We lived in San Francisco for almost 4 years, in an apartment one block down from the entrance to Golden Gate Park. On Sundays we would get a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle, pick up muffins from Just Desserts and take all that with a thermos of coffee to the Arboretum. If early and lucky, we would settle onto our favorite bench by the duck pond. We would converse with the mallards and wood ducks that would float by, noting which ones slipped through the tall grass to the smaller pond, the “love pond” as we called it. Yes, we had caught a pair or two cavorting in the small pond. We tried to give them privacy, but they splash quite a bit when they are … engaged in amorous behavior.
We loved to walk up to Stowe Lake and further up to Strawberry Hill. Our favorite Mexican restaurant was on the other side of the park and we thought nothing of walking 45 minutes to the restaurant and then 45 minutes back home, drunk on margaritas, looking for crayfish in the fountain in front of the DeYoung Museum. Our favorite Japanese restaurant was two doors down from our apartment. Our favorite pizzeria was across the street. Four bookstores were within two blocks of our home.
When we did take the bus or train, we would often find ourselves sandwiched between Financial District CPAs and residents of the Tenderloin.
This was 1986-1990. It’s not the same anymore, but it’s still where my heart is.