I was still pretty beat when I woke up on Thursday and it was hard to want to get out of bed. It’s not all the walking that has done me in on this trip, for me that’s normal, it’s the way I can’t stop thinking about the things I’ve seen while I’m here.

I had no real plans or destination in mind when I first headed out; first to grab a coffee and an almond croissant to tide me over until I could find some lunch and then I walked east towards the water. Along the way, I realized I hadn’t yet checked out the famous City Lights books store I had been told about over Twitter before arriving, so I set to it.

This year is City Lights 70th anniversary (a big poster on the window told me) so it’s definitely been around for a minute. It’s famous for being the home of the beats, so if you’re super into poets, it’s probably high on your list. Me, I just like places with rich historical background.

It’s not a very big book store, you almost feel like you have to squeeze through the door because to your immediate left is the register to pay and then you can eigther move straight through a narrow corridor to some stairs or escape into the room on the right which is full of as many shelves as they could reasobly fit inside its small size. I opted for the room on the right to start and get some breathing room. What’s kind of cool about City Lights is they have your usual staff picks, but on almost every other shelf you’ll catch a red tag: Banned Book. They offer loads of banned publications here and certainly make more of an effort to attract you to them than any other store I’ve ever been in, which makes more sense once you read briefly about the City Lights history. Its founder, Lawrence Ferlinghetti (a poet himself) was arrested and charged for obscenity for publishing Allen Ginsberg’s Howl and Other Poems (of course, still available at City Lights).

I didn’t read too deep into that one, honestly, too spent from the trip by the time I arrived at the store to delve too far into any of the available texts. One of the banned books tags that caught my eye was a publication by a Polish author called Being There – I would’ve bought it, but someone beat me to the punch.

So I walked out of the little room to the right and into another small corridor with a tight staircase that leads up to the poetry section. It’s on this staircase that I found a series of photographs and stories about Bob Dylan and other songwriters like Robbie Robertson who had their own ties to City Lights I was otherwise undfamilair with. Some of the photographs for the Blonde on Blonde album, fore xample, were shot in this neighbourhood and to me that was the most interesting part about City Lights. It always gives me a funny feeling to know I’m walking the same rooms and corridors as someone like Bob Dylan so many years later. I wonder what he thought of the neighbourhood back then. I wonder what book might’ve caught Robbie’s eye on these shelves.

A rocking chair sat in the corner by the window, still moving from the last person who sat in it. The poet’s chair. All over City Lights there are signs to encourage you stay and read, which is funny because you don’t even get that same sense at most major book retailers these days. They still ‘get it’.

To the right of the Howl poetry series and other notable City Lights Publishing books are … more poetry books. I peeled through one by John coltrane for a moment before a tag turned my attention to someone I’d never heard of before: Forough Farrokhzad. An iranian film maker and poet who’s very brief biography told me she might be more interesteing to me than some of the other, largely male American authors, noted on the shelf.

I flipped through and stopped on a page with the poem God’s Rebellion which I’ll share with you here:

If I were God, I’d call on the angels one night
to release the round sun into the darkness’s furnace,
angrily command the world garden servants
to prune the yellow leaf moon from the night’s branch.
 
At midnight among the curtains of my divine palace,
I’d upturn the world with the frenzy of my furious fingers,
and with my hands, tired of their thousand-year stillness,
I’d stuff the mountains in the seas’ open mouths.
 
I’d unbind the feet of a thousand fevered stars,
scatter fire’s blood through the forests’ mute veins,
rend the curtains of smoke so that in the wind’s roar
fire’s daughter can throw herself drunk into the forest’s arms.
 
I’d blow into the night’s magic reed
until the rivers rise from their beds like thirsty serpents,
and weary of a lifetime of sliding on a damp chest
pour into the dim marsh of the night sky.
 
Sweetly I’d call on the winds to release
the flower perfume boats on the rivers of night.
I’d open the graves so that myriad wandering souls
could once again seek life in the confines of bodies.
 
If I were God, I’d call on the angels one night
to boil the water of eternal life in Hell’s cauldron,
and with a burning torch chase out the virtuous herd
that grazes in the green pastures of an unchaste heaven.
 
Tired of being a prude, I’d seek Satan’s bed at midnight
and find refuge in the declivity of breaking laws.
I’d happily exchange the golden crown of divinity
for the dark, aching embrace of a sin.

– Forough Farrokhzad

Now that’s a poem.

I squeezed past some tourists back down the stairwell, back through the little room and down the even narrower corridor that led downstairs.

Down here, it smelled like stale paper. That entiruely unqiue scent that you can really only find in these types of buildings, with these floors, these shelves.

In the basement are a lot of political offerings and a small music section, some autobiographies and philosophy, among others. Had I not been too worn to do much reading, I might have spent some more time here. I left without buying anything; overwhelmed by the options and history; each one demanding attention sure that its pages held the truths I was seeking. How could I ever decide which one was more valuable?

