Oh, the allure of the new. Tunnel Tops in the Presidio, after so many years of anticipation, finally opened this summer and drew a powerful crowd.
Just a couple months before, the city also opened the gates to Francisco Park on the northern slope of Russian Hill, the largest park in San Francisco in 40 years. Perhaps you’ve checked it out already. Or not. Either way, I have a tip: Francisco Park is about the least interesting thing in Russian Hill.
If you love to explore on foot like I do, the new park will barely scratch your itch, although you might see a hillside of goats eating poison oak. (That’s not an itch you want to scratch.)
Russian Hill is compact, less than a quarter square mile, but dares you with some of the steepest ups and downs in the city. Don’t worry, there are plenty of spectacular spots to catch your breath.
On a recent blustery summer day, my friend Lisa and I started our adventure on the south side of the hill, headed east, and immediately struck urban explorer gold: An historic architectural mini-district at Russian Hill’s crest.
It’s centered on a one-block stretch of Vallejo, framed by a Beaux-Arts wall and lined with sumptuous homes in several notable styles. Two alleys, one lined with bricks instead of pavement, add to the “privileged rural enclave in the midst of the city” vibe. Turn around for a view west down Vallejo, and you’ll see the Golden Gate Bridge perfectly framed.
Ina and Armistead
Continue east and before you descend a flight of stairs, look for the plaque that explains how Russian Hill got its name. Down the stairs and to the right is a dark green mansion with quite a past and a recent starring role in a TV show. Cross Taylor Street to find a tiny jewel called Ina Coolbrith Park, and if you’re lucky, dozens more flying jewels, as the park is often a favorite spot for dragonflies to zip around.
Ina Coolbrith was the niece of Joseph Smith, founder of the Mormon church, and came to SF in 1852, having left her religion and a failed teenage marriage behind. She wrote poetry, helped build the city’s burgeoning Bohemian literary scene, perhaps got intimate with Mark Twain, and later was named California’s first poet laureate. The 1906 quake and fire destroyed her Russian Hill house and much of her work.
Her namesake park is tiny, a steep east-facing hillside with steps and walkways that provide all the requisite SF views — Alcatraz, downtown, the Bay Bridge — but also a close-up of apartment towers, some of famous pedigree, that went up before zoning revolts capped development height here and around the city.
Coolbrith Park tumbles down to Mason Street, where the eastern flank of Russian Hill starts to blend into North Beach and Chinatown. While our goal was Francisco Park, we were happy to zig-zag and let every nook, cranny, and peculiarity divert us. Such as: an old outhouse door repurposed as a front gate, and Redfield Alley, off Taylor, which according to Google Maps dead-ends in the middle of the block.
Don’t believe everything you see on the internet, friends. Redfield turns into a dirt path, then takes a left turn and becomes Marion Place, passing through a green space called Molinari Mana Park. It’s ad hoc and homemade and rivals the city’s better known stairway gardens, not for length or cultivation but for surprise and charm. It’s not an undiscovered gem (nothing in SF is), but you won’t have to jostle through tourists clutching copies of Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City, as you might a few blocks away on Macondray Lane.
And what of Macondray, long considered the inspiration for Maupin’s “Barbary Lane”? Please do check it out, but not at the expense of other alleys and byways, named and unnamed, that you stumble upon. More on this later.
On our dog-legged pursuit of the slightly hidden, we meandered to a few other notable spots: the compact and serene Michelangelo Playground; Hancock Grammar School, now home to a charter school, and where Elizabeth Ling-So Hall became SF’s first Chinese-American principal in 1953; the bottom of the Lombard Street swerve, where we stopped to watch the tourists; Fay Park, a mansion and garden bequeathed to the city; and the 151-year-old SF Arts Institute, which just gave up the ghost but has a sticky problem: the Diego Rivera mural inside is an historic landmark, complicating a move or a sale.
New park, nice enough
In our hilly neighborhoods, I can’t get enough of those oh-so-San Francisco split-level streets braced by a retaining wall. One favorite is Francisco Street, which acts like an off-ramp from Leavenworth as you head north toward the bay. That block of Francisco has mansions with garages built into the hillside, the Norwegian Seamen’s Church at one corner, and most shocking, an empty lot. With an unimpeded view of Alcatraz, it could well be the most expensive empty lot in the United States.
