Snapshots: San Francisco

An ever-growing archive of stories about SF's special places as told by the people who love them.

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Presidio | Janet Varney

Presidio March, 2015

I am what you might call Old. I’ve held and been held by civilizations, tribes, invaders and colonies for hundreds of years, certainly. My memory is a bit hazy, but I recall the last hundred and fifty or so with sharper clarity.

For a long time I was teeming with soldiers. Enlisted men, officers, wives, families. Fathers gathered for poker nights, drank cheap booze, stumbled home too late, ruddy with escapism. Children hopscotched along my sidewalks and mothers bought oatmeal in great bulky bags at my commissary. I bred litters of kittens, welcomed chatty parakeets, turned up stray dogs and serendipitously attached them to freckled boys and girls. And when those beloved pets mewled their last, I made soft soil for their bones and watched the children tearfully erect lovingly-crafted wooden tombstones with kid-elegies like “Woody: One Great Weiner Dog.”

But slowly there were fewer and fewer bones, and children, and chalk boxes to hop, and I became a windy encampment of ghosts. A handful of national park employees sprinkled lamps and flickering televisions across the wide swath of skeletoned houses, and while my expanse stretched quietly, offering respite and contemplation for hikers and bicyclists, much noise in the City itself was made over my future. Whether I should be haven for poor, or office to technology; what to do with my buildings and histories and hauntings.

Now I am populous once more, my structures are scrubbed, I feel the hiving hum of scores of creatives, technicians, babies and fenceless backyards. There is a great, reaching spire of logs stretching heavenward and a museum celebrating a god of Imagining. My ambling cemetery and its endless rows of white teeth serve as anchor amid the endless construction nearby, an observable hush against the clang and clatter of concrete and steel.

Now. While for some, the challenge lies in seeing the proverbial Forest for the Trees, my trouble is antithetical. I become lost in the arterial activity and forget to focus on stillness, or on the smaller movements of emotion. And so I watch carefully, trying to catch sight of these hummingbird-fleeting snapshots of the human heart.

A month ago I blew a cool breeze on a middle-aged woman who was running— not jogging, no, but running with a determination I took almost for anger. But when she came at last to my craggy cliffs above the Bay, I saw her face erupt in an expression of joy so boundless, I knew she had been delivered.

Last week I spent the morning with an old man (oh, but how young he is compared to me!) as he shuffled purposefully through the heaping eucalyptus-scrapped forest floor until he reached a bench overlooking the Bridge. There he sat to remember some lost thing, some faint ache, some shadow of time.

And today, today I welcomed in a pair of new lovers. I sensed them before they arrived, for their electricity and wonderment projected outwards from them in great rippling waves. And as they walked together, so then did they unconsciously pull the rest of the world in towards them, as all things bend toward the magnet of ardor. I breathed their air and marveled at their radiance. He stopped to point out some edible herb; she plucked at it enthusiastically and lay it on her tongue, eager to embrace this new way of elucidating her Trust.

And in this moment I was astonished to discover that I knew this youngling, for I had seen her many times, many times over many years, always alone. She had visited with me at her most jubilant, and when muddled in confusion, and in piercing moments of despair. And now here she floated, heart-joined to another, and I felt a mixture of jealousy and longing and delight and relief, and I knew I was in the presence of something Holy.

They walked the breadth of me as they worshipped one another, and I’m proud to say they also worshipped me. They cooed over my tiniest of blooms and they puzzled over my hidden rubble and they reverently admired the Romance of everything I hold, everything I was and will be. When at last they reached my boundary, they were more in love than when they entered, and I do believe I had a part in that. And when they left me, I wept.

So. Here I remain, in my splendor and bustle and verdancy. I am Cradle and I am Grave, and I am Time itself, and I am Yours.

Janet Varney is a comedian, actor, writer and producer. In the animation world, she is lucky enough to be the voice of Korra on Nickelodeon's hit series The Legend of Korra, and she can currently be seen as Becca on the live action FX series You’re The Worst. She also spent seven wonderful years hosting TBS's Dinner and a Movie, recurred on HBO's Entourage, was a series regular on the beloved E! and Yahoo series Burning Love seasons 1 and 3, and has made guest appearances in hit shows including How I Met Your Mother, Key and Peele, Psych, Bones, on the panel of Chelsea Lately and @midnight, as a regular producer and co-host on HuffPost Live, and has appeared in films such as Still Waiting, Drillbit Taylor and Judy Moody and the Not Bummer Summer. Janet is the host of the popular Nerdist podcast The JV Club and the co-founder, creative director and producer of one of the largest and most acclaimed comedy festivals in North America, SF Sketchfest: the San Francisco Comedy Festival, now in its 15th year.

