Tess F. Stevens
San Francisco’s self-care obsession is just another thing that makes its residents feel like they can’t catch their breath. As if rising rent costs, skyrocketing crime rates, political turmoil and the ongoing tragedy of the homeless crisis weren’t enough. Even though the goals of self-care are to relax and enjoy life, the path is now a rabid, stressful competition to get the most likes on Instagram.
Our new column The Wanderer follows young writer Tess F. Stevens through different threads of San Francisco culture, experiences, and issues. She hopes to challenge, connect and define some of the things we find difficult to put into words. I love San Francisco. It’s a magical city of opportunity, brimming with
Haight Street 2018, a buzzing motorized hallway filled with Ubers and Lyfts, and I’m in one with an eccentric former artist and now, photographer of “women over 50,” Denise, who has lived in San Francisco for 20 years. “What’s going on at the gallery tonight?” She asked, nearly killing a
A lot can happen in 50 years. Babies are born. Generations die. People get married, then divorced. Empires fall and revolutions rise — and in the thick fog of San Francisco 50 years feels like 50 million as the flower children of yesterday celebrate the anniversary of the greatest summer of their lives.