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.
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.
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