder in my younger days. Long before I arrived on the scene, the shop was the cerebral matrix of the Beat Generation, where the likes of Allen Ginsberg and Ken Kesey traded in intellectual capital and conspiracy theories. Hanging a left onto Broadway, I continue into North Beach, the city’s longstanding Italian district (baseball legend Joe DiMaggio grew up here). Once a blue-collar precinct where spaghetti and meatballs was the acme of culinary expression, North Beach is now peppered with sleek espresso bars and standout eateries such as Cotogna, a cozy, brick-walled dining room serving spit-roasted pork and homemade pasta dishes like ricotta ravioli and gnocchi with nettles and chanterelles. Clearly, the days of Rice-A-Roni being the quintessential San Fransico treat are long gone.
