In the sidelines of grandeur, lives an interesting little district called The Mission. Nestled between Daly City and Market St., the Mission exists as this interesting hub of mundane scenes pulled out from an amalgam of culture shoved in a vein filled with rows of apartments and random sprinkles of markets and hole-in-the-walls.
I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite place in San Francisco, but it’s where I get my oil change and buy my cannabis.
Rows upon rows of houses and apartments eventually morph into stores and restaurants. More dispensaries? Yes. And a random Game Stop, comic book store, which, at the end of the vein closes into office buildings once past the bridge.
There’s nothing grand about the Mission. People unfamiliar with this area know that Valencia St. is the place to go. Bland food, over hyped restaurants, and “local” shops litter the place. It’s the image of development disguised to blend in with the local flare. A place to experience culture with the advantage of first world refuge.
The charm of Mission St.’s decrepit architecture and fairly third world arrangement made me see that everything was constructed from necessity. It’s dirty and organized — a little boring — but there’s utility to that.
On the opposite end of that vein, I’ve never felt more disoriented. The sense of alienation I feel in Valencia St. is interesting because it makes me feel poor and small because, “This food looks so ethnic… but why is it bland and $30.00 a plate?”