LaDonna

On Stow Lake
Golden Gate Park
Monday morning

***

There are moments that never fade with time. You can call them up in an instant over years, over decades, and their colors remain as brilliant as ever.

It has been ten years now since our big yellow moving truck lumbered out of the Waldo Tunnel and I caught my breath as the bright towers of the Golden Gate Bridge shot into view. That was the moment I came home for the first time.

I grew up in one of those wholesome towns in the Midwest, surrounded by a vast green ocean of cornfields. Despite a storybook childhood replete with fuzzy puppies and devoted parents, I hit puberty feeling like there might be something profoundly wrong with me.

I almost fit in, but not quite. Something was always off. I was never on the same page, the same boat, the same planet as the rest of my classmates, my friends or my fellow 4-H’ers.

By the time I reached my early twenties, I was living near Chicago, writing copy for an ad agency, spending my weekends as a black-clad club kid and penning maudlin poetry about my inability to find happiness.

Happiness isn’t a place, according to conventional wisdom. But I never was one for conventions.

I don’t know why I didn’t think of leaving Illinois sooner. Perhaps I was waiting for some kind of permission, some indisputable sign. It came in 1998 in the form of a guy named Bruce. We weren’t yet married when he pulled out a map of the United States, spread it open on the table and said, “If you could move anywhere in the country, where would you go?”

It took me about two seconds to say, “San Francisco.”

I had never been to the city, but I had heard the stories. I read the books. And as soon as I said it, I knew it was right.

Two years later, I sat weeping and astonished in the front seat of a moving truck as we rolled across the bridge, the fog reaching out to welcome us.

I can’t imagine myself anyplace else. This is where I belong, here in this beautiful city of misfits.

This city is more than famous landmarks and steep hills. It’s more than eclectic architecture and summer fog. It’s more than hippies and beatniks and liberals and homeless. It’s more than a muse, more than a melting pot. There is something inexpressible about this city, something virtually magical.

In San Francisco, you are allowed to be whoever you really are. This city will give you the chance to find yourself and the inspiration to make that self a better person.

From that very first day to this, I am constantly overcome with miniature love epiphanies as I wander around San Francisco streets. Topping Twin Peaks to see the whole bay stretched out before me like a promise. Watching the fog creep up Judah Street like a damp, benevolent cat. Running through Golden Gate Park in the early morning as the light begins to glimmer through the green. Feeling the salt coat my face as the waves throw themselves again and again onto the sand at Ocean Beach.

Every time it happens is new. No matter how many times I’ve seen it before, I fall in love all over again.

And so I’ve built a life here, at land’s end. I’ve discovered who I am. I’ve learned to be happy. I’ve come home.

***

You can see the rest of LaDonna's photo shoot here.

LaDonna's website (poetry, cinčpoetry, blog): http://www.ladonnawitmer.com/
Cinčpoem Channel: http://www.youtube.com/user/ladonnawitmer
Etsy store: http://www.etsy.com/shop/thisblankpage

Eric

Inside the Spreckels' Temple of Music (aka the bandshell)
Music Concourse, Golden Gate Park
Sunday afternoon

***

It's 1992 and I have to get out of here. I'm in Denver, feeling none to good about life and in a failed relationship. I actually received a decent tax refund that year, and figured that if I sold my car and a couple of trumpets, I might have just enough to get out... just. But where?

I'm a skilled audio engineer and a graduate of a great music school (though I hadn't played a note in two years). New York? Obvious choice. But I didn't know a soul there, and more importantly, it was out of reach monetarily. L.A.? Next obvious choice. But it seemed overwhelming, and in my current mental state, just too much to consider. I have a sister in Fremont.. that's near San Francisco. The one time I visited that city I felt immediately at home there. Hhmmm. I could ask her too look around for an apartment... Plus I can get around by bus and train.... done!

My first apartment was a studio on Powell Street between Bush and Pine. $650 a month! That was $400 more than my much larger Denver apartment, but I had to get out!

San Francisco was not easy at first, but the difficulties of finding a job, making rent, and daily life helped to distract me from myself. Broadcasting had been a home for me since my college days, and I found a radio job just in the nick of money-running-out-time. From there I got my head on straight, and in 1997 I thought I would go over to Union Music and see if I could still play a note. After seven years I had no strength or endurance, but the tone was still there, tone is everything....

There have been ups and downs, the same struggles as anyone, but San Francisco has been good to me, no doubt. I even met my wife on the 22-Fillmore! I've been here so long that I feel like a native, but the truth is that San Francisco adopted me, and that's why I live here.... and being close to the wine country doesn't hurt either.

***

You can find Eric performing around the Bay Area. Here are his links to a variety of activities...

His website: http://www.brassandzin.com
Cartoon Jazz Band: http://www.cartoonjazzorchestra.com
Quintet: http://www.hornsaplenty.org
Golden Gate Park Band: http://www.goldengateparkband.org

And you can see Eric's entire photo shoot here.

