Travel Reports
San Francisco
Has the hippy “old man” of gay city breaks worn out its kaftan? San Fran bites back.
San Francisco was once the Miss World of gay travel destinations. From the 1960s to 1980s, gay men from all four corners of the globe saved up for years to escape the humdrum of their straight-jacketed lives in order to experience a few weeks of the city’s fabled hedonistic excess.
Then, in the 1990s, the world shrank, airfares tumbled, a wave of liberalism spread across the globe, and San Francisco suddenly had a plethora of glamorous young rivals to compete with. Nowadays our pink air miles are spent zipping across to Eastern Europe for weekends of high cheek-boned Slavic attitude, or else migrating south for the winter in search of chiselled, Speedo-ed hunks on the beaches of Sydney, Cape Town or Rio. The choice of destinations is endless, and somehow San Francisco has been relegated to the nostalgic fringes of the world’s gay map.
Gay men, however, have a penchant for ageing beauty queens – witness the collective “Doesn’t she look fab?” every time Jerry Hall appears on Parkinson, or when Twiggy appears in an M&S ad. And so, flying out to America’s favourite city, I was curious to discover whether the gay world’s first long-haul travel destination is still a stunner, or whether she’s in dire need of a classic Californian nip ‘n’ tuck.
Plastic surgery was the last thing on my mind as the plane veered at a frighteningly steep angle and I caught a glimpse of the city below. I’ve never seen such a breathtaking sight coming into land - anywhere. The misty Rocky Mountains crumpling down to the stormy Pacific shore were tinted a mellow pink by the setting sun. Skyscrapers, perched on a peninsula between the bay and the ocean, were already sparkling with a million lights, with the totemic Transamerica Pyramid in the midst of them all flashing like a New Age lighthouse as it caught the last rays of the sun. Gazing down at the graceful span of the iconic Golden Gate Bridge and the Pacific surf lashing the deserted beaches, I felt as excited as Alison and John must have felt when they accompanied Daddy on his business trips in the 1960s’ Ladybird Books of Travel Adventure.
Every gay man, once in his life, simply has to stay at a Hotel Diva and the one in San Francisco is certainly worthy of its gay-friendly credentials. Debbie Harry and Madonna DVDs play on the flat-screen TV above the Reception desk, giving it instant kudos. The sleek and spacious silver-and-cobalt-blue guestrooms are filled with little pink personal touches, including a temporary “Diva” tattoo by the bedside lamp, condoms placed discreetly in the safe, and a bathroom goodies bag brimming with Ayurvedic teas and moisturisers. No need either for that nightmare scenario of hauling yourself out of bed after a late night out for an excruciatingly early-morning breakfast downstairs; they’ll send up a complimentary city breakfast box packed with a hangover-sensitive selection of crispy croissants and freshly squeezed orange juice.
I’ve never quite understood the logic of meekly crawling under a table during an earthquake, especially with several floors of angrily shaking masonry above you, and so in the morning, after reading the “What to do in the event of an earthquake” advice, I immediately flung open the window to check out a more proactive way of escaping The Big One. Luckily, a huge zigzagging fire escape came within a short hopping distance of my window, and I left for a day’s sightseeing safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t have to raid the housekeeper’s cupboard in order to knot some sheets together for my escape plan.
Terrible though the 1906 earthquake was, the entire city was rebuilt in the ornate Beaux Arts style popular at the time, which today makes it one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Swirling art nouveau ironwork fire escapes twist gracefully down the richly patterned brickwork of the downtown skyscrapers, while mile upon mile of creamy Victorian-style clapboard houses, ablaze with subtropical gardens, meander up and down the city’s 40 or so hills. Wandering around the streets, you feel as if you’re in a gay Relocation, Relocation paradise.
As I ambled down to Dottie’s True Blue Café (522, Jones St) for one of their legendary weekend brunches, an “Earthquake Organic Produce” van drew up, with a huge carrot broken by a fault line emblazoned on its side. This quirky sense of humour is endemic to the city and maybe is a way of dealing with the darker seismic realities of the place. At any rate, even by American standards, San Francisco is exceptionally friendly and Dottie’s is guaranteed to put anybody in a good mood. Sitting at the bar by the open-plan kitchen, I was particularly smitten by two cute Latino chefs doing little Samba routines as they tossed their pancakes and omelettes at lightening speed.
San Francisco’s rickety old cable cars and trolley buses are sex on wheels for public transport boffins, and one of the most convenient for the gay visitor is the F line, affectionately dubbed “The Fag Line”, which runs from Fisherman’s Wharf and terminates near the giant rainbow flag that proudly flutters over The Castro, San Francisco’s main gay village. It was here that I met Kathy Amendola, an infectiously bubbly East Coast lesbian from “Cruisin’ the Castro” historic walking tours. Within minutes she was passionately describing the energy vortex that flows up the extinct volcanic vent of nearby Corona Heights, then spreads over the caldera on which The Castro is built, imbuing the entire city with dynamism and tolerance.
