February 2000 RETURN TO HOME PAGE FEEDBACK

It was an absolutely gorgeous Saturday morning. The sun was shining and the temperature was perfect. I didn't need a coat. (Of course, I took it with me anyway. I do live in San Francisco.) I stepped out of my apartment building on Church and 24th and started walking towards the Wells Fargo. My rent was due in a couple of days, and I needed to deposit my paycheck at the ATM.

I crossed the street to walk in the sun and, for the first time in a while, had a good look around Noe Valley. Everything seemed clean and bright. The trees in front of Martha's were in full bloom, and the sun danced off the stained-glass panels in the window on the corner. There were children and dogs, happy and frolicking, by the entrance to the juice place. The flowers on the sidewalk danced in the wind. The same warm inland breeze pushed me from behind, and I felt as though I were floating up the street. With the wind at my back and the sun warming my body, I felt great.

I walked past Just for Fun, stared at their window display -- always a highlight of my walks -- and crossed the street to the Wells Fargo. Although there were people with dogs and children milling around, there was no waiting. Life seemed perfect. Smiling from ear to ear, I remembered all of the reasons I moved to the neighborhood four years ago. This is why I love Noe Valley, I thought.

The ATM quickly inhaled my paycheck and exhaled a solitary piece of paper. I stood aside for the guy next in line, who had double-parked his BMW on 24th, and glanced down at my receipt. The numbers staring back at me jolted me back to reality: It was going to be a tight couple of weeks. Sure, I had enough to cover rent, food, and maybe one dinner at Pasta Pomodoro, but there wasn't much more. Dinner at Miss Millie's or Bacco, or a new pair of shoes from Rabat, would have to wait. I'd be lucky if I had $5 left over to put in savings.

As I turned and walked back home, I felt as if the fog rolled in, just over me, and I saw the real Noe Valley. There was the guy singing soul tunes next to the entrance to Tien Fu, and the older man with the headphones, sifting through garbage in front of the toy store. The panhandlers are as much a part of Noe Valley as anything else, I thought. Yet I had ignored them on the way to the bank. As usual, they had asked me if I'd like to hear a song or buy a Street Sheet, but I had walked right past them, acknowledging them with a halfhearted "Sorry, maybe tomorrow." But realistically, there would be no "tomorrow."

Had I lost all compassion for the homeless? Had the city hardened me? Sure, I was tired of being asked for spare change, but I knew, deep down, I still cared. Then why hadn't I handed them a quarter?

At that moment I made a hard realization: It's difficult enough for me to live in Noe Valley, without giving money away. I work hard at my job, and if I lived anywhere else in the country I'd be doing pretty well. By now I'd probably have a house, a reliable car, and maybe even a kid. But instead, I take Muni and spend half my pay on rent and utilities for a one-bedroom apartment.

The sad truth is: Unless I experience a sudden windfall, I'll never be able to afford a house in Noe Valley or push a baby carriage down 24th. I'll never have the look of excitement I saw on the faces of a young couple as they removed the "Sold" sign from their new home on Diamond last month.

I make ends meet, and I try to enjoy every day for its simple pleasures, but if I choose to stay in Noe Valley -- the neighborhood I love -- I am living now the way I always will live.

Danielle Trudeau works as an assistant manager in a hotel. She is also producing a documentary on the Amunge people of Irian Jaya in Papua New Guinea.

Let Bylines Be Bylines

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The Noe Valley Voice welcomes your wry or passionate reflections on life in the neighborhood. Mail manuscripts, which should be no more than 800 words, to Bylines, Noe Valley Voice, 1021 Sanchez St., San Francisco, CA 94114. Or email jaxvoice@aol.com. We'd also appreciate an SASE and a phone number. Thank you for writing.