I left my crack in San Francisco...

Yesterday was our one-year American anniversary. On Sept 1 we landed at JFK, jumped on the subway and arrived exhausted and relieved at a hostel not far from Harlem. My first impressions of New York were of hugeness, a prickle of fear as we walked through a tenement neighborhood to get to our accommodation, and delight at eating my first proper bagel in years, topped with smoked salmon, cream cheese and capers. It seems like more than 12 months have passed because it’s been such a changing time. We have really struggled to get to where we are now—content in a cute little apartment in San Francisco, stocked up with books and sourdough bread, spending happy afternoons wandering the neighborhood and evenings watching episodes of Flip That House on our satellite television.
(Last night’s couple did up a crumbling cottage an hour out of LA, fitting it out with hardwood floors, a smart green and red exterior color scheme, brand new kitchen, and a low-maintenance garden only to have it languish on the market for six months before they gave up and rented it out. The wife was pissed and her man—who she referred to disparagingly as “my tubby hubby”—was oblivious.)
When we landed at SFO a couple days ago, we were pleased to be coming into a stable situation, with all the organizing—finding a car, jobs etc—behind us. We jumped on BART and zapped into the center of the city, avoiding freeway snarls and saving the environment at the same time (Go Us!) but made the mistake of getting off a stop too soon and had to wander through the Tenderloin—crack central. Tired and disoriented from the flight, we trundled along with our suitcase, carry-on bags, laptop, and bright yellow bag of duty free wine. We may as well have sat on the pavement and quacked. Luckily it was 2pm and the drunks and druggies and homeless folk were mostly sleeping/recovering. Even so, a woman with a city library ID hanging round her neck was concerned enough that she came up and gave us directions (in our own city; humiliating). “I’m sad to say, but this is a drug dealer’s paradise,” she said, pointing us towards a safer thoroughfare where we might catch a taxi to clean and manicured Laurel Heights. “Don’t come here at night.”