I had never set foot in California until I moved to San Francisco six months ago. Hell, I had barely even been west of the Mississippi River before. Everyone kept saying that it was the beginning of a new life for me. "New" was an understatement, though: I had spent nearly my entire life in Indiana. Nebraska was new; San Francisco was another planet.
I wanted to get acquainted with the city immediately and in a big way. Hours after arriving, I hurried to the place that exemplifies the extremes of San Francisco like nowhere else: Upper Haight Street.
Haight Street has been one of the country's most famous streets since the 1960's, when it emerged as the epicenter of San Francisco's burgeoning hippie scene. It's changed a bit since then—some commercialization was inevitable—but has retained most of its charm and nearly all of its insanity. The hippies have become the homeless, though they're still stoned and just as wild. It's the people, not the places, that define Haight Street. And by that measure, the Haight is one of the most unique spots in all America.
There was plenty of culture, even in the McDonald's restroom, which contained fewer penises than I'd ever seen in a piece of toilet art.I didn't even bother to unpack before I began toward Upper Haight, moving at a near jog. I wasn't after much that day, just a quick preview—a glimpse of how weird this city could really get. I had come to San Francisco for something new, something different. That was it. There was no job waiting for me, no school I planned on enrolling at. There wasn't even a Craigslist romance to consummate. I had gone there simply for the hell of it, to see what real change truly felt like.
And that change set in as I made my first steps onto Haight. I could hear him from a couple blocks away, screeching madly. He was in some sort of monstrous argument—an argument with himself. I walked closer and saw a man in his 20's, dirty, disheveled, and enraged, screaming at his reflection in a mirror that stretched across the wall of a sunglasses shop.
"Just stop following me, goddamn it!" he yelled. He peered sternly at his reflection, which peered sternly back. "Stop it!"
Traditionally covered in weed smoke, the intersection signs make a rare appearance. People passed without reaction. It quickly became clear that things like this were the norm around here. After watching a little longer, I started down the sidewalk. Haight was full of street dwellers, the type of people who'd have qualified as hippies years ago. These kids weren't conventionally homeless—they seemed to be there by choice. As I walked by, many of them begged and badgered me for beer money. One guy even wanted a bit more:
"Hey bro, can you spare a hundred?" he asked with a grin.
I admired his ambition. After digging in my pocket, I handed him a couple quarters. That would get him half way to a Steel Reserve, the dirt cheap favorite amongst Haight's street population, rivaled in popularity only by Four Loko and Pabst Blue Ribbon. I knew the beer well myself: acrid, metallic, with a taste like robot piss. But Steel Reserve is inexpensive and highly alcoholic, and that's what mattered here.
Not everyone who was camped on Haight was out for spare change, though. Musicians performed sporadically along busy intersections. Green Peace volunteers preached to passing crowds. Students wrote poetry on the spot for anyone who asked. There was plenty of culture, even in the McDonald's restroom, which had been decorated with vibrant graffiti murals that together contained fewer penises than I'd ever seen in a piece of toilet art.
Nevertheless, the urchins outnumbered the artists that day, and it wasn't very close. They seemed like a varied bunch—some nice, some mean; some smart, some stupid. Most of them had a strong sense of humor, which helped their cause immensely. Above all, they were united by their unwillingness to work conventional jobs, or work at all.
When you're surrounded by colors, it's like the music plays itself. #hippiemyths
Some of the transients made money without begging, though, and were in fact busy at work selling pot as I explored the street. Upper Haight was like an open-air marijuana dispensary—no prescriptions required. I couldn't walk a single block without being asked to buy some weed. The dealers operated with remarkable gusto, propositioning anyone who happened to make eye contact as they passed. These guys had everything: buds, joints, edibles, tinctures. After a while, I was expecting someone to offer me a THC suppository.
The dealers would typically use just one word—”buds!”—to get your attention. Occasionally, they'd get a little more creative: "Want some buds, bud-eee?" one kid asked before sinking into laughter. I couldn't help but smile, too. Visibly pleased, he was more surprised by his pun than I was, and it seemed certain that he'd memorize the line for use in the future. After all, it was more clever than the next dealer's effort: "Weed, motherfucker."
Cop cars cruised down the street every now and then, but it didn't matter much. The police had better things to do than crack down on a drug that was nearly legal here. As a result, the people of Haight smoked pot almost as openly as they sold it.
Unfortunately, the name "Green Circle" was already taken. I had never seen anything like it back in the Midwest, where many people still lumped marijuana with drugs like crack and heroin. I was in for a change, that was for sure. That was what I came for. Something different. I tried to hold my expectations to just that, but as I walked the street, I couldn't help but hope for more. I wanted a new life—opportunity, work, friends, a home. Things that I couldn't completely put together back in Indiana. I didn't know if I'd find those in San Francisco, but Haight seemed like a promising symbol. Sure, it was just one wild street. But it was a street that could have never existed where I came from, not even for a day. And it was that sense of rampant possibility—embodied by those one-of-a-kind alcoves like Haight—that ultimately brought me here.
I continued on, trying my best not to look like a tourist. But I couldn't contain my curiosity. My open-mouthed stares and aimless pauses made me out for what I was: an outsider, an invader. Like a Martian or some Young Republican. I'd come to fit in over time, but during that first day, I might as well have been wearing a neon green fanny pack and Hard Rock Cafe – Little Rock t-shirt.
Eventually, I made it to the end of Haight Street, where the road gives way to Hippie Hill, a famous section of Golden Gate Park. The Hill is a cultural continuation of Haight and serves as sleeping quarters for most of the homeless people in the area.
I began down a dirt path that crisscrossed through a small stretch of woods. As I turned a corner, a tree branch whizzed by my head, inches from decapitation. Several feet away, a street kid whirled a six-foot long stick and paced back and forth, practicing his own brand of martial arts. He was entranced, barely noticing me as he mumbled things to himself. I took a few steps to the side before strolling by him. Glancing back, I could make out one muffled sentence:
"I'm taking this to Armageddon," he said, swinging the branch through a clump of fog. "Maybe even the Zombie Apocalypse." He spoke without even a trace of irony—this guy was damn serious.
I walked up a grassy slope, where I encountered the day's final character. The woman had been around for a while and had obviously burned out long ago. She was in her late 50's, chubby, wearing a baggy, brown trench coat over a faded tie-dye t-shirt. As I approached, she began singing Jefferson Airplane's Somebody to Love and dancing on the sidewalk. Though she really wasn't much of a dancer: the woman moved like an animatronic bear, waddling in place while wailing the chorus over and over again. Twist, pump, repeat. That was her full routine. She finished the song as I passed and, eyeing me curiously, blurted out, "Boy, do I wish I had someone to love right now!"
It was a generous offer, but I politely declined by speeding away. All in all, the day had been a hell of an introduction to the city, though I remained uncertain of what really lay in store for me. I didn't know how long I'd stay in San Francisco. I didn't know whether I'd like the city or not. But I did realize one thing for sure during that walk: for good or ill, I was beginning the most memorable period of my life to date.
And that's a leap everyone should make. At least once.