Hippy Hill

Northern California is a world unto itself.  The perfectly comfortable climate, the gorgeous pine covered hills set against the translucent blue sky, and the laid-back, easy disposition of Californians create a graceful world of plenty.  Wealth is the norm, but if you're not wealthy, there's plenty of sunshine.  There's plenty of beauty.  Plenty of knowledge.  Plenty of nature.  Plenty of culture.  Plenty of plenty.

And San Francisco is a city of plenty.  Plenty of architecture, food, shopping, education, and hills.  I've just returned from a trip to The City by the Bay.  (It was a graduation present to myself.  Yes, I finally finished!)  And, like all major cities, there is much more to see and do than can be accomplished in just one trip.  For this reason, I needed a plan of attack.



Recruit a seasoned cab driver and fork over $100+ bucks to get a customized view of city?

Sit with a map and learn the public transport system in one sitting?  If I factored in getting completely lost at least once, which would have been inevitable, this seemed like a viable option.

Start at a popular place like Union Square and start hoofing it?  I'm fit and can handle a few miles on foot.  (The hills are no joke, but I welcomed the challenge.)

No, I decided on another option.  A rather glamorous one!  The open-top bus tour.  Yes, you may laugh out loud.  This former (and probably snooty) New Yorker, who at some point made a solemn vow never to consider such a touristy apparatus, bit the bullet and bought the Hop-On, Hop-Off Ticket to Ride.  For $25 and a bruised ego, I avoided the hills and maximized what was a limited amount of time in SF.  (This was how I justified it to myself ;)

The coach arrived.  I bolted to the upper deck, grabbed a single seat in the front row and settled into the brisk morning breeze and my tour guide's young, playful narrative on the wonders of her beloved city.

The Painted Ladies, Golden Gate Park, Nob Hill, City Hall... it all passed by with charm and beauty.

Then, Haight and Ashbury.  The Haight.  My tour guide referred to this neighborhood as having its own unique history and "its own unique smells."  What could she mean?  I didn't discover her meaning until I "hopped off" to explore this slice of American history.

I was sure I would get high by default.  The rich aroma of marijuana permeates the air like the perfume of flowers permeates a flower shop.  You simply cannot get away from it.  I strolled down Haight in seventy degrees, in December, content in the sunshine, the new experience, the surprising sights, and the rich culture.  And then I came to Hippy Hill.

Hippy Hill (a section of Golden Gate Park that juxtaposes the intersection of Haight and Stanyan) and its inhabitants were described by my tour guide as "harmless during the day but you might not want to be around here at night."  While the odor of marijuana consumed my olfactory senses on Haight, the combination of pot, body odor, urine, feces, dirty dogs, and liquor wafted toward me on Hippy Hill.  The "hippies" that inhabit this place are not the guitar strumming, long haired, tie-dye wearing hippies of American folklore.  These folks are clad in camouflage, pierced on every spot of skin that will hold an inch of metal or a stud, tattooed, and filthy.  They sit alone or in circles on the grass.  (The temperate climate makes it a bit easier to have no home, I imagine.)  Some ask me for money, some offer to sell me drugs, some comment on my own dress - so different than theirs. Most just laugh and talk in the beautiful California sun.  I spotted the jokesters in the crowd, the flirts, the intellectuals, artists, and introverts.

I paused on Hippy Hill and took a seat.  I felt at home.  My appearance betrays me as the middle class, well-educated, upwardly mobile woman that I am.  But I'm also well attuned to my vulnerability, wounds, and scars.  The higher up we proceed in our unofficial American caste system, the better we are at concealing our weakness.  But down here, among the homeless and the rejects of society, there is no hiding.  There is no home to shield our dysfunction, no designer clothes to cover our shame.  There is just naked humanity in the open air.  The vulnerability sings out, and it's a song I love.

I often find myself wondering where Jesus would spend his time, were he walking the earth today. (Sadly, I stopped believing long ago he'd set foot in most of our churches.)  I imagined him here on Hippy Hill.  Sitting, laughing, teaching...

I prayed silently and said, "What would you say to these people, Jesus?  How would you reach them?  We get so caught up on the specific words you spoke 2,000 years ago that we miss the meaning..."

And then it came to me.  Perhaps he'd say:

Blessed are you when you've got nothing left, because then you have a chance to know what really matters.

Blessed are you when you're without a home and the grass is your bed, because then you might know that it is your Father who cradles your head each night, not goose down pillows.

Blessed are you when you have to scream to be heard, and yet people just walk by without a glance.  Maybe then you'll know that your Father is always listening, even when no one else is.

Blessed are you when you choose to permanently ink your body again and again, in every available space that holds an untouched spot of skin.  Maybe then you'll know how deeply and permanently the Father's mark is on your soul.

Blessed are you when all you have as family are those who are equally lost on this earth... Maybe you few will know and understand that your true home is in heaven.

Blessed are you when mental distress sets in, when the voices start screaming, when you feel you are losing your grasp!  Blessed are you!  Reach out to me!  Those who are equally needy cannot see their need.  Blessed are you when you can.

Blessed are you when others laugh at you. They laugh at me too.

Blessed are you when they avoid you because they don't understand you.  They do the same thing to me.

I stayed on Hippy Hill for a few moments longer, longing to join the circles, the conversations, the laughter.  But the walls I have erected in my own heart - the fear of being rejected because of how I look and dress - kept me silent and isolated.  Ah, to be more like Him.  To simply... join.  And while I kept my distance out fear of rejection and the unknown, in my heart, I was one of them.

I had no idea that in visiting San Francisco, I'd become a hippy.

Must be something in the air...