The Other Side is gone now, but there will always be coffee in North Park.

I’ve never been one to effect change in my life; I’ve always let opportunity arise organically. And 30th Street has provided many of those opportunities. The first came in 2000, when I found my apartment. For a few years previous, I had shared a house in Mission Hills with a rather pretentious partner who made fun not only of my hand-me-down furniture, but also my “riff-raff” friends. For a while, he had me believing I should upgrade, make friends with CEOs, doctors, politicians, and boutique shop owners. But after we decided to go our separate ways, I found myself eager to return to a more grounded life.

I set my sights on North Park, where my friends had recently opened The Other Side coffee house at 30th and Polk after closing the troublesome Euphoria in Hillcrest. After a visit to the shop to make a Christmas photo album for my parents, I spotted a paper sign stapled to a wooden stake in the ground: “For Rent – 1 br - $550mo.” It was in front of a cute set of bungalows tucked behind a bunch of trees and shrubbery. The place reminded me of a hideaway where the gnomes and fairies might live. I peeped in the window of the available unit and saw the hardwood floors I had always wanted and classic blue and yellow subway tiles in the kitchen and bathroom. This was my dream apartment.

A few months after moving in, I found there was a Saturday morning meetup at The Other Side. I made many friends there, some of whom I’m still close with today. Soon after that, I started visiting The Redwing Bar, where I met the extremely handsome bartender Jeffrey. He let me stay there for long evenings nursing a free beer (when business, was bad, we jokingly called it The Dead Thing). In return, I made large dinners so I could bring him leftovers: pork chops with all the sides, lasagna, even a turkey when he had to work one Thanksgiving. Yes, I had a crush on him.

20 Years Later

Tonight’s vibe is set by the hoots and hollers of early evening partiers cruising down 30th on one of those musical pedi-pubs. I stand at my window and look at the cars patiently trailing single file behind 15 passengers pedaling a bar on wheels. On the sidewalk alongside them, fun seekers wearing their Saturday night party duds pass under my window in tight little groups. I pretend I’m Armand Goldman, Robin Williams’ flamboyant character in The Birdcage, who lived in a private unit above a wildly popular drag performance nightclub. In my version, 30th Street is the club, and I am the host who lives in the middle of it all. I mix myself a drink, scan the space to see if it’s ready to receive company (you just never know), and exit as Steely Dan’s “Deacon Blues” plays over the speakers. This is the night of the expanding man...

Heading towards the bright lights, I find myself singing one of my first favorite songs, Petula Clark’s “Downtown.” She describes a place that sounds healing, magical and lively, the way 30th Street is for me. Movement is a sign of life, and change is a kind of movement. I look around and notice the changes: the pizza place used to be the sleazy Slip Inn bar. The romance book shop used to be a cooking school; before that, it was a used record store. The dentist’s office was an antique furniture store. Two adjoining spaces were once dance studios; sometimes I stood outside and watched couples practicing their Bossa Nova and salsa. When you’re alone and life is making you lonely you can always go downtown…

We’ve come a long way from the days of The Dead Thing.

Tonight, I’m on my way to the Whistle Stop in South Park, right where 30th becomes Fern, to tell a story. I’ve always had a performing bug, and through a friend from The Other Side, I learned about So Say We All, which hosts nights of curated stories. It’s like the time a misdelivered package led to my meeting a neighbor who took improv classes at National Comedy Theater. Or the time when I was standing on the corner waiting to cross 30th and met mouth organist Zach Cole. I asked him about his harmonicas; he asked if I played an instrument. I mentioned some bongos a homeless friend had given me after I lost my dog, and he said, “Bring ‘em! Let’s play!”

So now there are nights when I grab my bongos and go out busking with Zach and Drew down on the corner. I had always wanted to play drums, always wondered if it could have been me up there on stage behind the kit. And now I get to sit in the corner and beat my bongos like a beatnik, doing my best to keep the hippie vibe of Haight-Ashbury alive. It doesn’t require much talent, and I don‘t ask to split the tips with Zach and Drew. But I think I’m pretty good, and I play for the opportunity to live the dream.

Random stuff I’ve seen out my window: I used to have my little art studio right up front by the window so I could survey the street for anything entertaining. Once I saw an angry man chasing a transgender person through traffic, waving the poor soul’s wig like it was a morning star. Once I saw a homeless guy with his pants partially down, humping my neighbor’s front lawn as if he had found a gopher hole. But while tender souls might find this sort of thing worrying, the only thing I feel unsafe about is the traffic as drivers race to snag parking spots. Or bicyclists slamming into me as I cross the bike lane. Cars used to have a center median for getting around delivery trucks; now they swerve into oncoming traffic.

So no, it’s not always awesome. I’ve seen a lot of changes take place in my 24 years of living here, but the one constant is a certain gritty charm. When I take my Saturday morning walk, after all the glitz and glamor have been dispelled by the morning sun, 30th Street looks like a hangover. All the flaws hidden by the dark and neon of the evening hours reveal themselves during the day. It becomes apparent that the so-called sidewalks are more concrete patchworks than actual sidewalk. There’s garbage on the street, and colorful sidewalk art that shows some people can’t hold their liquor. But even that is a sign of life.