The Rhythm of life in Mission Bay
For the past three years my boyfriend and I have shuttled our bikes, clothing, food and bounced back and forth from my condo in Noe Valley to his condo in Mission Bay. One night, we white boarded a strategy about our divided housing and living challenges like some complicated mathematical equation. It made good relationship sense to combine households. Plus, I felt guilty suffering from a space problem when living in a city that is suffering from a housing crisis. We sorted, tossed, stored and sold our things. Homogenized, colorless sleeked, chromed and polished Mission Bay won over neighborly, social and quirky Noe Valley.
During the early stages of construction in Mission Bay, the excruciating sound of the pile drivers jackhammering into concrete feels like someone is pounding metal rods into my skull. Memories of twenty years ago, when Mission Bay was marsh swamps and a run-down shipyard. Today, It's the rhythm of life here in Mission Bay; the battle cry of recovery. Re-emerging by promising new growth with buildings springing up, additional housing, new restaurants and research hospitals.
I've compared living in Mission Bay to being part of the Witness Protection Program. No one notices you. Faceless bodies walking down their own walkway of life. Inconspicuous and yet easily identifiable by hints of orange colored t-shirts or Jerseys (Giants fans) or traces of royal blue (Warriors fans). The rest are either training their dog, or cat (we have a neighbor who regularly walks her grey Maltese on a leash) or pushing a stroller or jogging. These dogs are not the designer types that parade around, they are more utilitarian like they are preparing to report into active duty. Even the toddlers walk in a single file line held together with bright neon straps or flags. They look like mini automatons. Like they just left Disneyland's "Its a small world" ride and heading into Tomorrowland.
My boyfriend works in the real estate department at UCSF and knows a lot about new buildings that sprout out of nowhere. He knows the owners, architects, developers and even gets involved in negotiating the costs. He takes great pride in these buildings, and he should, often crossing the street to peak inside the latest construction to admire its cool architecture or the Herman Miller furniture in the lobby. And with every building, there is a story on how it will save lives, advance medical research and change history so he is proud.
As a San Francisco resident for the past forty-four years, this is my first time living in a high-rise condo with an awesome view of the bay. I've learned to speak the Mission Bay language. The kind where you point to neighborhood buildings, the Madrone or the Radiance or the tallest Arden Condos and wonder which has a rooftop pool. Little kingdoms looking out into a city that is reinventing itself. Removed from homeless encampments, crime, boarded store fronts, we live in our own private island. Our home is sunny and safe. We forget to lock our doors at night and I don't have to keep a wad of cash nearby in case there’s a forced break-in. When a package is delivered, it patiently waits in our mailroom and I don't have to put a tracer because someone grabbed it from my front doorsteps. There’s no one rummaging through my trash because we sprint to the fancy "Refuse" room on our floor. Last month, I spotted a homeless guy with his sleeping bag in the Oracle Park Parking lot and the next day he was replaced by a large $80 BallPark Parking sign.
There is an underbelly to this homogenized life. The nighttime traffic craziness turns our streets into a clogged thoroughfare with thousands of cars lining up post-game or event. Smokey black exhaust fumes seep into every corner in our home as the traffic exits. The crowds’ personality reflect the venue. When the Warriors won the NBA championship, revved engines roared through. When Oprah toured last year, women in neat SUV’s and rolled up windows lined up. After the Gorillas’ concert, the rowdy hip hop crowd kept partying well into the night.
Later, the residual derelicts float through in the middle of the night. Sleep walking zombies arriving from some other galaxy. Last week, I was awakened in the middle of the night by some methhead carrying empty pizza boxes around the small park. “Gawd…..God……..Gawd, your pizza delivery has arrived.” Stomping around and screaming. Another night some guy carrying his plastic sword, wearing a blanket tied as a cape, was limping and hollering about playing with Phil Lesh. The most disturbing was the guy in our stairwell who moaned and sobbed through the night. Haunting guttural sounds reminding me how my city is in pain and can’t breathe. Theres so much despair and poverty amidst all this money that my heart burns. Currently there are 7,754 homeless people living in San Francisco and over 40% of them are suffering from mental illness and addiction. I keep thinking about Nellie Bowles June 2022 essay in The Atlantic on How San Francisco Became a Failed City.
When friends ask how my boyfriend and I are settling into living together in Mission Bay, I explain entering a new relationship in our 60's has a different rhythm to it. Sometimes the routine gnaws at me and the predictability pounds at me like the pile drivers. We are making room for each other and building a home together. Glass windows surround our apartment and every morning, and we live in this protected cocoon that shields us from the outside world. It preserves us and replenishes us. when the sun floods into our living room, I look out at the calm bay views and see a long bright future ahead and believe that is our Tomorrowland.
