North to South
Roughly three years ago, I decided to leave the fast paced, tight quartered city of San Francisco for slow comfortable beach life in sunny San Diego. Cash was dwindling fast living in my little city, and I knew moving was the only way I would save a paycheck. My closest friends told me it would be too much of an adjustment for me and I would move back in a year. I visited friends in San Diego several times and fell in love with its relaxed, warm weathered charm. There was a downtown, the beaches were beautiful and there was plenty to enjoy without overdraft protection. The two cities were both on the west coast with a high population of young people, lots of hip bars and restaurants, many indoor and outdoor activities and an abundance of beautiful scenery. Moving from one coastal California city to another shouldn’t be all that different. Unless one happens to be in southern California and the other in northern.
When I happened to meet someone while traveling out of state, people were surprised to hear I was from California. “You’re not blond and tan! Don’t you get sunshine three hundred and sixty days a year?” was the general response. More than once I had to explain the difference between northern and southern California weather and culture. At one time I lived in Marin County, in northern California, just north of “the city” and was lucky to drive over the Golden Gate Bridge every day. The crowds of tourists slowly walking, while shivering, across the bridge, wrapped in new sweatshirts reading “Alcatraz psycho ward” and kahki shorts made me smile. I would giggle to myself, “no one told them it isn’t warm in August.”
My mornings in San Francisco started with a slow warm up for the day. I woke up in my small, bright purple Victorian home, showered in my claw foot tub, and added layers of warmth to my business casual ensemble. I bundled up with my scarf and gloves after wool coat over blazer over long sleeve top. All for the short foggy walk to the bus stop and to the office. Once on the thirty eight express bus, I would remove the gloves and scarf and begin to read a book. Often times, a friendly stranger would strike up a conversation. The bus turned off the main street for only a few blocks and turned right back onto the main street; its top speed never reached any faster than forty five miles per hour. Freeways were only used for those leaving the city. The shadows cast by the two hundred thurty seven meter high skyscrapers would darken the interior of the bus as we entered downtown (SF Chronicle). My bus stop was “the” stop.
The thirty eight would come to a screeching halt and most, if not all, of those on the bus would stand. Rushing to put their gloves back on their hands, zipping up their bags and buttoning their coats. The bus doors opened and we flooded out. Our slow stroll to the bus stop was now a rushed march to our offices. Car horns honked, taxi drivers shouted, bike messengers sped through busses and pedestrians, trains rang their bells and names yelled to claim each breakfast order poured out of each breakfast shop. These were all signs that it was time to step up to the day. I greeted the security guards in the lobby of the fifty two story building, pressed the twenty sixth floor elevator button and began my day. By this time, I was ready.
The week went on just the same with a night of cocktails or two in between. Believe it or not, Friday is one of the most quiet early evenings in the city. Some folks hurry to get in that last bit of work before the big weekend. Some go straight home to relax before the weekend begins and others are already at the bar for happy hour. There are the select few that stay in, but not too many. Ask any San Franciscan, no one pays rent that high in a tiny house to stay indoors. Rent is high because of all there is to do and see in the city by the bay.
After the long bus ride home I walked to the always distant area where I parked my car. I checked the car for “love notes” from the friendly department of parking and traffic, A.K.A. the meter maids, then looked it over for bumps and bruises from its week spent parked on the street. After inspection I moved it to a different location, since my driveway was only wide enough for a horse and carriage, not a car.
The weekend was as it would be in any busy city, geared towards art and culture. It starts with exotic cheap eats in any given area of the city and more often than not, visiting a new bar, club or viewing a performance. Van Ness Avenue is decorated with beautiful black limousines and extravagant gowns and tuxedos on big nights at the Opera, symphony or ballet. I personally would take a taxi, to my destination, which never cost more than $20.00. There would have to be quite a bit of traffic to rack up a fare that high when the maximum travel distance is seven miles, no matter what direction you travel. Amazingly, the city overloads and over stimulates its population of 739,426 with its mere seven by seven miles (SF Chronicle).
