La Dolce Vita

San Francisco’s Little Italy and the art of community

I’m on the last sip of my hard cider, sitting on the corner of Columbus and Broadway, when the string lights flicker on and cast a neon glow on my battered notebook. The turbulence of North Beach orbits me. Streets lined with strip clubs, pizzerias, oysterias, bodegas, and smoke shops. Neon-lit signs flicker as rowdy tourists drunkenly stumble out of pubs. It’s Saint Patrick’s Day, and the tinted sunglasses and plastic party necklaces and “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” shirts are overwhelming in proportion.

One of the first neighborhoods tourists flock to after they step off the plane at SFO is North Beach, historically referred to as Little Italy. They come specifically for the history, for nostalgia. They come to see a group of Italian men shuffle a deck of cards over a bottle of Amaretto, to see a line out the door for Golden Gate Pizza, to see the memorabilia-printed walls of Vesuvio Cafe. Growing up, my family was no exception. We would take the ferry from Oakland to San Francisco on overcast days, then walk eight blocks from downtown to North Beach. It’s easy to stray off the beaten tourist path and uncover hidden record stores, bakeries, and delis.

Over the years, San Francisco has garnered the label of a “dying city,” the downtown dominated by high rises, chain stores, and bleak streets. Some argue that San Francisco fell asleep during the pandemic and never woke up, and that its restless nights and flickering lights are behind it. However, after roaming up and down its winding streets mid-March, occasionally dipping into a bookstore or market, North Beach proved to be alive and thriving.

Not overrun by corporations, North Beach has a strong sense of itself. The neighborhood is home to Ma and Pa shops, cafes, and other independent businesses. It feels like how a neighborhood is supposed to: you buy a bouquet of flowers from the Farmer’s Market on Saturday morning, you order a steaming cup of coffee from the cafe around the corner, you know the names of the bartenders and baristas and grocery store clerks. It’s easy to lose yourself in conversation with strangers. Outside a cafe, Clara and I found ourselves talking to two older women about life in the Bay Area. We’d just finished our affogatos outside the Gelato Delicatessen when they stopped us and asked where we were visiting from. I don’t know if it was our backpacks, or Clara’s film camera, or my messy note-taking that proved we were tourists.

The cliches of Italian culture—a triad of pizza, cannoli, and coffee—shine in North Beach, but the neighborhood is so much more than that. In the early 2000s, formula retail (chain stores) was banned in North Beach, allowing family-owned shops to flourish. At its core is Caffe Trieste, which opened in 1956 and is considered California’s first European-style coffee shop. Caffe Trieste exudes a cozy atmosphere with its cushy seating and friendly staff, a warm glow emulating from the vintage light fixtures, where customers can savor a frothy cappuccino with a pistachio cannoli. However, North Beach straddles the line between seedy and gentrified, as stressed by Leon, an employee at 101 Music. Over the years, following an increase in rent, upcycled boutiques have surfaced, selling overpriced graphic tees, slip dresses, and kitten heels. 101 Music is a shoe in the wall, wedged between a brewery and a flower shop, ironically across the street from a gentrified record store with a seemingly sparse collection.

In the 1850s, the first wave of Italian immigrants flooded San Francisco for the Gold Rush. Fast forward to the 1920s, North Beach was a predominantly Italian neighborhood, and the name “Little Italy” was coined. North Beach was also the epicenter of the Beat Poetry Movement, which spurred post-WWII. Due to the rise of suburbia, urban areas were more affordable, and Beatniks found solace in the cozy corners of coffeehouses, under the subdued glow of bars, amidst the energy of jazz clubs. They often lived in cheap residential hotels, some for as little as seven dollars a week. City Lights is another testament to the neighborhood's initial affordability. It opened in 1953, the first all-paperback bookstore, and catered to a working-class clientele. Gianna, Clara, and I explored every nook and cranny of the bookstore, delving into books on green politics, stolen continents, and Western spiritual traditions.

Before we left North Beach, I had the opportunity to talk to Brandon, an employee at the Beat Poetry Museum, who has been working in North Beach for seventeen years and calls it “a labor of love.” He stressed that no matter how much North Beach changes, it will always stay the same. It will always have a vibrant art and poetry scene, serving as home to an eclectic mix of dreamers, immigrants, and entrepreneurs. North Beach, with its history steeped in Italian heritage and Beatnik culture, stands unapologetically authentic, defying those who dismiss it as merely a tourist trap.

Words: Agnes Volland

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