Rainbow ground zero

San Francisco is one of those places that it lives in the mind - almost independently of the worldly reality of the actual place.

Even prior to coming here for the first time in 2001, I had a strong concept of how the place should feel. Looking back to that first visit, what I expected was pure distilled 1970s: OK, so maybe not totally hippies in flares, smoking weed and holding-hands whilst skipping though the park...but not far off it. I envisioned sun glinting off the Golden Gate Bridge, all bathed in that dappled light and innocence of childhood photographs. And GAYS. Lots and lots of ‘em.

And - of course - I wanted it to feel like “coming home”. Even in rural mid-Wales, the lure of the Castro was there, tantalising my 16-year old fantasies with images of carefree acceptance and easy access to Hot Guys. I was already sold.

So, my first visit in 2001 was a reality check. Yes - it did feel like a pilgrimage to the Mecca of gaydom. But, like many pilgrims, I wasn’t able to overlook the tawdry commercialisation of the sacred relics. (So, in Lourdes it’s lurid plastic Virgin Maries to take home your souvenir Holy Water. In the Castro, it was Rainbow-coloured, erection-shaped candles to put on the mantel and genuflect to)

And - yes - it did feel like the centre of the known gay world...but there was an 'end of the empire' faded-grandure. A sense that it was living on its past glories.

Well before 2001, Gay™ had already successfully launched franchise operations in most sizeable European cities, so walking into a bar in the Castro felt as familiar as walking into a McDonalds in any UK city. Same decor, same items on the menu, and same initial excitement, quickly receding to leave behind greasy fingers, a slightly salty aftertaste and a vague sense of disappointment.

And, rather than the freewheeling, carefree and radical. It felt - well - rather comfortable and suburban. A combination of the ravages of the AIDS epidemic and the dot.com boom-fuelled property bubble must have kept the Castro accessible only to those already well-established, and those just passing through. So, it was lovely to sit on the bench outside Peet’s on Market and watch those handsome, chiselled men in their 40s stroll past with their dogs, and shoot the breeze with the other handsome, chiselled men in their 40s. But for an unassuming Brit in his 20s, it didn’t feel like my kind of place at all. So, I left it there, and flew on to Sydney, and another first visit to a place I never expected to - very much later - call home.

So, I’m two weeks into a very different visit to San Francisco. I’d been back to the city (I think) five times since my first visit in 2001. It’s certainly still an incredibly beautiful place, with the hills and the water, that special light, and a feeling of expectation. The glimpses of views behind the painted facades of the Victorian houses are still tantalising, and the Golden Gate Bridge still impresses.

And I’ve changed. The beard and the beer-gut help to ingratiate. And I’m certainly less green that I was on that first trip in 2001. Still haven’t bought any rainbow dick candles. But, yesterday I did go to the GLBT History Museum, and pay my respects to the most significant relic on display: Mary-Ann Singleton’s outfit from Tales of the City.

Now, where are those baby wipes?