Saturday and Sunday mornings, we started the day by bundling up to enjoy the city’s brief sunshine and brisk air in the parks. The day was reserved for shopping, eating, exploring or attending street fairs. The festivals ranged from gay pride to a street fair dedicated simply to the neighborhood it was held in to bring people to the area. If we felt ambitious, we made a trip to Napa or Sonoma for a day of wine tasting. It was an amazing way to live, but expensive.
Upon my arrival into San Diego I found that renting a room or house was far easier than it was in San Francisco. The cost of living in San Diego was much lower meaning I had more options. Those renting rooms were far more relaxed about what type of person they accepted into their home as a roommate. Understandably, you never know who you could have as a roommate in a busy city. Rather than music, art and computer equipment in the house, my roommates’ accessories in San Diego were surfboards. My new roommates even owned their own car! Part of living in a city truly developed after the automobile. I put away my warm beanie, sold my mountain bike and bought a bikini and beach cruiser. I was embracing this.
My morning routine was completely new. Now, I shower in a built in fiberglass shower, in my suburban duplex built in the 1960s, throw on a casual light weight sweater, walk to my car port, get in my car, drive past the amusement park, Sea World, and speed along side the other high speed drivers for as long as I can before stopping in thirty minutes of traffic. Upon my delayed arrival to work, I park my car in the office parking lot in my office park of three identical three story buildings and take the stairs to the second floor. The daily grind here seems so much easier, but lacks character.
After work, I spring from the office to try and avoid the traffic caused by San Diego’s 1,255,540 Southern California residents, in my opinion, all on the road at the same time. I never do (Encyclopedia Britannica). I catch up with friends via cell phone who are also sitting in traffic and try to steer clear of the military caravans passing by. As I enter Mission Beach, I smile and yield to the families of tourists in their bikinis and board shorts loaded up with beach toys. I park my car, pour myself a glass of wine and walk up my street to the beach to catch the last few minutes of the sunshine before the phenominal sunset and enjoy the warm salty breeze. The beach and parks are still busy at this time of day, scattered with sun worshippers and families visiting Belmont Park to ride the eighty two year old rollercoaster and fill up on carnival food. I cross the boardwalk and sit on the sea wall careful not to get in the way of a runner, skateboarder or a group of teenage girls on their hot pink beach cruisers. I step into the sand and as the sun sets, work is forgotten.
Here there are beautiful hiking trails, most bars and restaurants are open air with large patios. The beaches, sea world, balboa park and the zoo are all built for the warm climate. At first, I was slightly disappointed at how little San Diego has fit entertainment into its three hundred and twenty four point three square miles (Encyclopedia Britannica). Then it made sense. The idea is to enjoy the beautiful weather! As a local you can count on doing much of the same thing each weekend. At the beaches, the weekend begins as early as possible on Thursdays and Fridays thanks to the college kids. A cheap dinner usually launches the evening and a visit to the same old bars ending with a late night burrito. I was once told “it’s the law.” The Gaslamp District downtown seems to be getting more competitive and new bars are opening more often. A twenty five dollar taxi gets you there to be a part of the wandering crowds along the busy streets in warm weather clothing looking for just the right entertainment for their taste. Just outside the Gaslamp District are the few tall buildings sprinkled throughout downtown most are apartment buildings and condos, the tallest reaching 152 meters with 34 floors (SD Union Tribune/San Diego Historical Society). The views of the Marina are absolutely breathtaking.
I’ve found the key to San Diego is finding the restaurants, bars and other venues related to entertainment that you enjoy and stick with them. Going out on a limb, in my opinion has left me still hungry for what I was looking for with less money in my pocket.
No matter where you are in San Diego County you can count on the weather being reliably comfortable, whereas San Francisco you take your chances and hope for the best. That being said, the forms of entertainment in San Francisco seem to make one forget about the cold wet weather. The magic of the city makes it all worth the game of catch up. Dining out, enjoying festivals, art, theater, the symphony, the ballet, the opera or seeing a band are all perfect examples of the many fun but costly things San Francisco has to offer. San Diego was very accommodating when I gave up my culture. It offered it’s beautiful sunshine and warm friendly people. I proudly proved quite a few friends wrong and have showed many of them how wonderful this city is. I may go back to the Bay Area eventually but not for some time. People have often asked me which city is better. I say, “there is no comparison.”
