Seaward

Irving Street

Day 122
Neighborhoods Covered: Outer Sunset
Streets Completed: None

Past a certain point, the Sunset stops feeling like it belongs in San Francisco. Nor does it really feel like a California beach town, as it's among the least likely to be sunny and clear, its name notwithstanding. The first time I ventured into the Outer Sunset beyond Lincoln Boulevard, I immediately thought, Wow, it's like the Jersey Shore in the off season. That impression has stayed with me, despite the fact that I've never actually been to the Jersey Shore.

From somewhere in the mid-teen Avenues (around 14th, maybe?), there's a slow but steady dip down toward Ocean Beach. Into the 30s, that dip gets more pronounced, and it's clear that you're walking downhill as you head west. It's also clear that the vast bulk of the city's commerce and services lie behind you, as there's precious little by way of retail once you cross Sunset Boulevard. There are a few rough-around-the-edges beach motels, a smattering of restaurants (including a sushi place I remember going to with Julie and Dana many years back, though why we ventured so far out for good but unremarkable sushi, I can't recall), a co-op grocery, a surf shop, and Java Beach--an institution, as far as I'm concerned). If you have greater needs, go elsewhere.

In part, it's this paucity of commerce that makes the neighborhood seem like a coastal town that's been drained, if temporarily, of its lifeblood. There are plenty of houses--in fact, they're as tightly packed as they are throughout the rest of the Sunset and the Richmond (although I must say that the O.S. is in the running for Greatest Number of Architectural Atrocities in the City and County of San Francisco)--but there always seems to be something oddly hushed about things out here. Come on a Sunday afternoon and you may hear the sounds of TVs escaping from a few windows, and may see a few people out on the streets, but you won't encounter much more. Come on a foggy, windy evening and you'll swear the whole neighborhood has gone empty.

Having lived my entire childhood in a beach town that went exceedingly quiet in winter, I can appreciate the beauty of that silence and solitude, but I also know the sense of desolation that can grow out of the quiet. As I walked today, I thought of the Jersey Shore (still, inexplicably), thought of Niantic, thought of how little I'd want to live out in the city's westernmost stretches, despite the possible preponderance of cute surfers. As much as I love the ocean, and would be a miserable git if I didn't live in relative proximity to the water, I don't think I could handle the sparseness or the silence.

So I took Irving to the Great Highway, walked a block south to Judah (past a sweet little mini-park bursting with beachy plants), and, not un-gladly, headed back toward parts livelier.

Peaks and a Valley

Stanyan Street

Day 112
Neighborhoods Covered: a sliver of the Inner Sunset, Cole Valley, Upper Haight
Streets Completed: Carl, Grattan, Alma, Rivoli, Downey

On Thursday, after a quick trip to a client at the very beginning of Irving Street, I braved the insane wind and walked east. Carl Street I know well, but much of the rest of Cole Valley is uncharted territory. In fact, beyond Carl and Cole streets, it's sort of terra incongita. So I took myself down a few of the little slips of streets that weave between Stanyan and Belvedere to begin to remedy that.

Cole Valley sits beneath several tall things: Mount Sutro, Twin Peaks, and Buena Vista. If you cannot see Sutro Tower looming above you, chances are you're not actually in Cole Valley. And yet, and yet: from the little neighborhood park between Rivoli and Alma, I could see, to my surprise, a good deal of the city stretching out below. To the north I could pick out USF, Lone Mountain, and a swath of the Richmond; to the east, downtown. But how come? I couldn't recall having walked uphill to any significant degree, and, especially from the edge of the park, could almost feel Mt. Sutro hulking behind me. My sense of altitude was skewed, to say the least.

I suppose the city's Valleys--Cole, Hayes, Noe (am I forgetting one?)--share some similarities: a strong neighborhood-y feel, lots of babies in strollers, sweet little main drags. But somehow, perhaps by dint of being nestled between hills high enough to actually make it feel like a valley, Cole Valley seems different. Quieter, perhaps. Cozier. Greener.

Leaving Cole Street for another day, I finished off Carl and took Stanyan a few blocks to Waller in order to complete the western stretch of the street. I veered off at one point onto Downey, on which I was conscious of going uphill--and then back down again. By the time I hit Waller and Scott, I was ready to hop on the 71, so oddly tired and draggy was I. But although I actually managed to pass a bus stop at the same time a bus was arriving, I goaded myself on (because, really, it's a matter of blocks), and walked my weary self home to my own valley.