My hometown is not the San Francisco of glossy magazines and “10 best things to do” lists. There are no cable cars or rolling hills, no raw vegan restaurants or fair trade coffee joints, no Pride flags or startup entrepreneurs on their Cross Fit lunch breaks. It is neither hipster nor posh, gentrified nor shabby chic.
I grew up in a part of the city known as the Richmond District. It stretches west to the ocean and is sandwiched between the Presidio and Golden Gate Park. When Mark Twain said that the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco, he must have been referring to my perpetually fog shrouded neighborhood.