I bet Bob Dylan didn’t buy anything either.

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Within a block or so of City Lights, the neighbourhood is full of strip joints. Huge neon signs all over the place and signage beckoning you to check out the best topless girls in San Fransisco.

Depressing.

I kept walking.

I walked back to the waterfront, figuring with just one last day here I’d rather spend it by the waterfront since that’s something I don’t have at home. I ended up walking around Pier 39 which I’d somehow managed to skip the first couple times I’d passed, and that’s a really cute area. A total tourist trap of course, but laid out really nice with shops all along a wooden boardwalk that weaves every which way and eventually leads you to a carousel. If I were a San Fransisco teen, I’d probably have had some sort of date night here. Very Americana, very wholesome. I bought one of my only souvenir’s here, a wooden Buddhist prayer bracelet. $10.

When you continue through past all the shops, you wind up on the waterfront again. And as I turned a corner, I was elated to find one of the things I’d been really hoping to see in SF.

Sea lions!

Two whole flats of them. Not as many as some of the pictures would suggest when I read about it online, but more than enough sea lions for this Canadian girl. Seldomly will I stop and just watch anything for too long, but I grabbed a spot right against the pier’s barrier and leaned over it watching them growl and bark at each other for a while, adjust their silly poses and do their funny Sea Lion yoga poses to the sun beating down on them. Flat 1 was more rowdy than Flat 2, making all sorts of noise and bickering with each other; Flat 2 was down for naps. I relate to both.

Eventually one of the sea lions came up for a swim right near where we were all standing and watching, putting on a little show for us, slithering through the water and up and under empty flats of wood. “Must be working off his lunch,” I surmised.

Nothing is quite like just watching animals do normal animal things; they probably think the same of us watching.

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Continuing along the water I passed by In N Out Burger. Then stopped myself and went back. Everyone always says you’ve gotta try this place and I hadn’t been eating much all week, so there seemed no better time.

In N Out is awful. I don’t recommend any part of it. Even if I were wasted at 3AM after day drinking all day, I wouldn’t eat this burger. And the fries? Ugh. Someone put this chain out of its misery and close it down, it should be a crime to serve food this bad.

Associates here make $22/Hr to start according to the ad on the window, or $25/Hr depending on the role. Suddenly I thought, maybe SF isn’t doing so bad if these types of jobs are paying this rate. Back home I make $16.55 and up until a couple weeks ago it was less than that. And I don’t work at a fast food joint.

Anyway, that’s a whole other conversation.

I started to walk back towards the Golden Gate bridge. Not that I planned on going back toit, it’s one of those “once you’ve seen it once, you’ve seen it a million times” destinations, but there’s some nice park areas and trails south of it and I thought I might have time to see those again.

The waterfront winds so much though, that before you even get close to those areas again you’re mostly just walking this weird barren parking lot landscape full of more homeless people and drug addicts. The frequency of these pockets in this city make it difficult to enjoy the parts that are otherwise quite charming because suddenly you’re on heightened alert, not wanting to draw attention to yourself or piss anybody off.

I remembered back to Lindsay’s comment, my first roomate at the hotel and our brief chat before she jetted home. “It’s just like any other city,” she’d said, talking about the homeless and the bad areas.

She wasn’t exactly wrong but I’m not sure people who aren’t from cities like San Fransisco know how much worse it is here. And beyond that, is that really enough? To just be okay with the fact that there are going to be homeless people and drug addicts and mentally unwell peopple living in tents and sleeping under cardboard, breaking into cars just to have something soft to lay on for a night?

It’s not like it’s just one street in San Fransisco that’s like this. It’s a ton of them. It’s even the “nice” streets. Van Ness is one of those big wide roads that leads you to the main city center. Near it are City Hall and enormous art museums, theatres and opera. You can get fine cheese and meats, and right outside of all them are busted up tents full of people with no where else to go, sharing pipes and getting into fights with each other.

Toronto is becoming more like this, but without the tents (different climate) and for now it’s mostly in smaller pockets of the city. San Fransisco is where Toronto is heading and faster than I think a lot of people realize, all too busy with their own lives and driving through these neighbourhoods without so much of a second glance instead of walking them and getting a real understanding of what they’re like.

If I had taken Lyft throughout my week in SF, I don’t think I would’ve realized it either.

If we can’t have good quality of living for all the people of San Fransisco, one of the wealthiest and most sought after cities in this country to my knowledge if the rumours are to be beleived, then that doesn’t bode too well for the smaller cities and towns, does it?

Why have we become so complacent with their just being homeless people scattered throughout our wealthiest nations as though they don’t matter at all? Is it because people think they desrve these circumstances? Because they think they put themselves in this position and it’s their problem to deal with? It all seems insane to me. Some people live this way by some level of choice, sure; the beatnik hitchhikers on bizarre spiritual journey’s without any real destination in mind, but most people don’t care to live that way and wouldn’t if there were better options available to them.

