650 Post Street: Not 28 Barbary Lane---By Bryan Franks

I have been willingly tasked with sharing my memories; anything from birth to present by our blog administrator, Garbo. I would like to thank her for her confidence in my ability to do this; a confidence I’m personally working to manifest myself.

With such a breadth of material, my first struggle was to wrangle a lifetime of events and locate one that might resonate with an audience. I chose my move to San Francisco in the seventies because Garbo told me her decision to choose me was based on something I wrote on Facebook about my experience in that city. It seemed a good place to start and settled my reeling mind.

I am not a professional writer and will do my best to put out something each week that is readable. Please bear with my grammar and other shortcomings. This new experience has opened a desire to polish my skills and I will be working to improve.  

That out of the way, here’s my first attempt. Hope you find my crazy life worthy of your attention:

I made numerous trips to San Francisco before I moved there in 1979. 

Moving there was the most daring thing I had done in my twenty-five years of very suburban, very safe Southern California life. I may have always lived within close proximity to Los Angeles while growing up in San Bernardino and while living in Orange County in my twenties, but I seldom ventured into Los Angeles and never alone. But San Francisco held a certain attraction that emboldened me, one that many gay men feel. Traveling to, and settling into the “gay mecca”, was a way to feel included and valued.  Living in most other places at that time required a deeply closeted life if you wanted to make a living, or not get beat up or murdered outside your local gay bar.

In 1979, Jimmy Carter was still our President; California Governor Jerry Brown, whom I adored was still in his first eight-year tenure. I still had that hopeful feeling that the post-Viet Nam, pre-Reagan moment held. My life to that moment had mostly been filled with fear and hopelessness. This idea of San Francisco seemed like a perfect anecdote, a way to free myself from the choking mundane that had defined my life to that point. Another notable event also played a part in my decision, and that was the murder of Harvey Milk. It opened my eyes to the magnitude of the struggle that we, all LGBTQI folks faced and still face on a daily basis. 

650 Post St. I lived on the third floor, left side.

I arrived in the spring, a glorious time of the year and I set about on foot from my motel each morning, as I had arrived on the Trailways Bus, car sold to get here, with only a suitcase in hand. I had sold all of my worldly possessions including my beloved stereo to make this happen. I ate two meals a day at the International House of Pancakes with the big blue roof, on Lombard just down from my motel. One small breakfast in the morning, on the way out and

dinner on the way back.

Union Square after the 1906 Earthquake.

Union Square now.

My search for a dwelling began in the Castro District, the Gay ghetto that was the favored place for folks like me, but after numerous roommate interviews, it became apparent to me that I’d be better off seeking a place of my own. 

After about a week and some panic about the cost of my lodging, I finally located a studio apartment at 650 Post Street in Lower Nob Hill. It was a 1916, six-story narrow and deep building, as was the style at the time. This was only ten years after the 1906 earthquake that devastated this and other sections of town. I would later learn that the survivors of the quake set up outdoor kitchens on Post Street to feed themselves and the other displaced residents. It is only a couple blocks from Union Square, that was decimated by the quake. Anyway, after going to the very dark and dingy basement apartment where the manager and family were having breakfast, I was given a lease with my word that I’d pay the rent on time. I reported my occupation as a freelance writer. I couldn’t think of another way to assure them I’d be capable of paying the rent and not require verification. They took my word for it. 

Outdoor kitchens on Post Street to feed 1906 Quake victims.

I returned to my motel on the other side of town and packed my few belongings and headed for my new home. The trek was not as bad as one might think, a straight shot on Lombard to Van Ness, then a fairly long distance on Van Ness that was not too hilly, to Post. I was accustomed to walking the hills and my twenty-five-year-old body hardly noticed the effort.

As I stated earlier, the apartment was a studio. My bed was a cheap and well-worn pull out sofa with maybe a three-inch mattress, a small closet with a window was off the living area. The kitchen was a separate room with a window looking on to a dark air well. The acoustics delivered some interesting sounds from other apartments. The bath was tiled in those one-inch grayish colored tiles extending halfway up the wall. a small window also looking out into the air well. The bathtub was a huge claw-footed type with a shower curtain that went all the way around. That bathtub and bathroom had a feeling of something dark, a feeling that something desperate might have happened there. My showers were always short. The kitchen was dreary but had potential, potential that was not in my budget. The living /sleeping area was pleasant with large high bay windows and very light even on those cloudy San Francisco days.  The fixtures throughout the apartment were original with the worn 1970’s gold-colored carpeting being the only probable change in sixty-three years. The stairs were narrow and the treads very shallow. I learned to turn sideways if I met someone on them, which was very infrequent. I used the elevator less often as it would frequently stop and the doors would open between floors. Sometimes close enough though that a step up or down got you off without trying to restart and land it level with your desired floor.

I shopped for the few household items I needed at the Woolworth's on Market and Powell. It was a fabulous, Art Deco/Streamline Moderne triangular-shaped building. It was shabby inside in keeping with the Tenderloin District where it sat on that iconic corner where the Powell and Market Cable Car turntable is located. Just going for sundries was an event in San Francisco. 

I never got to know my neighbors in the time, less than a year, that I lived there. This was not one of the nicest buildings in the area, although it was actually very nice overall. Many that lived there were longtime residents that like all smart big city folks, kept to themselves. A few were even on the creepy side, like the old guy, or was it a lady, that would peek at me through a crack in the door when they heard the elevator or my footsteps and key in my door. They would shut the door if I turned and made eye contact, no time to say, howdy neighbor.

The neighborhood was spectacular, I could walk nearly anywhere. The theatre district on Geary, which was above my budget was a block away. I would sometimes go down there when the shows were on and pretend I was one of the "respectables". My entertainment was riding the cable cars and exploring the neighborhoods and downtown.

Also of note, the Trader Vic Alley was next to the building just right of 650 Post, my building. This alley led to the famous restaurant frequented by the city elites at that time. I could see the limousines come and go, especially at the cocktail hour.

A recent search online for the property revealed a 99 walk score and I would agree. I walked nearly every inch of town north of Market Street, but not as far east as the Castro District, as it was quite a distance. 

The Castro District.

Speaking of the Castro District. I never really connected with the gay life in San Francisco. I did not find my, 28 Barbary Lane, nor my Anna Madrigal. See the “Tales of the City” series by Armistead Maupin for further understanding if you are confused by the reference. I may revisit the failure to connect in another post in the future. This adventure was as it turned out, more about getting to know me. 

By the way, and I’m sure it will be of no surprise to anyone, but that little studio that I paid, I think about a hundred and thirty-five dollars a month to rent, now goes for just over two grand and the median home in the area is now 1.2 million. This isn’t so much gentrification, as supply and demand. While researching the current state of the building for this article, I saw on Zillow the interior of apartment 301, the one right across from me, where the peeper lived and there were virtually no upgrades. Still in original and pretty much, pristine condition.

In the picture of the building at the top of the page, my apartment was the one on the left, on the third floor. I could look west from my side bay window and see Union square. The little greasy spoon restaurant is still across the street and I think the Hertz Rent A Car garage that occupied the ground floor of the building, right across from my building is still there.  So much has changed in San Francisco, but thankfully, much has not.

The pictures do not really capture the energy, the pulse of the city. It was a living being on its own; Reflecting the truly unique people drawn to live there, back when that was still possible.

Go to the next Consortium of Seven post