As a New Scientist devotee, I’d normally have let out a big yawn at this point but, strangely enough, from the moment I’d arrived in the city I’d felt an unaccountable energy about the place. I wasn’t quite at the stage of putting flowers in what’s left of my hair and rushing out to buy a Mamas & Papas Summer of Love kaftan, but wandering through the moving Pink Triangle holocaust memorial garden and hearing the inspirational stories of the city’s gay history, from the Harvey Milk riots in the late 70s to how the gay community pulled through the Aids crisis in the 80s, I began to feel immense pride in the contribution this quirky New Age city has given to the long struggle for gay equality.
That evening, I attended the American Conservatory Theatre’s LGBT theatre night held monthly at the palatial old Geary Theatre directly opposite the Diva. The play, David Mamet’s controversial 1970s’ hit, Sexual Perversity in Chicago, was all bell-bottoms and bad language and a vicious satire on the excesses of sexual liberation in the 1970s. Disillusionment, loneliness, chauvinism and exploitation were its key themes and not without relevance to the modern gay scene, as the lively conversations in the post-performance party clearly demonstrated. Packed to the rafters with a diverse mixture of gay theatre-lovers, both young and old, there was a real community feel about the event and here, at the very cultural heart of the city, was tangible proof of how successfully the gay community has integrated into the modern fabric of San Francisco life.
Fully satisfied with gay San Francisco’s impeccably high community credentials, I was keen to find out whether the city’s nightlife could reach the same dizzying heights. In my previous forays to the States, I’d never quite had the courage to go to a Men’s Club but, buoyed up by the friendliness of the city, I jumped onto The Fag Line and steeled myself for Club Eros (2051, Market St). No sooner had I sat down nervously in the sauna than a strange man, who looked and sounded like a Munchkin from Tennessee, began regaling me with tales of how he liked to get spanked by the lakes near Chattanooga. The Andrews Sisters clearly had a lot to answer for. Beating a polite but hasty retreat upstairs, I entered the play area and stumbled across a scene that resembled an orgy at Pooh Corner. By now I was suffering complete stage fright and clearly needed a lot more rehearsal before I could audition for one of the steamier episodes of Tales of the City. Escaping the rapacious clutches of Eeyore and Piglet, I ran out of Eros and strolled down to the nearby Castro to ease myself more sedately into the city’s gay nightlife.
The Castro is perhaps the most self-contained Gay Village on the planet. Even the Bank of America has a huge rainbow flag fluttering above it. The glittering pink-and-blue lights of the wedding cake Castro Theatre add a little sparkle and glamour to the streets while droves of gay tourists and locals spill out from the packed bars onto the buzzing palm-lined sidewalks. There’s something for everyone here, from Twin Peaks (401, Castro St, a Parisian-style brasserie unkindly dubbed “The Glass Coffin” due to its elderly clientele) to The Edge (4149, 18th St), which is popular with a 30-something bear brigade, and looks and smells like a bear cave. Moby Dicks (4049, 18th St) was more to my liking, with an all-American clean-cut Jock clientele, seriously hip West Coast rock and a mesmerisingly beautiful tropical aquarium behind the bar.
From The Castro, a short tram ride to South of Market, San Francisco’s second gay village, is like hurtling back 30 years in a Tardis. The smell of weed and poppers permeates the air and the black-clad leathermen and bikers seem perfectly camouflaged against the black bar walls and peer out from the dim red light like Cheshire cats in an Amsterdam brothel.
On my final day, I met up with Tom Medin, the mercurial gay director of Local Tastes of the City Tours for a leisurely culinary amble around North Beach, San Francisco’s Little Italy. Several hours later, I felt like a fat Italian mama as I forced down a final wedge of divine, custardy Sicilian wedding cake. Our final port of call was Caffe Macaroni (59, Columbus Ave), where Tom was greeted like a long-lost Mafiosi brother by a gravel-voiced Italian waiter in a muscle T-shirt who bore a striking resemblance to Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire.
This juxtaposition of camp, effervescent gay man and macho, straight Italian waiter seemed to conjure up the spirit of San Francisco perfectly. There are few cities in the world where the gay community is so accepted and valued, and for the gay tourist it’s this quality that makes a trip here so special. It really is like discovering a home-from-home, and like many other gay travellers in decades past, you might just end up staying a little longer than you planned.
Getting There:
United Airlines flies from London Heathrow to San Francisco with regional connections available. To find the latest low fares, log onto www.unitedairlines.co.uk or call 0845 8 444 777
Accommodation:
The sleek, sexy Hotel Diva features 115 ultra-modern guestrooms. Check out the Diva Sidewalk of Fame, featuring signatures of past celebrity guests, and the Diva Boudoir with DVD rentals and complimentary iMac use. 440 Geary St. San Francisco, CA 94102. Reservations 00 1 800 553 1900, www.personalityhotels.com.
Play On:
For more information on San Francisco, including dates of festivals and theatre nights, visit www.sfvisitor.org.
Cruisin’ the Castro Tours: www.cruisinthecastro.com
American Conservatory Theater: www.act-sf.org
Local Tastes of the City tours: www.localtastesofthecitytours.com.
Read On:
For a colourful interpretation of San Francisco’s gloriously heady gay days, not much beats Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City series.
Neil Gregory