I’m not sure how long I’d last out on the streets like these people. I hope things turn around for them. All of them.

Earlier in the week the latest news from Israel made its waves. San Fransisco loves a good protest; there are lots of posters done up on posts and poles all over the city inviting you to this rally or that rally. On one afternoon I was making my way somewhere when I stumbled into a Pro-Israel rally.

I wish I could say I’ve kept up well enough with the newws to have a thorough understanding of that happened most recenntly, but I don’t think it’s all much different from what’s been happening there already for years.

My position is that there’s no excuse for wars, acts of terrorism, violence, rape or anything that is considered putting another person through harm, so I sit somewhere in the middle and some of you will call that anti-semetic because you’d rather be part of a team, choose a side, than fight for the good will of all humanity and I find that sad.

The energy at the rally was awful. The people shouting for Israel at this rally were certainly not from Israel. I’m pretty sure none of them were even Jewish. You don’t have to be, of course, to find a cause you believe it, but the agressive way they were shouting their support for Israel told me this was less about having compassion for people in Israel and more about being mad about something that they were so far removed from it did not matter.

Postering.

Not protesting. Postering.

If you live in the city of San Fransisco and you have no real affiliation to Israel, Palestine or Jewish heritage, why in the fuck are you spending hours on a Tuesday afternoon shouting about violence against people you will never meet when there are hundreds if not thousands of San Fransisco native homeless right on the same street you are shouting from?

Go up a block and shout about that outside City Hall, you absolute dickheads.

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Everything in San Fransisco closes really early. It’s weird because it’s a very big corproate city but with beach town bankers hours. Where most cities I’m used to start to liven up after 3PM as schools and jobs let out, downtown San Fransisco becomes more and more of a ghost town with the only people wandering the streets being those ones I keep mentioning have no where else to go. It doesn’t make you really want to stick around and it isn’t long before you start thinking about heading back to your own hotel.

Of course there are loads of nice restaurants if you’re looking for a nice place to sit and grab a bite, but I wasn’t in the mood for any of that.

I walked over to a Walgreen’s that was due to close by 6; it was just after 5PM. Security stood at the front door. Peculiar. Walgreen’s is basically a Shopper’s drug mart and we never have security in those.

I made my way over to the snack aisle. I wanted something on hand for the night and a fresh bottle of water, planning to stay inside once it got dark and take it easy before the next days flight.

Not in any real rush, I wandered about a bit hoping to find something more interesting than we have at home.

And that’s when I noticed the cashews.

Locked firm behind a glass door.

They weren’t the only item locked up; all sorts of nuts and other “healthy” snack food is housed in the same type of casing.

San Fransisco, home of Silicon Valley leading the future through remarkable innovative technologies you could have never dreamed of when I was a child, kindly asks that you request a Walgreen’s associate open up the snack aisle prison to secure your honey salted cashews.

I don’t blame people for stealing them, cashews are delicious and a great source of protein. But maybe the solution isn’t to lock up the cashews. Maybe there is something else we could work on here.

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Back at the Music City Hotel, I changed into my sweats and quickly used the washroom. Every day in this city before I’ve left and as I’ve returned, I’m greeted by a large photograph of Train’s leadsinger Pat Monahan.

I love Train. They have some really catchy music and some of the lyrics are utterly ridiculous you can’t help but enjoy the wacky way Pat’s mind works.

Train have a great record called Save Me San Fransisco and I’ve thought about it often while being here, because how could I not?

After only 6 days here, my presumption is that San Fransisco does not have that capacity. San Fransisco is sick. San Fransisco may need saving.

And yet compared to so many other American cities, San Fransisco is thriving.

I sauntered back to my room.

No new roomate tonight, just me and my tour bus capsule.

It was dark out now, about 7PM.

I wouldn’t be leaving the room until light broke, too unsure and unnerved by what might be waiting out there tonight.

I am very thankful that at least on two of my evenings in San Fransisco, The Beths, Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service gave me somewhere safe to go; Somewhere I didn’t feel in any way alone.

I loved a lot of things about San Fransisco, but I can’t say I could see myself coming back unless I had another clear reason to be here. There are simply too many hearts hurting on its streets.

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Special thanks to Music City Hotel for being incredible hosts. I highly recommend it. I’m not sure you can find a better deal on a stay in town and its music gallery is great to walk through.

As I dropped off my key this morning I left a few Neither Could Dylan stickers. I will never be one of the historical featured artists that graces its halls but it is forever etched into mine.

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This blog is Part 7 and the final in my series chronicling my trip to San Fransisco.

Catch up with the previous blogs below: 

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6

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In case you didn’t know, I have a couple of side projects inspired by the bands that inspired this trip.

Check out Death Bus for Blondie including my entire Asphalt Meadows cover album (and then some) and Canada Post, everywhere you stream.

Thanks for reading.