Love Letters to Pacific Heights
posted May 06, 2009 9:43AM
Shiny, sparkly Pac Heights. Pristine Upper Fillmore boasts the new Delfina Pizzeria, well-heeled sidewalk strutters/coffee sippers, and of course, that Marc Jacobs store.
Share what you adore about where you live. Submit a “love letter” to Pacific Heights below for a chance to be published in the Neighborhoods section of an upcoming issue.
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vcd posted 03:25 AM Jul. 7th
I fell for you when we first met. Intellectually, I knew it was a bad idea. As a girl born of the ‘loin, how could I dream of a future with Pac Heights? Yet, I was willingly seduced by your charms . My eyes wide open. Now, I find myself sitting here in my self-exile across the bay, reminiscing of the moments when I pretended you were mine.
Within each of these moments I could feel myself fall further and hopelessly in love. What were these moments? There were so many. Yet, they were so simple, so everyday. These moments included the admiration of design whimsy at Zinc Details…the studious blushes while passing the evocatively tempting My Boudoir….the weekend mornings of french toast at La Boulange…the warm smiles and coziness over house- made sausage and salumi at SPQR….the late night walks up and down the sloping Fillmore street, and even the random dropping in at Bittersweet for hot and smooth Blue Bottle coffee. Each of these moments made me love you more.
Yet, I realize now, sitting in my abode, a bridge and tunnel away, that this love is one that I will hold solely in my memories. I want you to know though, that in each of those moments, I was inexplicably yours.
foodiehunter posted 04:40 PM Jun. 12th
Dear Pacific Heights,
It began with innocent flirting over lamb lule and sangria at La Med, followed by a trip to the Marc Jacobs store to see what items we could afford. I still have the pink striped fingerless gloves from our first visit! Our second date was even better: a midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show. When the Marina saw how happy I was visiting Pac Heights, it knew it was in trouble.
Yes, I used to live “on campus,” but it never truly felt like home, for I never owned the requisite Juicy sweatsuit or starched polo. Please don’t be jealous of my Marina past— you and I have only been together for six months, but I know you well enough to know this relationship is serious.
Although you fulfill my needs, you also understand that sometimes I must leave you for an hour or two, so you give me some great bus options: the 1, 2, 3, 4, and 12 to downtown; the 22 to the Marina, Hayes Valley, or the Mission. And our favorite, the 24… who could forget the woman singing “Let It Snow!” (in May)
I hope I haven’t scared you away by moving in so soon. Don’t fret—while I love living with you, I’m not ready for marry you with real estate (unless I find a million dollars laying around somewhere.)
When people find out I live in Pac Heights, they say, “Oh, you’re rich.” I’m not. In fact, I can barely afford my rent and must occasionally resort to Lean Cuisine dinners and basic cable, but it’s all worth it.
Let’s celebrate our time together with a glass of wine at Long Bar and a romantic stroll to Lafayette Park.
Yours,
L
Lbogie posted 02:28 PM Jun. 12th
Dear pacific heights, while I am not ready to become exclusive, I can no longer deny that I love you. I don’t want you to think you’re not enough for me, you are, but what makes you so great is that you allow me to wander. Your quiet tree covered streets with grand old mansions give way to sunny terraced parks from whose heights you can see the whole city and its neighborhoods spilling out before you. While I occasionally pop over to these other hoods for little flings, I never forget about you. You may not be as adventurous or as hip as them, and you are certainly lacking in street credit, but you have nothing to be jealous of. In many ways it’s what you don’t have that attracts me; Pacific Heights, where fix-gear bikes don’t roam free, where streets are delightfully devoid of puke stains, and where aggressive panhandlers rarely venture. Some may judge your for the absence of these blights, some may even look down upon you, but I adore you for it, you are my rock, my stone, and my address. Other neighborhoods may show me a good time with their quirky shops, affordable restaurants, and lively bars, but it’s you who nurses me back to health with lazy Sunday brunches and bloody marys on every corner. Remember when you found out I was slipping away to be with Mission’s Dosa and Delfina? You were thoughtful enough to get your own replicas of the two so that I wouldn't leave, that was sweet of you. It’s the little things that let me know you care; easy parking, great window shopping, romantic sunsets looking down over the Golden Gate. I may wander away from you Pacific Heights, but I will always climb my way happily back.
agdougla posted 02:23 PM Jun. 10th
To my dearest Pacific Heights…you send me.
You send me down a sidewalk where English bulldogs, poodles, and three-legged rescues lunge in their leashes toward Alta Plaza, the emerald jewel that tops this district, gnarled trees whipped by the wind.
You send me to a corner where every afternoon a woman in her seventies boards the bus to Union Square, her black Chanel sunglasses that she bought during the Ford administration sit perfectly perched on her soft nose. Today she wears a lavender suit, and gloves. A flurry of girls, with their knee socks and lacrosse sticks, swirl around her. Neighbors carrying yoga mats and coffee, ballet students with duffel bags and ponytails walking perfectly erect, as dancers do. The woman in lavender smiles behind her sunglasses. Some days, I wish I was her.
You see me standing in the street late at night, way past bedtime, observing a shiny cab pulling up to a house. Two brothers in dinosaur jammies stand at the threshold, fingers dancing on the doorjamb, watching a man in a trenchcoat unload a suitcase. Finally, the youngest one can wait no more. He breaks from the house and sprints on his tiptoes across the cold sidewalk, arms out in front of him. “Papa!” he squeals, and in the next second he is in the arms of his father, his tiny, fat, naked feet lifted off the ground. They are speaking French to each other. The father carries his younger son into the house, touching the head of his eldest as they cross the threshold. I watch them close the door, and in an instant, a cloud of fog curls over the peak of the street, tumbling in gray curls around my legs, arms and torso. The misty droplets kiss my face. It feels like love.
Catie_Nienaber posted 12:46 PM Jun. 10th
Your east to west expanse compels and captivates; defined by your association as an area between a presidio, a bush, a union and a van. Your younger sibling has been crafted by those who parcel her streets for monetary gain as the area south of California and just past Post. Regardless of your geographic designation it is the liveliness of your streets, alleys and corridors which beckon a return of the weary southward wonder escaping the tides of the marina and the patties of the hollow.
A sunny day can call your dwellers out in the grassy knolls of your well placed parks, granting them wonderful views of the city by the bay. A sunny day quickly fills the sidewalk cafes with urbanities and their offspring, twenty somethings pour in and out of your local beverage parlors, and the visitors from the suburbs seem wide-eyed and bushy-tailed clamoring to fit in among the masses. While a sunny day within your boundaries comes more frequently than those of your neighbor to the west it is the seldom warm air that truly delights.
An overcast day hinders not your residents, instead the garb shifts from polos, flip-flops, and well placed sunglasses to athletic attire, well equipped with fleece jacket and appropriately placed sunglasses. Sidewalk cafes welcome the runner with coffee, beverage parlors welcome the happy hour seeker with internal warmth and glass eyes to watch the suckering suburbanite try to figure out the correct action or inaction on such a dreary day.
Lest we forget the commonalty of our mode of transport we must pay homage to our feet, our twin Audis, our BMW compact SUV, our satin colored SLK, and our baby’s pram. Let us not neglect your well placed pastry shops for without them brunch would be lunch. We must most of all recall the wonderful cornucopia of eateries which line your streets, for without them dinners would be mere meals at home…maybe even alone.
We are grateful to you and for you. For without you we would not be residents of the most beautiful district in our wonderfully compact seven by seven city.