a San Francisco apologist

A Roaming with RUSKIN story — San Francisco 

by Sanchita LaMore

I’m a San Francisco apologist. It’s a position that requires cognitive dissonance and a healthy sense of humour, starting the moment you drive in from the airport and the 101 hits you with a non-stop parade of AI billboards. Welcome to the future, I guess. 

But this absurd greeting is par for the course in a city that contains an exhausting amount of cultural noise. To outsiders, San Francisco is just another headline about booming tech and everything else falling apart. I won’t deny it. The socioeconomic whiplash is right there on the streets to see. But I’m not put off. The city is too steep, too strange and too beautiful to be ruined by its own contradictions, and I remain stubbornly optimistic about what's ahead.

With only 24 hours on the clock, practical packing mattered. I had to go from casual daytime plans to dinner without looking totally displaced (or dishevelled), and without underestimating the microclimates.

My companion was RUSKIN's Clutch Con Cinta. Rendered in pebbled grey that borrows directly from the coastal overcast, it's a brilliant piece of utilitarian design. By day, it sits flat against the body as a hands-free belt bag. By night, the strap slips off, transforming it into an understated clutch. More importantly, though, she's light—and when you're fighting gravity on a 25 per cent incline, the last thing you want is a cumbersome load dragging you down.

For this trip, we stayed in Japantown—a hack for newcomers. You’re in a nice, central location, and you’ll bypass the sensory overload of Union Square. The supermarkets stock some great Japanese snacks, and it really is a pocket of calm within easy walking distance to Pacific Heights or Hayes Valley. 

Stepping outside, the neighbourhood was still half asleep. The infamous marine layer had settled low over the rooftops, leaving a damp, cool mist on the pavement. I threw on an oversized jumper and slung on the clutch before heading towards Fillmore Street in search of caffeine.

Shutters rattled open, and delivery trucks idled, but before I could finish my coffee quest, a shop called Cottage Industry stopped me in my tracks. For forty years, it's been a neighbourhood fixture, its interior a delightful maze of oddball relics and a mesmerising wall of vintage Venetian masks.

I struck up a conversation with one of the owners, who set a collection of garnets on the counter between us. I've been drawn to deep reds lately, and watching the morning rays filter through the storefront and catch the wine-toned facets was a small delight.

A glance at my watch shattered the spell. The day was slipping away, and I was due on the other side of the city at the Ferry Building for lunch with a friend.

Admittedly, I'd never actually been inside the Ferry Building before. It's got a reputation for being a bit of a tourist trap, but it deserves credit where credit's due. The grand nave is a stunning architectural survivor of the 1906 earthquake, flooded with crisp northern light from a massive overhead skylight restored in the early 2000s.

Lunch was at Arquet, a new space that recently took over the footprint of the old Slanted Door. From the Michelin-starred team behind Sorrel, the menu is exactly as Californian as you'd expect. We sat beside the sweeping arches, looking out at the calm, steely water and the Bay Bridge. And over shared plates of bluefin tuna and San Francisco black cod, the conversation flowed easily, the room slowly filling and emptying around us. 

By mid-afternoon, I was making my way South of Market to meet my husband at Sightglass Coffee on 7th Street. The place is an impressive, multi-level warehouse transformed into an open industrial roastery, thick with the aroma of rich espresso. We grabbed seats at the open bar, the roaster rumbling in front of us, and started plotting our next move.

We decided on Dandelion Chocolate, a bean-to-bar gem in the Mission. The walk itself is hardly scenic, and you'll no doubt witness some questionable things along the way, but it would be the ultimate sugar hit that would carry us through to dinner.

Chocolate secured, we wandered into Heath Ceramics for a quick look at their pottery collection—a spot I recommend to any design-loving traveller. Be sure to check out the newsstand by the door, too; it’s stocked with niche international art journals and indie periodicals you’d be hard pressed to find anywhere else.

As the sun began to slant, we slowly migrated towards Mission Dolores Park, pulling up a patch of grass to watch the city congregate in the late warmth. It's probably one of the better people-watching spots, a cross section of eccentric locals and dogs running loose, framed by the downtown skyscrapers. 

From there, we traced an ambitious route back north through Alamo Square, passing the Victorians, and straight up the steep slopes of Pacific Heights. There's a reason these ridges hold some of my favourite vistas in the city. As golden hour took over, the low, blinding California sun punched through the lingering coastal haze, turning the rows of historic houses and pavements into gold.

Pacific Heights is a funny one, though. It represents the essence of San Francisco's economic divide—an inherently elitist view, defined by towering, multimillion-dollar mansions and insulated wealth removed from the realities down on the flats. But you certainly earn every view. 

In the midst of all this physical exertion, I sensed a wave of relief at how lightweight and compact my bag was; it sat flush against my side, causing zero friction against my knitwear as we climbed, and climbed some more.

Eventually, we descended back into Japantown, with just enough time at the hotel for a refresh before dinner. I swapped my jumper for a shirt, and the bag made its own evening transition—the leather strap slipped off and set on the dresser, leaving a clean, hardware-free clutch in my hand.

San Francisco paralyses you with dining options. It's a foodie's dream. And while we toyed with the idea of branching out, a Mano, a familiar favourite in Hayes Valley, felt like a hug after a long day. Handmade pasta served in a room buzzing with regulars, and my clutch, slim and unobtrusive, slid onto the table like it was made for the space between glasses and menus. 

The following morning presented one final ritual before our drive up to Napa: The Mill on Divisadero. This is the place that sparked the city's artisanal toast obsession over a decade ago, combining perfectly pulled espresso from Four Barrel Coffee with thick-cut slices of fresh, house-milled sourdough from Josey Baker Bread. 

Naturally, getting there wasn’t as simple as a stroll. Another round of those damn hills—my accidental morning cardio. But standing at the summit of Alamo Square afterwards, watching the light come up over a city that by most metrics should be insufferable, I found myself smiling. An apologist to the end.

Sanchita LaMore is the founder and writer of HAFH, a travel and design platform.

"I’ve carried the Clutch Con Cinta across a few trips now and it’s become the one bag I don’t deliberate over. I love the modular, versatile design. Hands-free through a day of walking, then strap off and it's a smart, sleek clutch by dinner. Two bags' worth of function without the bulk of packing two bags."