I spent two weeks around the Bay Area in September. What follows are my reflections.
Dreamers encouraged. Writes Didion, California is “out in the golden land, where every day the world is born anew. The future always looks good in the golden land, because no-one remembers the past. Here is the last stop for those who came from somewhere else, for all those who drifted away from the cold, and the past, and the old ways.”
On the East Coast, if you start a conversation about the new thing you’re building, the first five questions you’ll get will be about how it won’t work. After experiencing the Bay Area energy, my wife decided that she could found a company and has spent the past month furiously vibecoding.
I’ve been bugging a prominent SF-based podcaster to do more political coverage with little success. I get it now. The weather is too nice, nature too inviting. I heard some light H-1B chatter, but we’re in the AI boom times, there’s too much tech to be excited about to get too worried about something as normie as the state of the Republic. And thanks to Lurie, homelessness is now tamed enough to make the poors someone else’s problem again.
DOGE energy is defensive to a level I haven’t come across in people politically involved before. The mantra that “DOGE is net positive and anyone who doesn’t agree can go fuck themselves” seems pervasive for anyone who’s stuck it out. Honestly, it’s understandable cope for the young SWEs who signed up to improve government services but ended up getting blamed for (/actually) taking vaccines away from babies. It’s striking that many people in the tech right I met say that good things are happening but that early DOGE really set back the one thing they have the most context on.
I was last in SF in 2023 and on that trip spent an afternoon at OpenAI’s office. Even six months after ChatGPT dropped, it still felt like a plucky research lab, albeit one with money for Tartine pastries and a lobby cueing off the Amazon Mr. and Mrs. Smith reboot aesthetic.
It’s now Meta, complete with the novel addition of door guards with American flag eyeglass straps and general SOF energy who will under no circumstances let you tailgate into the building.
The best neighborhood is the Presidio, a federal land run by a trust that keeps the park nice, new buildings out, and serves as a great landlord for hedge funds. One guy who worked there said a main draw was that “it’s federal land so none of that homeless shit flies here, baby!” It’s gorgeous but should probably be YIMBY’d out of existence. If Trump ever truly splits from the Elon/Thiel nexus, it would be a great troll move to throw some Trump Towers on top of their family offices.
Banyas, Berkeley, and South Bay
I went to a Slate Star Codex meetup at Lighthaven. There was an EUV lithography textbook lying around, so I read that, spotted Aella crocheting, and chatted with Pradyu about the Singaporean economy. A twenty year old told me he was founding DoorDash for Swaziland (“It’s pretty developed so it makes for a great beachhead”). Sam Kriss said something ahistorical about political violence and it started to rain so I went home.
The next day, I did not have the energy to make it to the banya, so deputized voice-of-a-generation JASMINE SUN to report:
The sauna visit is planned in an 87-person Signal chat with strict attendance enforcement. It’s inspired by the Jewish “schvitz”—a Yiddish word that can also mean “to sweat” or “to be nervous” or “to persevere”—but here describes the ritual of men gathering in steam rooms to gab about politics and business. Our host isn’t actually Jewish, but rather a garrulous New Yorker who self-identifies as spiritually so. He often invites acquaintances to schvitz within 15 minutes of talking. I find him very persuasive.
At 8:30pm on a Monday, I take a $24 Uber to Archimedes Banya in the far southeast of the city, then pay $67 to enter for up to three hours. If your last experience in a sauna was at a Korean-style luxury jjimjilbang, with unending plates of tiled dragonfruit and crab-in-the-shell, featuring nap pods and pool tables and rooms of pink Himalayan salt, the rawness of the SF Archimedes Russian banya experience will come as something of a shock.