And then: Francisco Park. It’s nice, I guess. A big grass oval, playground, community garden, dog run, sloping snaking walkways, and some lovely flower beds. I especially dig the leftover bits of old reservoir and pump equipment, but everything else, well, maybe it just needs more time to develop its own character. (Tunnel Tops has some of the same problems, but that’s fodder for another day.) We were happy to move on.
Back up the hill, heading south, we checked out George “Cool grey city of love” Sterling Park, waved to happy cable car riders on Hyde, and peeked down Filbert at what was, until recently, the steepest hill in the city.
Serendipity was close at hand. Of the many Russian Hill alleys on the map, Havens Place seemed longer and greener. We went on a whim and knew immediately this wasn’t typical. A swaying palm tree stood sentry, and a Buddha plaque raised a hand in greeting. (Along with a Neighborhood Watch warning sign.)
Havens required a little huffing and puffing, and the reward was more lush greenery, more Buddhas and other art, and a chat with a resident and his dog. Turns out, he told us, that Armistead Maupin lived on Havens, not Macondray. (His street address was Union but the back of his “pentshack” apartment opened onto Havens.)
Again, there are no SF secrets, but this felt like one to us. We exited Havens feeling like our city could still reveal itself to those patient enough to ask the right question or peek around the right corner. We didn’t know how true that would soon become.
‘Steamers we adore you’
A bit further on, we turned left onto the Green Street block with a famous octagon house. Pretty cool, even with all its windows papered over during a renovation. Across the street, an historic plaque caught our eye: a firehouse built in 1907. And lo, a fellow emerged from the garage, wrapping up a day of handiwork. He told us to check out the garage walls and flipped on the lights.
Across the surfaces played paintings of firefighters in horse-drawn wagons scurrying to douse 1906 fires, and the inscription: “Steamers we adore you.” Whether for heroic work or other reasons, firefighters always get plenty of love, no greater than SF’s firehose-shaped tower built in the 1930s with money bequeathed by “Firebelle” Lillie Hitchcock-Coit. These paintings were born from the same gratitude.
Did we want to see more? Hell yes. The top floor was a private residence (off limits), but the hall, sure enough, still had the fire pole. And the bell. And a trove of photos and knick-knacks. Since 1998, the building has been owned by the Scottish American St. Andrew’s Society, so yeah, photos of white guys in kilts.
Meetings take place in the back room. Could we… sure, why not? There were amazing bookcases with cut glass panes, a spiral staircase, and the original fire alarm with ticker tape and buttons I probably wasn’t allowed to press.
We didn’t want to leave, but our guide had to hit the road. He grew up nearby, but local prices had pushed him out to Vallejo, a reminder at the end of our ramble of the price to pay for SF’s greenery and charm — and Exhibit A is Francisco Park. Starting out, we thought it might be the Holy Grail of our exploration. It turned out, while nice enough, to be more of a smartly designed coffee cup, funded by private donors whose generous ardor for a park had a less neighborly aim: To ward off the threat of affordable housing at the site.
Russian Hill will never be a blue collar enclave, and as our tour reinforced to us, big parts of it never were. But people there still have a sense of humor. If you ask “Where’s Waldo?” in SF, the answer is “An alley off Leavenworth near Broadway.” And in honor of the eponymous cartoon character, someone keeps wrapping the street sign’s pole with red-and-white ribbons.
How to get there
There is no gateway or best entry point. The 45 Union/Stockton bus cuts across Russian Hill, and the Powell-Hyde cable car line climbs over the top. Other buses that get you within a block or two: The Van Ness rapid bus, the 19 Polk, the 30 Stockton, and the 1 California. If you’re driving, you can take your chances parking on neighborhood streets (good luck!), or try at the end of Van Ness near Aquatic Park.
To refresh yourself after a sweaty exploration, Hyde Street has a cluster of eateries on the hill itself, or you can roll down to Polk Street, North Beach, or Chinatown — even Fisherman’s Wharf, if that’s your jam. One of my all-time favorites is Mario’s Bohemian Cigar Store Cafe on Columbus.
