San Francisco and the Englishman
Being a self-respecting Englishman, it is easy for me to admit the fact I have lived in the United States. Indeed, I embodied the cliche of the Englishman in not-so sunny California. Rather than cater to too broad of a cliche, I subscribed myself to the fog-prone coasts of Northern California. Granted, this was not as radical a break from convention and expectations as I had thought, but nonetheless, I was spared a horrid sunburn for the five years I lived and worked in and around San Francisco.
My initial arrival was an uneventful affair, though I did manage to somehow have myself conveyed to an area I would come to find out was called South San Francisco — not to be confused with the City by the Bay itself (and I do apologize for acquiescing to the use of pseudonyms). I sought shelter in many of the South San Francisco hotels, but finally settled on the one that would actually accept pounds Sterling as payment.
The peninsula seemed like a nothing more than a jolly old jaunt — at least from the naive perspective of a burgeoning ex-patriot with no sense of scale. Those of you who are familiar with the Bay Area, of course, know it is impossible to see the entire area in a day, much less by bus or metro. Nonetheless, I had to find out the hard way, as they say. The hard way began with a metro ride (known as the Bay Area Rapid Transit, or BART) to the center of the city, Union Square.
The year was 2000, or there about, and Union Square was in full, capitalistic bloom. It had been cordoned off for a year or so in the late Nineties to accommodate a massive gentrification project. Apparently, I would come to find out from ex-hippie who bore witness to the literal ups and downs of the city, that the square had fallen on hard times. Like it’s Eastern cousin, Union Square had suffered a debased, pornographic existence for almost two decades. And, like Times Square, it had been identified as having tremendous marketing potential.
Nothing could have prepared me for the utter denouement awaiting me as I made my way ground-ward from the bowels of the BART system. I believe the first storefront I happened to gawk at was the Apple Store, which occupied two stories of prime real estate. At every turn I was reminded — mind you, I had just arrived from London — by how incredibly similar this fable city was to my hometown. This, I thought, was a rather anti-climactic realization. Little did I know I would have my fair share of denouements to come.
It is my sincere hope that you may experience the kindness of South San Francisco hotels in the flesh, and with enough time to appreciate the entire region.
