A Sidewalk Episode
The gym on the second floor of Diana’s fancy apartment complex on San Francisco’s 5th Street was empty. Like the outdoor terrace with barbecue grills and fireplaces, the gym is included in the rent. Most people who live here have their apartments paid for by their company, or can afford to drop six grand a month on a one-bedroom place. Most of them also have a job, so I had the fitness room all to myself at 10 am on a Thursday morning.
Running on one of five treadmills, I had a great view of 5th Street, which was busy with traffic. A couple in their late forties or early fifties shuffled around the corner, each of them pushing a shopping cart piled high with their belongings. The man, with thinning hair and a long beard, looked like he’d worked a construction job for decades. The woman must have been a petite blonde in her younger years.
They stopped by the curb just opposite my window, where two parked cars had left a gap. With the two shopping carts behind her, the woman dropped her pants and sat down on the sidewalk as if it were a toilet seat. Then did her business in full view of the passing traffic and the building I was in.
As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t look away. Her partner, in the meantime, seemed unfazed, smoking a cigarette. Then handed her some toilet paper. The blonde got up, and both pushed their carts down the street. While I was still contemplating what I had just witnessed, she came back and draped a piece of cardboard over the turd, blocking it from view.
The scene left me baffled. There I was, in my fancy gym, enjoying an air-conditioned workout in an apartment complex that leaves nothing to be wished for, while just a couple of meters away, someone didn’t seem to have access to a flushing toilet. Or has adopted a lifestyle in which going to the loo, using the curb as a seat, is the most normal thing in the world. Somehow, this seemed emblematic of a city that is one of the richest in the US, yet has a staggering number of people living on its streets. And few people give a shit, so to speak.
In some parts of the city, the homeless dominate the streetscape. Walking along Taylor Street in the Tenderloin at 4 pm in the afternoon, you will see a long line of people of all ages, queuing around the corner of Ellis Street in line for the shelter. Continuing south towards Market Street, dozens more are sleeping in the shade, begging for money, staring silently in a stupor, or shouting curses at imaginary pursuers or real passersby. Many of them seem to have mental health issues, which, in other countries, would probably have them living in a hospital or care facility, rather than on the streets.
No matter how many times I travel to the US and how much I love this city, I find it hard to get used to this sight. I can’t think of another place, other than Delhi, where I’ve seen as many homeless people left largely to their own devices. How is it that, in one of the most developed countries in the world, people who most probably once contributed to society are left without access to healthcare or a place to sleep? Why, in an area awash with money and the brightest minds of a generation, has nobody had the time to figure out a solution? Complex problem-solving is what the Valley stands for. This seems like a problem worth solving, and it’s left its mark right in front of San Francisco’s doors.