Ohio is for lovers as San Francisco is for park dwellers, thirsty after-hours wolves of FiDi, and ladies clad in Lulu (although lovers are hardly far and between in this city, and on any particularly unlucky day, can be witnessed engaging in some PG-13 gropage on BART or in the backseat of your Lyft Line).
My first three weeks of what I can best describe as re-urbanization after a scary period of pseudo social isolation in the Old Mission, has led to nauseating levels of happiness and some serious enrichment to my vocabulary bank. While I admit that I still have zero navigational skillz and regularly put my life, mobility, and much of my paycheck into the hands of varietally questionable Uber drivers, I believe I have earned at least a passing grade in the unoffish course of SF Sociology 101.
*Full disclosure– I may or may not have undergone this impromptu socialization the moment a nice bearded man backtracked a quarter block on his motorcycle to call me a whore en route to work. Happy Monday to you too, sir.
**…I would also like to add that on this day I was wearing a turtleneck. What. Gives.
A Brief (20 minute-MUNI commute’s worth, to be exact) Introduction to San Francisco Sociology
Chapter 1: The Park Phenomenon
And by “the park” it’s safe to assume that your galpals are indeed suggesting that you convene at Dolores in favor of 39 equally beautiful City parks, because it is “obvi the only park that really matters”. The space can best be described as a large grassy knoll (but not the Kennedy kind) of a watering hole, where Ray Ban-clad hipsternation gathers under blankets of billowy smoke and the resonating sound of self-proclaimed DJs, to bask in the mild-warmth of the ‘Friscan Sun.
Chapter 2: Happy Hour.
In my life prior to San Francisco, Happy Hour was an undesirable few hours to be avoided at the local TGIFridays or perhaps Chilis, where florescent tinged cocktails were served up in fishbowls and topped off with soggy paper umbrellas, and likely some Rufilin. In this city, Happy Hour is a way of life, and the liver is a force to be reckoned with…especially when every neighborhood bar boasts some combination of “the best, longest, and/or strongest” HH in the city.
Chapter 3: Marina Culture
AKA Newport Beach of da Bay– A coastal sector of the city that houses a collection of former naval buildings dubbed “Frat Mason”. ‘Nuff said? An impressive number of Lululemon yogis run the streets just as girls run the world according to Beyo, and on any given Sunday, brunch is a sport with a singular goal: make it to the bottom of the bottom-proof mimosa.
Chapter 4: Start Ups
Even Forbes can attest to the undeniable presence of a start up scene in SF, which has evolved into its very own culture– including but not limited to its own type of “guy”, preferred brand of ice cream, and softly pornographic billboard advertisements.
Chapter 5: Taquerias
Taquerias are the Subways of San Francisco. Behind the glass case of any particular Mexican taco eatery, one is promised fresh pico de gallo, sliced creamy avocado, and piping hot carne asada in lieu of creepy florescent banana peppers, nearly translucent lettuce, and a sad assortment of nitrate-coated deli meats. Employees of aforementioned Taquerias are generally accommodating and willing to lead you on your spiritual burrito journey, only making negligible amounts of fun of you for being a total gringa along the way, as long as you pop in before the hour of 1am when DABs drunkenly swim in the glory of their super nachos.