The Itinerant San Franciscan: Week One

This is my first week of homelessness, and I want to thank all the friends who have offered places to stay. Beware, I may come calling sometime soon.

But since we don’t have a mortgage payment this month (and lower child-care costs, since Elliot and Kelly are in Santa Cruz), I’m currently LIVING LARGE in a hotel. Look at me, I’m Eloise.

It's not exactly the Plaza, though. My residence for this week: the Renoir Hotel at Market and McAllister ($60 a night).

This is one of those great old Tenderloin hotels where you could easily see a Dashiell Hammett character staying.

Any moment I expect a shapely blonde to knock on the door and ask for help with a botched jewelry heist.

I also plan to have some kind of tussle with the hotel dick.



Check out these 1909-vintage windows. Should I really be allowed to open the window so wide on the seventh floor? This is a Conor Clapton accident waiting to happen.



I suspect that most people staying here are a bit put off by the surrounding neighborhood. There’s a strip club across the street (the one that was considered a park by the Walk Score site) and lots of drugged-out mumblers perambulating around the block. Fortunately, I know that the neighborhood’s bark is a lot worse than its bite.



The worst hassle so far is having to wait behind two meth heads in line at the Donut World. (Just choose something, damn it!) I’m guessing Dashiell Hammett never had this problem.