When I happened to meet someone while traveling out of state, people were surprised to hear I was from California. “You’re not blond and tan! Don’t you get sunshine three hundred and sixty days a year?” was the general response. More than once I had to explain the difference between northern and southern California weather and culture. At one time I lived in Marin County, in northern California, just north of “the city” and was lucky to drive over the Golden Gate Bridge every day. The crowds of tourists slowly walking, while shivering, across the bridge, wrapped in new sweatshirts reading “Alcatraz psycho ward” and kahki shorts made me smile. I would giggle to myself, “no one told them it isn’t warm in August.”
My mornings in San Francisco started with a slow warm up for the day. I woke up in my small, bright purple Victorian home, showered in my claw foot tub, and added layers of warmth to my business casual ensemble. I bundled up with my scarf and gloves after wool coat over blazer over long sleeve top. All for the short foggy walk to the bus stop and to the office. Once on the thirty eight express bus, I would remove the gloves and scarf and begin to read a book. Often times, a friendly stranger would strike up a conversation. The bus turned off the main street for only a few blocks and turned right back onto the main street; its top speed never reached any faster than forty five miles per hour. Freeways were only used for those leaving the city. The shadows cast by the two hundred thurty seven meter high skyscrapers would darken the interior of the bus as we entered downtown (SF Chronicle). My bus stop was “the” stop.
The thirty eight would come to a screeching halt and most, if not all, of those on the bus would stand. Rushing to put their gloves back on their hands, zipping up their bags and buttoning their coats. The bus doors opened and we flooded out. Our slow stroll to the bus stop was now a rushed march to our offices. Car horns honked, taxi drivers shouted, bike messengers sped through busses and pedestrians, trains rang their bells and names yelled to claim each breakfast order poured out of each breakfast shop. These were all signs that it was time to step up to the day. I greeted the security guards in the lobby of the fifty two story building, pressed the twenty sixth floor elevator button and began my day. By this time, I was ready.
The week went on just the same with a night of cocktails or two in between. Believe it or not, Friday is one of the most quiet early evenings in the city. Some folks hurry to get in that last bit of work before the big weekend. Some go straight home to relax before the weekend begins and others are already at the bar for happy hour. There are the select few that stay in, but not too many. Ask any San Franciscan, no one pays rent that high in a tiny house to stay indoors. Rent is high because of all there is to do and see in the city by the bay.
After the long bus ride home I walked to the always distant area where I parked my car. I checked the car for “love notes” from the friendly department of parking and traffic, A.K.A. the meter maids, then looked it over for bumps and bruises from its week spent parked on the street. After inspection I moved it to a different location, since my driveway was only wide enough for a horse and carriage, not a car.
The weekend was as it would be in any busy city, geared towards art and culture. It starts with exotic cheap eats in any given area of the city and more often than not, visiting a new bar, club or viewing a performance. Van Ness Avenue is decorated with beautiful black limousines and extravagant gowns and tuxedos on big nights at the Opera, symphony or ballet. I personally would take a taxi, to my destination, which never cost more than $20.00. There would have to be quite a bit of traffic to rack up a fare that high when the maximum travel distance is seven miles, no matter what direction you travel. Amazingly, the city overloads and over stimulates its population of 739,426 with its mere seven by seven miles (SF Chronicle).
Saturday and Sunday mornings, we started the day by bundling up to enjoy the city’s brief sunshine and brisk air in the parks. The day was reserved for shopping, eating, exploring or attending street fairs. The festivals ranged from gay pride to a street fair dedicated simply to the neighborhood it was held in to bring people to the area. If we felt ambitious, we made a trip to Napa or Sonoma for a day of wine tasting. It was an amazing way to live, but expensive.
