I recently spent four days in San Francisco. It’s changed
since I first visited twenty-five years ago when sourdough bread was the
must-eat loaf, gays flocked to the bars and the homeless seemed totally at
home. On this trip, I opted for spelt scones and currant-laden Irish soda bread
and the gay contingent seemed no greater than in Los Angeles, Portland, Seattle
or Vancouver. As for the homeless, well, they continue to be strong presence.
It’s the gay thing—actually, the lack of it—that I wish to
lament. Even when I was a kid in Hamilton, Ontario and, later, East Texas, I
knew that The City by the Bay was a gay haven. (As someone who spent too much
time in front of the TV, I also knew it was the place for Rice-A-Roni, “the San
Francisco treat”, and a city where Michael Douglas solved crimes with the guy
with that distracting, bulbous nose (Karl Malden). The gay notoriety generally
drew snickers amongst my peers, scorn from holier-than-thou public figures and
a guarded curiosity from me. Is this
really a place for the freaks and am I one of them? Is San Francisco my
destiny?
I’d heard of a gay politician being murdered there. Was it
really all that safe? After university, I managed to buy a copy of Randy Shilts’
The Mayor of Castro Street from a
second-hand bookstore in Dallas—no doubt, red-faced with perspiration dotting
my shirt as I exited—and I was only more enlightened/confused. I could no
longer deny being a depraved member of society for I was indeed a reviled
homosexual. (Texas in the ‘80s could really do a number on you.) Perhaps I’d
find some semblance of acceptance among the perverts of San Francisco. I left
Texas and headed to California, opting for Los Angeles as an extended pit stop
on the yellow brick road to Oz.
As luck would have it, L.A. proved to be gay enough. It took
a couple of months, but I found my way to West Hollywood and, as much as I
begrudged it as a ghetto with too much attitude, I drove in from Malibu as
often as I could. After three years, I made my first visit to San Francisco. It
proved to be disappointing. The homelessness made a greater impression than
anything else and I kept trying to pull my boyfriend away from the bars around
the Castro. Maybe I had jealousy issues, but I told myself his drinking problem
was the bigger issue.
While gay bars helped me see I wasn’t alone in L.A., I had
higher expectations for a city as renowned as San Francisco. I didn’t want to
feel confined to bar stools and sweaty dancefloors, no matter how hot the
clientele. Hotness never mattered. I had my gay card but studs in clubs viewed
me with indifference at best. What I wanted from the city was sidewalk comfort.
I wanted to window-shop while walking hand-in-hand with my boyfriend. I wanted
to see regular gay folk, not writhing shirtless to Madonna, but scrambling to
catch the bus to work or gnawing on a supersized loaf of that sourdough. Always
one with faulty gaydar, I noticed only a slightly higher gay quotient. All this
time, I’d hoped that this was the place that campy Weather Girls song
would prove true.
I’ve probably been back to San Francisco a half dozen more
times. They were far from gaycations. I have a college friend who lives in the
burbs and she suggested we go to a pumpkin festival while I was there for a
weekend. Uh,…okay. Should’ve splurged
on a rental car. On another visit, I stayed with a former roommate who was a
too-chill California surfer dude. I don’t remember us doing anything. In hindsight,
I suspect he was doing acid in his bathroom. No need to leave the apartment for
a good trip.
My solo visits weren’t any gayer. I’d hit the Castro during
the day, expecting to experience gay immersion in a Starbucks or to exchange
knowing glances on the street. I did spot some gays but they seemed to have
their own kind of attitude. No nose ring, no nod of recognition. Where, oh
where, did the everyday gay geeks go?
Three years ago, I was back for an exciting weekend. I’d
flown in to swim from Alcatraz. I biked over the Golden Gate Bridge. I jogged
through The Presidio. I was on an exercise kick to fend off a nasty bout of
depression and had no time or desire for seeking out the elusive Gay Wonders.
It was just a city, albeit a damn pretty one.
There was nothing strikingly gay on this latest occasion.
Maybe San Francisco never was all that. Maybe I just have an innate sense of
dodging the vibes. I bet I could have walked Haight and Ashbury during the
Summer of Love and left frustrated, wondering where I could buy a gallon of
skim milk. Maybe it’s my destiny to be forever clueless.
We don’t need a
gay mecca now, at least not in the Blue States. Most of us no longer flock to
bars that greet us with rainbow flags. We feel safer (and more consumer-savvy)
looking at housing beyond the gay ghettos of old. We can go on Twitter and
amass a throng of LGBT followers to lessen that sense of isolation that may
come from living in a small town or rural area far from any known gay marker.
We can bring the gay to us. We don’t need to go to Oz.
But I want to know there still is one. Not out of necessity,
but out of a desire to be together or, at the very least, to remember when gay
culture thrived and grew in certain centers. It brings comfort knowing there is
actually a place at the end of the rainbow. In North America, that place has
always been San Francisco. Maybe I’m overreacting but it feels the colors are
fading.
