San Francisco's New Era

A view of San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge.

PHOTO: Maura McEvoy

From an upstairs window of the house I grew up in, I would look out every morning and see the Golden Gate Bridge. That is, I could see where the bridge was supposed to be: on many mornings it was so foggy, I couldn't glimpse any red at all. On those days my father, also a native San Franciscan, would tell me that someone had stolen the bridge.

"Will the police catch them?" I would ask. I might have been in elementary school, but I had learned enough to know that stealing the Golden Gate Bridge probably wasn't a one-man job.

"They're hot on their trail," my father would tell me.

And sure enough, by afternoon, justice had been served. The bridge reappeared in its original location, one piece at a time.

By my count, the bridge vanished approximately 200 days a year when I was growing up, in the '70s and '80s. And though I loved San Francisco, I found that its dampness extended beyond the lawn and the windshield of my car: the cultural scene also seemed muted. When I was old enough to live on my own, I moved to New York and stayed ten years.

Shortly before my thirtieth birthday, my husband and I decided to return to my hometown. I had reservations, though, so I called a childhood friend who still lives in my old neighborhood. "I'm worried about the fog and the cold," I told her.

"I'm looking out the window right now," she replied. "It's totally clear. You've got to believe me: weather patterns have changed. Everyone here has noticed; it has something to do with the city's microclimates."

Once we were there, I realized that she was right. San Francisco will never be Southern California hot — sunbathing on the beach is an option only a few days a year — but it is warmer now. And in particular, the Richmond district, the area near the bridge where I grew up and where my parents still live, isn't as gray as it once was.

Settling back into the city I was born in, I noticed that more than the weather had changed. As the fog has lifted, a new vibrancy has enveloped the town. I can see it when I visit the recently opened Museum of the African Diaspora or the charmingly small Museum of Craft and Folk Art. And I see it at the newly renovated de Young Museum, in Golden Gate Park. On almost any given weekend during the summer, bands play in the museum's garden, inspiring adults to rise from their picnic blankets and dance while kids play among the giant red sculptures of apples.