Upon my arrival into San Diego I found that renting a room or house was far easier than it was in San Francisco. The cost of living in San Diego was much lower meaning I had more options. Those renting rooms were far more relaxed about what type of person they accepted into their home as a roommate. Understandably, you never know who you could have as a roommate in a busy city. Rather than music, art and computer equipment in the house, my roommates’ accessories in San Diego were surfboards. My new roommates even owned their own car! Part of living in a city truly developed after the automobile. I put away my warm beanie, sold my mountain bike and bought a bikini and beach cruiser. I was embracing this.
My morning routine was completely new. Now, I shower in a built in fiberglass shower, in my suburban duplex built in the 1960s, throw on a casual light weight sweater, walk to my car port, get in my car, drive past the amusement park, Sea World, and speed along side the other high speed drivers for as long as I can before stopping in thirty minutes of traffic. Upon my delayed arrival to work, I park my car in the office parking lot in my office park of three identical three story buildings and take the stairs to the second floor. The daily grind here seems so much easier, but lacks character.
After work, I spring from the office to try and avoid the traffic caused by San Diego’s 1,255,540 Southern California residents, in my opinion, all on the road at the same time. I never do (Encyclopedia Britannica). I catch up with friends via cell phone who are also sitting in traffic and try to steer clear of the military caravans passing by. As I enter Mission Beach, I smile and yield to the families of tourists in their bikinis and board shorts loaded up with beach toys. I park my car, pour myself a glass of wine and walk up my street to the beach to catch the last few minutes of the sunshine before the phenominal sunset and enjoy the warm salty breeze. The beach and parks are still busy at this time of day, scattered with sun worshippers and families visiting Belmont Park to ride the eighty two year old rollercoaster and fill up on carnival food. I cross the boardwalk and sit on the sea wall careful not to get in the way of a runner, skateboarder or a group of teenage girls on their hot pink beach cruisers. I step into the sand and as the sun sets, work is forgotten.
Here there are beautiful hiking trails, most bars and restaurants are open air with large patios. The beaches, sea world, balboa park and the zoo are all built for the warm climate. At first, I was slightly disappointed at how little San Diego has fit entertainment into its three hundred and twenty four point three square miles (Encyclopedia Britannica). Then it made sense. The idea is to enjoy the beautiful weather! As a local you can count on doing much of the same thing each weekend. At the beaches, the weekend begins as early as possible on Thursdays and Fridays thanks to the college kids. A cheap dinner usually launches the evening and a visit to the same old bars ending with a late night burrito. I was once told “it’s the law.” The Gaslamp District downtown seems to be getting more competitive and new bars are opening more often. A twenty five dollar taxi gets you there to be a part of the wandering crowds along the busy streets in warm weather clothing looking for just the right entertainment for their taste. Just outside the Gaslamp District are the few tall buildings sprinkled throughout downtown most are apartment buildings and condos, the tallest reaching 152 meters with 34 floors (SD Union Tribune/San Diego Historical Society). The views of the Marina are absolutely breathtaking.
I’ve found the key to San Diego is finding the restaurants, bars and other venues related to entertainment that you enjoy and stick with them. Going out on a limb, in my opinion has left me still hungry for what I was looking for with less money in my pocket.
No matter where you are in San Diego County you can count on the weather being reliably comfortable, whereas San Francisco you take your chances and hope for the best. That being said, the forms of entertainment in San Francisco seem to make one forget about the cold wet weather. The magic of the city makes it all worth the game of catch up. Dining out, enjoying festivals, art, theater, the symphony, the ballet, the opera or seeing a band are all perfect examples of the many fun but costly things San Francisco has to offer. San Diego was very accommodating when I gave up my culture. It offered it’s beautiful sunshine and warm friendly people. I proudly proved quite a few friends wrong and have showed many of them how wonderful this city is. I may go back to the Bay Area eventually but not for some time. People have often asked me which city is better. I say, “there is no comparison.”
posted by Natalie at
8:04 AM
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