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What do this shirt from the fine folks at @missionbicycle and our most recent Snapshot story have in common? Hit the link in our profile and read about the day @caitdog13 earned her cycling badge of honor. #localsf #cycling #falls #nofilter (at Judah and 9th Avenue)

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A Tree in a Cemetery, Mission Dolores | Melissa Suncin

A Tree in a Cemetery, Mission Dolores 1999

The year was 1999 and I, Melissa Victoria Suncin, was a strong, independent, workingwoman just as Destiny’s Child taught me to be.  Scratch that.  I wasn’t very strong or independent and barely a woman, being that I was only in 6th grade.  I did have a job though!  It was my first job ever and I held the esteemed title of “Volunteer.”  Wait.  Shit.  It wasn’t even a real job because I didn’t even get paid.   

Anyway, my first “job” was as a volunteer at the Mission Dolores gift shop.  The position wasn’t too hard to come by as my mom managed the tiny shop that sold religious trinkets and touristy San Francisco souvenirs.  My daily duties involved welcoming tourists, cleaning church pews, keeping the museum tidy and making sure homeless people weren’t doing drugs in the bathroom.  

Tourism was and has always been abundant at this historic building, but it came in waves throughout the day and left us with a fair amount of down time.  My best friend Goose, who also worked there with me, and I had no trouble filling that time.  We’d steal cup-a-noodle soup from the priests’ house, have jellybean eating contests, sneak into the church towers (which is VERY FUCKING DANGEROUS), and chill in the cemetery/garden.  In the cemetery there lives a tree we would climb to pass the time.  The tree overlooks the grave of Catherine Tracy and out of respect for her we always acknowledged her presence before climbing up.  Most would hardly consider the three leg-lifts it took to get to the topmost branch a “climb,” but to two chubby city kids it was.  Though only a few feet off the ground and well within view of any passing tourist, we felt almost invisible up there.  We built our strong and lasting friendship in that tree.  Lounging in the branches, eating pizza, sharing laughs, discussing the future.  It was our secret hideout.  Just me, Goose, and Catherine Tracy.

By our 7th grade year we had proven ourselves worthy of earning promotions.  And by “promotion” I mean that we decided to approve our own qualifications to lead tours by placing “Docent” labels atop the “Volunteer” labels on our nametags.  New responsibilities, same pay.  Zero dollars.   We didn’t care though.  

Our new positions of power were not well received by Gracie, the 175 year-old woman that passed out pamphlets to visitors at the door.  She couldn’t fathom how we were able to achieve the such power even though she had been working there longer.  The conversation usually ended with her storming off and us laughing at ourselves for cheating “the system” (clearly there was hardly a system to cheat).  

Even though the responsibilities of our new job took up more of our time, Goose and I made sure we continued our daily tree hangouts in the cemetery.  Years passed, we grew up.  We have remained close friends and although those days are not spoken of today, they are understood.  When visiting the spot nowadays, I am transported to a time that was simpler and full of possibilities.  I am reminded that I should continue to live my life with that same uninhibited fervor.  Nothing compares to the peace and comfort I found in that cemetery, in that tree.

Melissa Suncin invented the Soda Stream.  Melissa Suncin is also a huge liar and did not have anything to do with the invention of the Soda Stream.  Now for the facts: Melissa Suncin is a writer, director and producer from San Francisco, California.  She received her B.A. in film production from San Francisco State University before establishing La Doña Films, an independent film production company, with business partner Sarah Lopez. Melissa has been involved in the making of several low-budget features and short films and has been showcased in the SF Latino Film Festival as well as in L.A.’s Bagavagabonds art collective screenings.  Her colorful, realistic style of storytelling has been largely influenced by her San Francisco upbringing; a city she hopes will one day be a larger hub for filmmakers.  Because it is the best city in the world.           When she is not producing films, Melissa enjoys traveling, drinking excessively and spending time with friends and family.  Though her friends and family are a very important part of her life, she would throw any of them under-the-bus very quickly to get her hands on a Disneyland caramel apple. Or churro.  Or both.     Her latest project, “That’s Not A Thing,” a new comedy web-series written by Caitlin Mullan, will be making its way to your eyes in December 2015.  To learn more about this piece-of-work’s work, please visit www.ladonafilms.com.  

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38 Geary Limited, Outbound | Caitlin Mullan

38 Geary Limited, Outbound November 2008

On November 13, 2008, I turned 22. It was my first birthday since graduating college and moving back from Seattle. I was temping at the San Francisco Chronicle, stuffing envelopes with commemorative Obama newspapers. Not the most thrilling job I’ve ever had, but the 12 bucks an hour was a hell of a lot more than the nothing I had been making at my self-created 9 to 5 position of sitting at home in sweatpants binge watching Ghost Whisperer. Anyway, my questionable habits when unemployed are not vital to this story, so let's skip ahead to what is.

