Stefan Bowers

Emergency surgery brought me back to the city after my dad suffered an undiagnosed brain bleed while in the skilled nursing facility.

It’s emotionally surreal flying back into a disastrous situation in a city as intoxicating as San Francisco. A city that sweeps you off your feet with its perfect weather and, far more interesting than the weather—the countless dynamic layers of life on top of one another.

San Francisco has changed, but have I?

Growing up in the Bay Area forever branded its identity into my developing brain and shaped who I am today. Returning under these circumstances has caused me to see my life in reverse.

My first visit here after my dad fell was focused entirely on him. I spent the first 6 days and nights in his hospital room advocating for his well-being. I watched as he was swallowed up by delirium’s spell, in excruciating pain. The following seven days, I left each night at the end of visiting hours so drained, so wiped out, and consumed with sadness that I’d walk down from Nob Hill into the Tenderloin where I was staying, desensitized to my surroundings, with the sole goal of falling asleep in hopes of a better tomorrow.

This visit feels different.

The decision to proceed with brain surgery was made by me, Carmen (his primary advocate), and at the last second, my dad, who “changed his mind” regarding paperwork he signed in the midst of his delirium to not have life saving procedures done.

But the situation had changed. The brain bleed was sudden and unexpected—came out of nowhere. So in a last-minute decision, the three of us chose to proceed.

So if you asked me what you should do if you ever come to San Francisco, I’d answer your question with one word—walk.

San Francisco is safe.

The rumors you’ve heard about “zombies” roaming desolate streets are false. Yes, there’s car theft, brutal drug addiction, and crime. But still, the best way to get to know the city is immersing yourself in it. Going straight through it, not around it’s neighborhood streets.

Currently I’m staying at my dad’s SRO (single room occupancy) in the San Francisco Tenderloin. If you aren’t familiar with this neighborhood, it’s considered the ghetto of SF. He lives on Leavenworth Street, what he would frequently call in his writings, “ground zero,” or, “The Land of The Dead.”

Compared to the rest of the grandeur of SF, it can come off as a miserable place. But deep within the folds of its leathery skin lies a richness that lives a life as worthy as anywhere else. A story of survival. A last hold-out against the tidal wave of wealth washing the common citizen off the San Francisco map.

And is there any story more worth telling than a story of survival?

Every night, as I reach Leavenworth, I juke my way past the homeless, the drug pushers, the folded addicts hanging on to invisible gravity like a BART grab-pole.

And I feel more alive than ever before.

My dad is at UCSF Parnassus, high atop the city’s hills, three and a half miles from the Tenderloin.

I walk there during the day, and back at night.

Through my neighborhood of physical and emotional heartbreak, by acid-tripped painted ladies, delicious delis, Japanese architecture, classic pizza joints, hilltop parks filled with the awe-inspiring Monterey cypress, jaw-dropping Australian eucalyptus and ego-flattening red oaks.

San Francisco is one giant puzzle of neighborhoods. It’s not boroughs like New York. It’s not oversized and pounded into the ground like a cement stake. It vibrates gracefully with a soft West Coast breeze at your back—guiding you from one place to the next.

It has countless secret doors—places you can slip into around every corner. Quiet, empty streets to turn down to avoid people. Trees you can nap under without being savaged by red ants. Bars filled with locals that will have a conversation with you or not, your choice.

As my dad recovers, so do I. I heal with him here in San Francisco, with San Antonio in the backdrop, waiting for me like a scorned spouse after being out too late at night.

San Francisco is like a dream. It’s temporary, different by the day, moving in and out of consciousness. Letting you see the inside of your own mind, but cutting you off right before you figure it out on your own.

And right when I think it’s where I permanently belong, like a dream, it whispers in my ear that it’s time to wake up and get back to reality.