What it’s Like Moving Back to SF After 8 Years in Oakland
Photo by Dan Nazarian
In 2015, I moved from San Francisco to Oakland.
It was a big jump. I’d been living in Cole Valley and Lower Haight for about a dozen years, a whirling kaleidoscope of street festivals, loud bars, frenetic streets and the revolving cast of vagabonds always making their way through.
I look back fondly at the memories, even if half of them are ridiculous:
• Running Bay to Breakers backwards wearing a loincloth.
• Picking up dates at the pube-encrusted locker rooms at 24 Hour fitness.
• Packing into the sardine can known as the N Judah—and one day encountering first hand the horror of being on the same train as the infamous Serial Shitter.
• Having the balls to run through the N Judah tunnel on foot, from Church Street to Carl & Cole, dodging every train that went by. Damn, this tunnel is longer than it looks from out there, I always thought.
• Meeting cute guys at The Center SF, dropping acid with them, and jumping into the ocean at Baker Beach.
• 75 cent chicken buns in Chinatown. 8 dollar sausages in lower Haight. Pints at Zeitgeist, and tacos on Tuesday at the Park Chalet.
Those years went by quickly, whisking through my memory the way a flash of rain evaporates from a hot sidewalk.
Where I moved to in Oakland was the Gaskill District, a quiet neighborhood near Emeryville. It’s about a mile east of Ikea, I’d explain to people curious about coming to visit.
I left the buzz of one of the most mythical cities on Earth, and in exchange got to live on the same sleepy block as a church MC Hammer once performed in.
San Francisco had postcard-perfect hills and ornamented Victorian homes. Oakland was more down to earth: lots of convenient freeways and rustic Craftsmans.
I got used to it eventually. Very used to it. “If San Francisco is a double espresso,” I’d always tell my friends, “I think of Oakland as more of a milkshake.” Just look at anyone walking down the street: they walk slowly, a sexy stagger, and as you cross paths you make eye contact and say hello. Or at least nod.
The Grand Lake Theater in Oakland. Photo by Jeff Pierre on Unsplash
Whole Foods? No, Berkeley Bowl.
The wind-strewn expanse of Ocean Beach? No, I became a devotee of skinny dipping at the Emeryville & Berkeley Marinas.
There’s no “who makes the best burrito” argument in the East Bay. That’s one cliche I didn’t miss.
Heady sophistication? More funk.
And speaking of cliches—my Oakland neighbors on one side were a poly trio raising a young daughter, and on the other side was a black artist who may have been a lesbian. We texted each constantly and had long conversations over the fence.
I did not miss San Francisco.
I’d walk down my sun-drenched street, slow as fudge, past the church, saying hello or nodding to every person I passed, but alas now it’s over because I just moved back to San Francisco. The things I do for my partner.
***
Finding an apartment in San Francisco was not easy. There were two types of places on Craigslist and Zillow: (1) Dumps, very available. (2) Places I wanted to go tour, but were already rented an hour after the ad had gone up. Prospective tenants wouldn’t even request to tour these spots; they’d just hit the “apply now” button and get approved immediately based on their salary. This went on for weeks.
I was feeling bitter and skeptical of this move across the Bay.
I finally found a quirky apartment in the Mission, clad in brittle wood paneling and 1990s flair that the ad utilized to describe the unit as “newly renovated.” The agent who was showing me the place had to leave after a few minutes. “Hang out as long as you want, and just let yourself out when you’re done,” he said, then he left. Five minutes later he called and told me three other people were at the door and he wondered if I would show them around. I said sure. I realized I had the opportunity to make the place look bad so I’d eliminate any competition, but I did the opposite: I told them what the agent had told me, that the fridge was going to be replaced and that there was a working washing machine hidden on the deck. My highest self wants this place, I thought, and my highest self will act honorably. Indeed, I applied for the apartment an hour later and was approved.
I could see the original Phil’z Coffee out my window. Exciting! Except I don’t drink coffee. But I could also throw a rock at Taqueria Vallarta. Also exciting, because I love tacos. There—another San Francisco cliche, but very real.
My friend Marcus helped us move in. Really cool of him, because the place is on the third floor and we have a lot of heavy shit. As we were inside saying thanks, his car got towed from right out front. It had been blocking someone’s driveway by an inch and they called SFMTA.
The Mission District. Photo by Photo by Richard Lee on Unsplash
The next day, our U-Haul got stolen. This isn’t a joke or a weird euphemism. Our U-Haul got stolen.