After a long day of stuffing, taping, labeling, counting, and being 22, I settled into a seat on the 38 Geary Limited bus with my headphones on, pretending to lose myself in an auditory masterpiece while actually sitting in silence, reading a book, and actively avoiding eye contact with other passengers. These are my pro-tips for shutting down uninvited social contact on public transportation (also, most other places).

The ride was uneventful for a while. I had gotten on at the beginning of the line, and soon enough, the aisles were packed with weary commuters. We rumbled on and left the Financial District behind us. Then, right around Larkin, things took a turn. A man’s voice cut through the white noise: "You got a chicken in there?!?!?!?!"

Now, more often than not, a MUNI bus is an interesting place to find oneself. I’ve shared seat space with a tiny man bearing a bag full of swords, had the pleasure of witnessing a one night only percussion showcase given by a particularly inebriated young man with two empty plastic soda bottles, and once helped a lovely German couple plan their entire day. I felt pretty good about that last one until they turned and asked another stranger to verify that I had given them good ideas. I mean, I get it, you don’t know me, but at least wait until I’m out of earshot. Or not sitting right next to you.

Full disclosure: I have spent plenty of time as the designated Bus Weirdo myself. Depending on what I’m listening to or reading, I laugh, I cry, I sometimes rapidly alternate between the two. Nothing makes people uncomfortable faster than a public display of emotion with no context.

Despite of all this, "You got a chicken in there?!?!?!" is not necessarily something one would expect to hear on a crowded city bus. Even in San Francisco.

As it turns out, the woman toward which this unconventional exclamation was directed did, in fact, "have a chicken in there." And "there" happened to be a paper grocery bag inside a plastic grocery bag, neither of which seemed sufficiently strong enough to hold any kind of animal.

Here is where I feel the need to clarify something. When I refer to this chicken, I do not mean McNugget. I mean feathered, beaked, alive, and pissed off. A chicken. Not some chicken. A. Chicken.

Well, now everybody in the back of the bus was paying attention. The questions were flying, as it were.

“Why do you have a chicken?”

“Where did you get the chicken?”

“Are you going to eat it?”

“Is it a pet?”

“Do you really have a chicken in there?”(This was, in my opinion, asked one too many times.)

Unfortunately, the owner of said definitely real and not at all made up chicken did not speak much English, and many of these questions went unanswered or misunderstood (except for the last one, which was, of course, answered repeatedly).

You may have noticed that all of my fellow passengers were neglecting to ask the most important question of all: What do we do if it gets out? Because, as best I could tell, the answer was this: we die.

The seat I had so fortuitously selected for myself on this particular day was in the very last row of the bus, in the corner. Yes, that's right. I was quite literally backed into a corner. In a confined space. With a live chicken. If that fool broke out of the bag (which, judging from the way it kept throwing itself against its flimsy prison, it was very interested in doing), my person was fair game. I'd made it exactly 22 years without getting my face slashed open by poultry. Was this the day my streak would end?

Long story slightly shorter, the chicken did not break free. I know. Kind of an anti-climax. I did spend the next 30 to 40 minutes warily eyeing the bag, flying feathers and fountains of gore coloring my overactive imagination, but I made it home intact and in time to don my Gryffindor uniform and head back out because, like I said, it was my birthday.

You know what, though? That chicken stuck with me. Almost a year to the day later, I found myself thinking about it. I’d landed a steady gig as a receptionist at a law firm, and while I had done some of the things that I needed to do (“secured a paycheck and benefits,” and, “stayed alive,” rounding out the top of that list), I didn’t feel remotely close to any of the things I wanted to do. I felt like I had a lot to prove to other people. I knew I had a lot to prove to myself.

I was the chicken in the bag, trying to break free while everyone around me watched and wondered what would happen if and when I did. It wasn’t my favorite metaphor, especially considering that chicken probably hadn’t been spirited away to a fabulous new beginning, but there it was.

I want to wrap this up neatly by proudly proclaiming that I did break out of my bag (I know, that’s never going to be a thing). Some days, I do feel that way. Other times, I wonder if I just traded one bag for another.

Whatever the case may be, I owe that chicken for reminding me that I don’t have to be complacent, and I think of it fondly every time I step onto a 38.

But again, I’d probably feel less sentimental had it shredded my face.

Caitlin Mullan is a writer and performing arts educator based in San Francisco. A graduate of Seattle University’s creative writing program, she also studied literature and history at the National University of Ireland, Galway, thus giving her a unique and immersive education in rain that continues to inform her work.

