Who's in Aisle 7?

They say that what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. (Which 'they' is that, again?)

Some people thrive on putting themselves in hazardous situations, as a means of tempting fate and testing themselves. I am not one of those people. Granted, I have taken on challenges, both physical and mental, with the anticipation that I'd be mettled as a result. And in the grande scheme, that has held true. But there have been a few times when I've reviewed the odds, and I'm lucky I beat them.

My second year living in SF, I was facing the continuing downward spiral of the economy, and wondering if I'd survive it. I was working at a very small architecture firm and doing contract freelancing on the side, but neither of my employers had strong legs of stability. I was facing a renewal on my $1600/mo apartment lease, and was getting anxious.

So, I began weighing my options. I definately wasn't open to taking on roommates. I had a cat, a bike, three computers, and a mountain of camping gear. I scoured the listings for more affordable apartments that were still walking distance from my office. I looked at dozens, and grew disheartened.

Then I came across these words: "Newly remodeled kitchen with new appliances. Gas stove and full granite countertops."

They had me at 'granite'.

Compared to the apartment I was in, which had a serviceable yet tiny kitchen/dining nook with no counterspace to speak of, I could have slept on the generous countertops of the new place. I immediately envisioned myself happily cooking up a storm, and with that myopic vision, I mentally blocked out the proximity of the centralized recycling facility across the street. I signed the lease, and made plans to move in.

The first evening in the apartment, after the moving crew had deposited the furniture and I'd secured a location for the cat's litterbox, I threw open the double-paned windows facing the front street and actually ENJOYED the tinny-clamor of the cable car bells, the whir of the underground chain, and the bustle of the arterial streetscape below. Enjoyed, that is, until 2am, when the corner bar (The Hyde Out) released it's patrons out onto the street. That particular night, an inebriated, arguing couple SCREAMED each other's indiscretions at each other the full length of several blocks. The sound carried and bounced off the tall building canyon walls and triggered barking dogs.

In addition to the lively local fauna, the neighborhood 24-hour supermarket stood opposite the wide street the apartment fronted on. I have always lived within walking distance of a market, so I wasn't bothered by the idea of being across the street - but experiencing the reality? That went downhill fast. The market was ALWAYS active. The lower parking lot echoed squealing tires, the clatter of collecting aluminum and glass canisters. The tall windows of the market glowed 24/7, radiating fluorescent rays directly my way.

I tried to make the most of it. After all, my overhead had dramatically decreased, and there WERE those granite countertops. I played a game I called "Who's In Aisle 7?" where, whenever my insominia kicked in (with the aid of the cable car bells, the churn of the subterrainian cable, the fractured rainfall of recycling glass, or the screaming local denizens) I would stand at my front bay window, and look down into the market - and see who was shopping for what, and imagined a full story behind them. I even had visiting friends join in on the practice, and we'd place bets on people turning down the aisle of what they were shopping for.

The building also had a recessed, sheltering entry alcove, which during the winter months, attracted the homeless on a regular basis. On numerous occasions I'd head out for a morning jog only to find the front entry fully blocked by a slumbering mass of humanity, swaddled in moving blankets, or more poignantly, newsprint. Initially, this tore at me, and I would retreat to the utilitarian service side alley to exit. Eventually, it galled me, and after seeing one vagrant harrass an elderly widow who lived in the building, I began calling the non-emergency police line to have the neighborhood patrol clear them away at dawn.

This wasn't the only brush with low-lifes that occurred. Although the building address was situated directly between two tony, gentrified neighborhoods - Nob Hill and Pacific Heights - these particular blocks dipped down into the lowlands that formed the central north-south corridor out of a 'transitional' 'hood - the Upper Tenderloin as it evolved into Russian Hill. In a city confined to a 7X7 square mile peninsula, the transition between grime and glitz can easily happen within three blocks, and the Lower Tenderloin was a hotbed of drugs and prostitution (male and female and all manner in-between).

One sunday morning, I returned to the building from a run, and climbing the central stair, looked up to find legs - many, many legs - standing on the second level landing. Uniformed cops and suited investigators, who immediately 'shusshed' me, then let me pass up to my own floor. One of the suits followed me, and once out of earshot of the action on 2, asked me if I knew who lived on that floor. I didn't. Warily, I asked what was going on, and he calmly stated that they had a warrant for the guy. Great. A warrant that warrented 8-10 strongarms waiting to surprise him on a sunday morning.

I retreated to my apartment, thankful I wasn't positioned directly above the lodging of the individual being sought, so I didn't have to worry about errant bullets coming through the floor.

That was when I realized it was time to start up The Great Apartment Search once again.