It’s crowded on a weekday night. It has a clothing-optional policy, heavy on the optional; you’re guaranteed to see skin of all ages and genders and kinds. The staff are gruff and only speak in a yell. The hot room is extraordinarily hot. If you happen to be wearing jewelry, you’ll soon feel it burn. A steady stream of sweat pours down from my chin to my collar. Next to us, a hairy man lies face-down getting whipped by a prickly bundle of branches and leaves. He’s paying extra for this service. I try not to look.
I’m here with a troupe of nine 20-somethings. Seven are men and half work at a16z. The host is eager to share various snippets of banya lore: Did you know the Warriors come sometimes? Ilya used to play chess here. Have you read the n+1 piece about our New York schvitz? Apparently the New York chapter is more bond talk and less AI; another person says he’s “raising funds” for a DC venue. The host reminds me that he’s turned down several reporters’ requests to attend, but I’m just a lowly Substacker, which grants me a slot.
We discuss the NVIDIA lobby, the state of media, and the Chinese century. “You’ll never hear me say a bad word about China,” one says, waist deep in the pool. “[David] Shorism is Maoism,” another adds without elaboration. We then implore a visiting East Coast friend to move to SF. “This is the only place where anything happens,” we say with the confidence of people who really believe it. He says he’ll do it if he gets a job with the Lurie administration. “But he hasn’t texted me back.”
A friend apologized for the “off-road experience” after I pulled onto his Berkeley side street. “It’s scheduled for a 2027 repave!”
With Airbnb practically illegal, I used Kindred to book a place in Northern Oakland for what came out to $50 a day. I had a great experience on the platform and highly recommend it. Referral link here.
Berkeley Bowl is overhyped. I see the novelty of fresh pistachios and fourteen apple varietals, but if the cost is rotting fruit and $18 black lives matter bread loaves, I’m fine buying at Whole Foods, where grocery spend helps to underwrite AI chip demand! Also, Union Square Cafe blows Chez Panisse out of the water.
Berkeley is integrated into a city, while Stanford is a country club that keeps the plastic on its furniture. It’s set back from its town, which is oriented not at college kids but 50-something VCs. A state school with 10k undergrads per grade compared to Stanford’s 1,700 gives the Berkeley campus so much more life. The kids seemed to be having more fun, not stressed about software jobs disappearing before they graduate. And Stanford campus having a Rodin’s Gates of Hell sculpture creaking every few minutes is terrible energy.
Palo Alto’s library had a book sale of primarily Asian language titles. My favorite sighting was a textbook for national-level competitive high school chemistry in Chinese. At the playground, I heard mostly Beijing accents having anxious-brag conversations about their kids’ education.
The South Bay’s suburbs, bland food, and perfect weather felt as alienated from the rest of the country as the perfect suburb dug underground in Hulu’s Paradise. Marin, though, offers an endgame lifestyle.
Mill Valley houses nested in hills gave off Oahu suburb energy, accented by backyard redwoods. The town, one friend quipped, “boasts the highest ratio of black lives matter flags to black lives in the nation!”
We drove out to an elk reserve at the tip of Inverness. It felt like Altus Plateau from Elden Ring.
On the road back, we stopped at Point Reyes and had perfect pastries in the lavender garden of a bakery. Next to it was a small park that doubled as a NIMBY temple celebrating all the farmers that the Marin Agricultural Land Trust had subsidized to stay operating. One property they were particularly proud of saving from houses has “breathtaking reservoir views, easy access to major highways, and residential zoning.” Thanks to MALT, cows instead of humans will get to enjoy that view!
This trip was partially a test to see if we wanted to move to the Bay. Even with two weeks of perfect weather, I’m not sold. Hiking and utopian energy does not outweigh a real metropolis, community, and family.
My first day back, I had a meal at Cafe Mono (with a very friendly ML researcher who dropped in from SF), checked in on the Met’s China collection, and saw a superlative production of The Brothers Size. Better luck next time, California.
Bay Area food and ‘hiking with stroller’ recs behind the paywall. One includes a croissant that my wife said “tasted as good as the one I had immediately after giving birth.”