Currently employed as a playwright and drama instructor for the non-profit children's theatre company Kid Stock, Inc., for whom she has scripted five original shows and two holiday showcases, Caitlin is the writer and co-creator of That’s Not a Thing, that is due out in fall of 2015. She’s also the writer and co-creator of That’s Not A Thing, a web series about three women navigating the oft ridiculous trials of early adulthood, which will be put out by La Dona Films this winter.

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We are live! Check out Snapshots creator Caitlin Mullan's post about Sutro Park, the magic of San Francisco, and the importance of storytelling. Link in profile. #localwriters #sanfrancisco #sutro #sunset #storytelling #nofilter (at Sutro Heights Park)

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Intro: Sutro Park | Caitlin Mullan

Intro: Sutro Park May 2015

I’ve always lived near Sutro Heights, a little park at the edge of San Francisco's Richmond District. It's not as expansive or well maintained as the better-known Golden Gate, nor is it as breathtaking and serene as the neighboring Lands End, which is literally across the street from one of its borders. Unless you feel particularly passionate about local history, there’s really very little to recommend about it. The grass is alternately patchy and overgrown, the paths are often littered with broken glass and the occasional crushed beer can. But it’s special to me.

Good ol' Sutro is where I’d walk in the summers with my sister Michelle. We’d spread towels out on the grass, legs sticky with sunblock (a necessity, even in our often fog-drenched neighborhood) and read whichever books we'd selected from the nearby library. Sometimes we’d play catch, and on rare occasions we’d get a little batting practice in – Buster Posey I was not, but I lost more than one baseball to those trees. I still go up there to read sometimes. On a recent trip, there was a wedding across the grounds. Then there was a small fire. It was a very exciting day.

The park is also where I went almost every morning for about two weeks to sharpen my cycling skills after I learned to ride at the grand old age of twenty-seven. Safe from traffic and prying eyes, surrounded by more forgiving terrain, I worked out tight turns and clean shifts and smooth cadence. Only once did things get dicey, when I lost my nerve trying to clear a narrowish exit and grazed a statue, barely rescuing myself from a fall at the last second. An old man on a bench a few feet away saw it all but politely pretended not to have noticed.

I still walk up that way most evenings after I get home from work, sometimes just as a means of getting to the grander trails across the street. But more often than not, my little park gives me some of the best sunsets. 

Sutro, unremarkable as it may be to many – maybe even most – people is a part of my San Francisco. It has written itself into my story, and vice versa. When I walk through it, or even just think of it, all that history rises to the surface. It’s one of my favorite feelings in the world. This city is full of places that have worked their way into the hearts and minds - the souls, even - of the people who have spent time in them. 

This project is my way of capturing that feeling of being rooted to a place, of having it both own you and belong to you in some special way, and giving it a voice – creating what I can only describe as a verbal snapshot (hence the name). I spent months traveling to some of my favorite spots and writing down whatever came to mind - memories, the feelings I was having in the moment, imagined tales - before realizing that what I wanted, more than anything, was to know the thoughts of the people around me. I didn't just want to tell stories, I wanted to exchange them.

Snapshots: San Francisco is a place where I can do just that. Each week, I'll be sharing stories, thoughts, ideas, poetry, and everything in between about my fair city, all written by either myself or one of the many wonderful guests who have generously taken the time to contribute a piece. A photo shot and/or approved by the author will accompany each post, along with a location tag.

I’d like to invite you, dear reader, to join the ranks of those guest writers. There are no restrictions – whether you’re a native, a transplant, an expat, or a one-time visitor, your story is valuable, and I want to help tell it. E-mail [email protected] for more information.

This city is changing – for better and for worse, and in ways that we often can’t control. Just last week, I walked to Sutro Park and discovered that a tree near the entrance closest to me had been felled. I’d walked and ridden past it countless times for years without a thought, and now there it was, uprooted and in pieces. Spaces change, often without warning, but the stories that built them are eternal. I’m excited to start exchanging some with you.

Caitlin Mullan is a writer and performing arts educator based in San Francisco. A graduate of Seattle University’s creative writing program, she also studied literature and history at the National University of Ireland, Galway, thus giving her a unique and immersive education in rain that continues to inform her work.

Caitlin currently works as a playwright and drama instructor for the non-profit children's theatre company Kid Stock, Inc., for whom she has scripted five original shows and two holiday showcases. She is also the writer and co-creator of That’s Not A Thing, a web series about three women navigating the oft ridiculous trials of early adulthood, which will be produced and released by La Doña Films this winter.

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Launching soon... #snapshotssf #sanfrancisco #goldengate #landsend #nofilter #storytelling