San Francisco.
Two things:
Where I live now is not far from anywhere, really. Market Street (and the rest of the Financial District) is in walking distance, or you can take the bus which gets you there is 5 or 10 minutes; Chinatown is essentially on my doorstep; there’s a bus to Fisherman’s Wharf; the cable car runs just a little up Russian Hill, and further up from that is the famous wiggly bit in the road; in the other direction you can walk down the Filbert St. Steps right down to Levi’s Plaza and the Embarcadero. The walk up Russian Hill affords views over the Golden Gate to Alcatraz, while the summit of Telegraph Hill offers a look over the Bay itself to the Bay Bridge, Yerba Buena Island and the city of Oakland beyond.
Not to forget the neighbourhood of North Beach itself, full of fantastic independent stores (local planning laws dictate that no chain store with more than 11 branches may open up shop here) and characterful buildings. (My apartment is certainly characterful, and not without its quirks, but it’s very liveable.) Not to mention the fact that this is San Francisco’s version of Little Italy. It’s pizza neighbourhood: just poke your head outside in the evening and you can smell it. North Beach is truly one of the greatest places I’ve ever been, in what may be the greatest city I’ve ever been to.
- I love this city more with every step I take. I can honestly say, much-missed family and friends notwithstanding, that if the stupid immigration services told me that I could live the whole rest of my life here, I would unreservedly accept.
Point, counterpoint.
- Aaron Swartz: the Existential Terror of San Francisco. I can certainly feel this walking around on Friday or Saturday evening, or near the shadier parts of town. That said, Swartz seems to indicate that he was living in the Tenderloin, which is kind of like living in a tree and complaining about the monkeys.