by Zoe Abrahms
Do you remember San Francisco? Do you remember, even just the music? The songs of the city? Do you remember the words to them when they tell you to put flowers in your hair, because--after all--you're sure to meet some gentle people there. And I can remember a time when my parents took me down to Golden Gate Park to picnic on Hippie Hill and blow bubbles. I remember the drums playing, the maracas shaking, the hips, all the hips, swaying.
I remember the smells of Nag Champa and marijuana mingling with barbecue and the patchouli of my father's leather jacket as he strummed his guitar. I remember the buildings in their molded brass, the triangular building in North Beach I wished we lived in, and the ashy green dome of City Hall.
But, now that's all gone. The triangle building was recently remodeled in a more modern looking plaster and polyurethane look, and after the earthquake of 1989 the dome on City Hall had to be repaired. It's finally done, now in black and gold. A mockery of the original San Francisco.
I'm seeing, now, more polo shirts than tie-dye, and recently the artists all had to move to the East Bay. Their way of life is no longer welcome here, and the old brick buildings they had their studios in have been turned into overpriced fake lofts for dot com agencies.
This is a city run by the fake smile. A big toothy grin. Full of polo shirts, dot commers carrying Starbucks coffees and talking about Microsoft, and of course all those Razor Scooters.
The city that was all I'd ever known suddenly became something I didn't know at all, and everyone was looking so different. Everything even smelled different! Phony trolley cars on rubber tires drove down the streets carrying tourists to different Chamber-of-Commerce-approved sites. I tried getting a job with a dot com company--trying to keep up and all--but it was a rip-off; they saw me only as cheap labor.
Rent soon became so expensive that everyone that made San Francisco what it was and inspired all the music had to leave. Yuppies came in for the views and the Victorian buildings, and promptly started remodeling them in the image of suburban garage-front monstrosities. So, all the San Franciscans left for more welcoming places, and I'm starting to wonder where San Francisco itself is going, like a butterfly that's left behind its torn cocoon, and how can I get there?
Zoe Abrahms is a freelance writer currently living in San Francisco.
