My first time on a plane was to San Francisco. I traveled as part of an Ohio University student group that was Black and about its business, which was why it was called the Black Student Business Caucus. We met with well-off alumni and discussed which fork to use at business dinners and when to code switch. Now, 26 years later, I was back in San Fran for spring break with the fam.
After dropping off bags at the hotel, we took a Waymo to the Golden Gate Bridge. Two Waymos to be exact. My oldest, Nile, was with me in one car. He’s almost 15. I let him listen to gangsta shit when Mama’s not around, so I turned the car’s streamer to its hip hop station. Pooh Shiesty was playing. Pooh was explaining that he’s “fresh out the feds” but also hoping (and praying!) that one of y’all try him. Don’t!
We walked the full 1.7 miles across the Golden Gate Bridge. It was unseasonably hot. Remnants of leave-in conditioner dripped down my forehead. Well, it wasn’t actually leave-in conditioner. It was regular conditioner but I left it in to maintain that fresh-out-the-shower look after a five-hour flight. Nothing wrong with a lil’ male vanity while pushing 50.
Suicide prevention signs were posted on the bridge. For those still interested in jumping, a gray suicide net was there to catch ’em. Amber and I had a brief self-harm talk with the boys but got distracted as they spotted their favorite cars speeding next to us. “That’s an M4!” or “MINI! THERE’S ANOTHER MINI!”
We caught an Uber and bus to Fisherman’s Wharf. It’s a tourist trap in need of renovation. We ate bread bowls of clam chowder and fish tacos from a food truck called The Codmother. The best part of the Wharf was the walk away from it: cable cars and classic homes. That and the boys physically pushing an exhausted Amber up the hill and back to the hotel.
Later that night we walked to Union Square to grab food from a Middle Eastern carryout. The people were…eclectic? Young partiers, addicts, mentally ill but happy, mentally ill and angry, and rich techies splurging in upscale restaurants.
A stooped White man with a red bruise on his crown asked me for food. “Sorry” was all I gave. I would have bought him a sandwich but the environment had me on edge and ready to go into kick-bite-punch mode. The kids were upset that I didn’t give the man food. “Dada, just buy him something.” We briefly looked for him after our order was ready. No luck. I told them we’d probably see him tomorrow and I’d buy him a meal. I knew that wasn’t likely.
The next day we walked another 20,000 steps across the city. (Thanks for the analytics, Fitbit.) From Nob Hill to Chinatown to Union Square to Mission District. Ca$$iu$, our middle child, among many observations, cupped my ear and whispered, “Why are there so many gay people…and lesbians, too?” I’m sure there’s a historical answer to the question, but I was trying to enjoy the views. “I think people like to live where they feel comfortable and where they can be free.”
I enjoyed the Mission District the most. As far as places with endless stretches of shops, bars, and restaurants, Valencia Street in the Mission is right up there with Magazine Street in New Orleans and Old Town Bilbao in Spain. I’d like to spend a few months each year in any of those cities once I get the kids off the payroll, preferably at 12:01 a.m. on their 18th birthdays.
From the Mission District, the five of us took the bus to Ocean Beach. Well, first we took the wrong bus and had to get off, but we arrived at the beach about an hour later. I’m not a huge beach guy thanks to a sun allergy, but what makes Ocean Beach unique is that it runs parallel to the Great Highway. A highway that’s closed to vehicles and functions as a big ol’ boardwalk.
Following Ocean Beach, we took the BART to Berkeley. A plump Latino teen boarded and announced himself before playing the accordion as part of a one-man Norteño band. He held a hat for tips and we gave him five dollars. His performance, and my boys bodyrolling while holding the subway grab rail, made for an entertaining 40-minute trip.
We stepped off the train and headed straight to the University of California, Berkeley for a self-guided tour. UC Berkeley’s one of the nicest campuses I’ve visited. But one thing bothered me about the campus and the San Fran overall: They’re hardcore about who can use “public” bathrooms. You must buy something from a store with a bathroom or have an ID card that scans you into a campus building. And even if you buy something from a store they might say their bathrooms don’t work. We saw a homeless guy whip his dong out mid-afternoon to pee in public. No shame. I get it!
After dinner in Berkeley, and about 10 hours of roaming through the Bay, we got back to our hotel in Nob Hill around 11pm. Amber gave in and let the boys watch South Park for the first time. It was a good distraction while she and I went to Top of the Mark, our hotel’s rooftop bar. I still got some YN in me, so the crowd was too old for my preference. We left and walked down California Street to find a cocktail bar. Two drinks later (at $18 each!) we caught a Waymo back to the hotel and called it a night.
Our brief stay in San Francisco ended early that Sunday afternoon. We took an Uber to the airport and rented a car for the one-hour drive down Highway 1 to Santa Cruz, where we spent the next two nights.
In Santa Cruz we stayed at an Airbnb just up the cliff from College Girl Thong Beach. That’s not its official name but it’s descriptive. We also went to Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. Jordan Peele’s “Us” was filmed there, and I’m sure it set a record for most Negros ever assembled in Santa Cruz at one time. Counting myself, my kids, and one brotha who didn’t even nod his head when we made eye contact, I only saw 3.5 of us there over two days.
We didn’t do much else in Santa Cruz besides go to the beach and walk around downtown. We mostly cooked and laughed at the boys, or yelled when they fought. They’re older now and doing their own thing with friends and school activities. It was nice to see the three of them hang out together uninterrupted. Ca$$iuS grabbed Nile by the shoulders and half-jokingly said, “You’re so broad. You’re so strong. You’re so masculine. You’re an inspiration!” Larke, the runt, yelled, “Stop glazing him!”
We drove back to San Fran’s airport the following afternoon, shortly after making the obligatory stop at In-N-Out (which is like five minutes from the airport). Like every city we’ve visited, the boys are considering moving to San Francisco.
-Dewan Gibson