Abby

In the juniper bushes near the de Young Museum
Golden Gate Park
Saturday afternoon

***

San Francisco: The Suburban City

Peek-a-boo; I see trees…glorious, glorious trees. And they are everywhere in San Francisco! OK, so maybe there aren’t so many on Taraval Street, but I do take great pride in this whole backyard thing we’ve got going on in the Outer Sunset. And I must say, it’s a whole other world out here in the Avenues than it is in downtown San Francisco. Having grown up in New York City where my bedroom window overlooked a hard, grey, lifeless alley, I am really getting into experiencing these soft, green, living beings that never sway the same way twice in the salty Ocean Beach breeze… OK wind…OK torrential wind, depending on the season.

I admit that living out here took some getting used to. In Manhattan I was lulled (oddly enough) to sleep by sirens, car alarms, and that on-again off-again couple who would either be cursing or sloppily making out. It took me a good year or so to get used to the still and quiet. And at first, it was frightening! The thing of horror flicks. I expected Freddy, Jason, or even little, well-dressed twins to appear at any given moment in this suburban alcove of greater San Francisco. Once I got used to the peaceful nature of this community (and watched fewer movies), I noticed that there was, most definitely, movement and noise, albeit on a different decibel.

There’s the “L” train that can be heard in the distance, the creaking of a rusted swing set next door, that tsunami evacuation drill on Tuesdays at noon, those red-tailed hawks swooping across yards to look for gophers, that dude across the block who practices for his DJ gigs, the Australian Shepherds who are trying to get to know one another through fences, the crash of a white capped wave, and those trees, brushing leaves against one another like crickets. Ahhhh… to revel in the joys of suburban city life!

***

The rest of Abby's photo shoot can be seen here.

Harriet

Shakespeare's Garden
Golden Gate Park
Saturday afternoon

***

I first moved out west in 2005 to dance for the now-defunct Oakland Ballet. I had only been to California once before, for four days, so it was quite a leap for me to move here. I remember looking out the airplane window thinking we were landing on the moon. Cue dream sequence: "Sorry for the interruption, passengers. We've had to make a slight detour on our way to our end-destination of San Francisco..."

The landscape was different from anything I'd seen on the East Coast growing up. The hills were so brown and big and the sky was so blue. Living in Oakland was exciting, but limiting. I moved to the "Tender-Nob" once the ballet's short, 10-week contract was over. An excellent choice in hindsight - the Oakland Ballet went bankrupt shortly thereafter. Having missed all auditions for the following year due to injury, I started working as a legal assistant for an attorney in Noe Valley. Mr. Attorney introduced me to some of the finer culinary offerings in San Francisco. We had special lunches at Zuni Café, The Rotunda at Neiman Marcus, A16, and were regulars at Savor and Chloe's. Who am I kidding - we were regulars at Zuni, too. And yes, you should have the chicken.

While working my day-job, I kept taking ballet class and Pilates in hopes of finding a job. I know it's cliché, but I didn't seem to be in the right place at the right time. Worried about emotionally burdening The Boyfriend; he had followed me out here from DC in 2006. Getting really tired of acquaintances asking my why I didn't dance for San Francisco Ballet. So I took a nine-day trip to Germany, tossing around the possibility of relocating. Rumor was that Deutschland was the Shangri-la of dance opportunity for a taller, older dancer. On my trip I learned lots about Germany I liked - beer, culture, food, old buildings, trains - but I missed San Francisco.

I had a few auditions scheduled after I returned, one with Ballet San Jose. After the audition a trio of participants stayed to speak with the director. I felt good about my performance in the audition, and felt fortunate to speak to the Director afterward, but I'd had that feeling before. That feeling, the fluttery, suppressed nervousness, had been rewarded in the past with nothing. I waited, trying to convince myself I was waiting for nothing, or if not nothing, then at least more rejection. I was formulating plan-B's right and left. I was going to "get on with my life." The boyfriend kept talking me down.

The Director, Dennis, called me in August while I was shopping on Polk Street with a friend. I picked up the phone, nerves going haywire - no contract, but he was trying to find some money to hire me for the season; he'd call me back next week. I'd been around the proverbial block. I knew what that meant: we like you, but we're waiting to hear back from our first choice. But now there was a small part of me that was even more excited; my hope had rekindled itself. The week passed. Another week, and still nothing. Hope was doused. Then, on a quiet day at the office, a quick call from Dennis: I'd like to offer you a company contract. Me: wait - when do we start? Dennis: October first. Click. I had a dance job.

Decisions. Should I move to San Jose? Should I commute from SF? How do I commute if I don't have a car? Do I buy a car? The season (weeks of work) didn't seem long enough to merit moving to San Jose, and more importantly I didn't want to give up the gifts San Francisco has to offer. San Francisco was worth the commute and still is.

***

The rest of Harriet's photo shoot can be seen here.