A few days later I saw a person emerge from the house next door. That’s my new neighbor, I thought. I smiled big and got ready to say hi. They put in earbuds and bolted down the street without ever looking up.
I was back living in good old SF again, and damn was life cold. Both metaphorically and physically. Everyone seemed angry, and the fog rarely let the sun peek through. With tears in my eyes (maybe it was condensed mist) I remembered sunny Oakland.
On the bright side, I could walk or bike to work now. And I did that every day, six blocks of towering Edwardian houses, empty bags of chips, little kids on tricycles, broken vodka bottles, defunct toaster ovens next to tent cities underneath Chinese Elm trees a few feet from mounds of dog shit. Meter maids buzzing around, music coming from around the corner, old people chatting in the park, beautiful murals, joggers, and dried beer caking everything. I could get used to this, but it might take awhile.
Things didn’t click until July 4th. Independence Day in the Mission District. Damn was it a party. You know the fireworks the City puts on, the big ones in the sky? Regular people have those in the Mission. I don’t know if that’s new, or if I just wasn’t paying attention every year until now, but I’d ride my bike around the streets and risk getting set on fire by explosion after explosion. They’d deploy inches from the ground, creating a psychotic inferno of light and sizzle. At 25th and Harrison, one daredevil on a motorcycle drove right through one of the explosions, then a few guys on skateboards did the same thing, then later a person in a wheelchair. A few minutes later, one giant spark came in my direction and hit me in the chest. For the first time since 2015, I was enjoying living in San Francisco. I watched, heart pounding, grinning ear to ear, wishing I’d brought ear plugs, and just waiting for a car to explode.
Mission District fireworks. Photo by Broke-Ass Stuart
Later that night, I went up to Bernal Hill and looked out across the City. Fireworks everywhere, like candles on God’s birthday cake. It had the romance of Paris, the scope of the New York City skyline. But under the umbrella of fog overhead and the scent of burritos wafting from down the hill, it was uniquely San Francisco. And it was beautiful.
***
One recent Sunday, July 2023, I went to the northwest corner of the City. I spent time in the Presidio, where you can feasibly be surrounded by towering trees while seeing or hearing absolutely nothing man-made—an excellent opportunity in a metropolis with over 800,000 people crammed into it.
Eventually I became aware of a loud, ominous sound billowing across the landscape. A cyclist came up to me, pointed north, and had to yell: “The sound is deafening! I almost had to turn around and head back.” I looked out and realized she was talking about the Golden Gate Bridge. This was a particularly windy day, and the gusts tore their way through the metal and created a roaring drone that you could hear from miles away. It had a particular resonance, like you get from a metal singing bowl or a giant brass gong.
I kept walking around. The landscape unfolded more and more: winding paths. Sun-baked plateaus. A pine grove that smelled like the Sierras. Later, the overwhelming scent of Eucalyptus.
There were old, abandoned World War II buildings all over the place. And in this place of such peace and beauty, you couldn’t help but daydream: The old buildings were teaming with soldiers back in the day, soldiers all wearing tight military pants. Their muscles would ripple, their hair would tussle back and forth. They’d buzz around the Presidio, bumping into each other, all covered in sweat from the searing San Francisco heat. Every night before bed, they’d wrestle. In their underwear.
My daydream was interrupted by the sound again. It was getting even louder. Almost screeching.
Photo by Tom Briskey on Unsplash
I’d heard in the news, the temperature in Texas that day was reported to be over 120 degrees. Then I realized it: this wind was fueling the weather patterns in the middle of America. San Francisco was still a frontier town, a threshold between one thing and another. In this case, the energy above the Pacific Ocean, the greatest body of water on earth, would brew, filled with life and salt and molecules of mercury. It would get sucked through the Golden Gate, whoosh over our city of wood and concrete, and make its way east. We were a doorway from the wild of the planet into the heart of the country.
It made sense that so many innovators live in this strange place.
***
On my way home, I stop by the Conservatory of Flowers to smell the corpse flower that blooms every seven years.
I pass the ugly building on Stanyan and Fulton and think the architect should be tried for committing a war crime.
A car goes by, old computer monitors glued to it, brightly painted like a technicolor junkyard on wheels.
A guy walks his Pomeranian and it’s dyed pink.
On 20th and Capp, an outlandish sex worker walks their bike with a flat tire.
Empty chip bags are still on the sidewalk of my block, dried beer still covers everything, and music still blares from around the corner.
San Francisco, I love you.
Howdy! My name is Katy Atchison and I'm an Associate Editor for Broke-Ass Stuart.
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