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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> So, Olivia, how are you doing? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Well, Katrina, I’m tired all the time. I have heartburn that is nearly constant, and I’m down to about five shirts that fit over my giant pregnant belly. Yes, everyone, my family is growing with our second child expected in early May. So I’ll be stepping back from editing and hosting Bay Curious for a while during my maternity leave. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> And just like four years ago when Olivia was out with her first child, I’ll be filling in as host and senior editor on the show. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yay! We’re happy to have you back. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It’s big shoes to fill but I’m excited to do it. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">If you’ve been listening closely to the show for a while you actually probably know that Katrina herself just got back from her own maternity leave in January so there’s something in the water here. You might say that we’re kind of in the young family trenches. Which is actually really lovely to be doing it together. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yeah. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Now shortly after my first child, Sullivan, was born, a listener sent in a question asking how having a kid had impacted my life in the Bay Area. And to be honest, when I first saw that question, I was still a brand new parent and I felt super under qualified to answer it. But now that I’ve got four years under my belt, we thought for this special maternity leave announcement bonus episode, that we would talk a bit about our experiences parenting in the Bay Area. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Plus, we asked you about your favorite places to take kids, so we’ll share those answers too.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> I’m Olivia Allen-Price. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And I’m Katrina Schwartz.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This is Bay Curious, stay with us. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">So the question this week is honestly massive. How has having kids impacted our lives in the Bay Area? At least for me, having a kid has been the single most drastically life altering thing that I’ve ever done. And I imagine I ever will do, is that true for you? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yeah, having my daughter Esme was a total reorientation of life. So we grouped this episode into three big ways that our lives in the Bay Area have changed. Community, our favorite places and spaces to go with kids, and housing.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">So the first one is the impact on our communities. One big way that having a kid has changed life is that it changes who you hang out with, who you see, who you identify with, in some dramatic ways. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yeah, so for me, I feel like my community, because I did not grow up in the Bay Area, I moved here a little over a decade ago, my community drastically grew. I had friends before, sure, but joining, you know, parent organizations, sending my kid eventually off to daycare, honestly, just like saying hello to people at the local park and then kind of seeing them week in and week out and building relationships there. I just have so many more people in my life now than I did four or five years ago before Sullivan was born. And that’s been probably like one of the things that have brought me the most joy is just watching my network grow.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">There’s a number of other transplants that I’ve connected with and we kind of, you know, lament that we are doing this without family nearby. But what’s been kind of cool is I feel like there’s, you know we’ve formed this network of people who are in the same boat, who are raising kids without family. And we almost like make these packs where it’s like, I will show up for you just like family would. You can ask me to do the favor that really sucks. Like I will pick you up from the airport at 6 a.m. if that’s what you need. So having a child has kind of opened the door to like these deeper, richer relationships because of just like pure necessity. But your experience has been a bit different because you had a deep community here. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I ended up having my daughter when a lot of other friends were having babies. And so there’s been this sort of deepening of connection to people that I’ve known for a long time. A lot of my friends come from the frisbee community. So there are people that did an activity with that I really love and have grown with over time. But now we’re all going through this kind of momentous life change as well and watching how our community spaces and the things we wanna do together change because we’re now parents. So that’s been really cool, but also just the facts of it, like I do not see my friends that live in the far East Bay as much as I used to. I just don’t have the time to like be driving a screaming baby an hour across the Bay, you know? So I end up hanging out more with the people that live close to me. So proximity has become kind of like a bigger deal than it was before.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Okay, so the second way that children, we have decided, have greatly impacted our lives here is that parenthood has changed our favorite places and spaces. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">When we started talking about this, my first reaction was when I had first had my daughter, it was so hard to go even just leave the house because I had to know where I could pump. Like she wasn’t very good at breastfeeding for a while and so I just remember this fateful visit to the park, to the Arboretum for the pianos and I was toting my milk pump and it needed to be plugged in and there was nowhere to plug it in and I needed an adapter and it was such a fiasco. So there is this sort of like mental map of where you can pump when you’re out and about. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But then just like more generally, even as she’s gotten older, we don’t go out to restaurants as much. We’re certainly not going out to as many concerts and late night things. And when we go on hikes, they have to be short because you’re on a timeline.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yeah, I think our favorite places and spaces have changed. Obviously, we’re just more attuned to places that are kid-friendly now. You can walk into a restaurant and just feel if the host or hostess is looking at you with pleasure, happy you are there, or like, oh no, we have kids, we have to find a corner to stuff them in. So I definitely think we have changed our favorite restaurants to some degree. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I think also, one thing I will say very positively about the Bay Area is I think we have throughout the region just fantastic playgrounds. When we travel outside of the region and we’re staying at a hotel or an Airbnb or we’re back with family on the East Coast, I am always shocked at how far we have to travel to find the nearest playground. No matter where we are in the Bay Area, if we’re stopping off at a playground to let our child burn off some energy, there are solid options here.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yeah, we have one around the corner. I mean, Esme is not quite old enough for playgrounds, but definitely excited to go there when she’s ready, beyond swing time, which is what we’re at right now. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">So we wanted to offer up some concrete suggestions, some favorite places and spaces. So we actually invited you, our Bay Curious listeners, to share, and we also asked some colleagues at KQED to share. So let’s just hear some of the favorite spots in the Bay Area for kids.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Jason: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Hey, I love you guy’s podcast. This is Jason from Alameda. And I just want to give a shout out to Zocalo Coffeehouse. That’s Z-o-c-a-l-o in San Leandro. They have this awesome play area in the back that’s surrounded by waist high walls. So it’s mostly closed in. It helps keep both the kid and the noise inside for the most part. I have great memories of taking my son there when he was younger.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Derek Heilman:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This is Derek and Jack Heilman. And Jack, my eight-year-old son who’s here with me, loves going to the sand dunes down near Monterey and Seaside. They’re incredible for rolling down and running up and sliding on boards and just having all sorts of fun. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Hello Bay Curious, it’s me, your occasional correspondent on all things weird and spooky, Carly Severn. One of my favorite places to take kids in the Bay Area is called Stafford Lake Park. It is in the North Bay, it is just west of Novato. This place rules because it has a big kids playground by the lake that is full of stuff to jump on and explore. It also has this big zipline which is just far off enough ground to feel exciting for them. And aside from the playground, Stafford Lake itself is just seriously beautiful. It is part of the Marin County Park system, so there are these lovely hikes all around the lake, and also a bike park too.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ted Goldberg:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Hey, this is Ted Goldberg. I’m the managing editor of News and Newscast at KQED and I’m gonna take off my journalist hat and put on my dad of two kids in San Francisco hat. When my kids were younger, we used to go over to the George Christopher Playground over in Diamond Heights. We’d go there, play, there was a big dog walking sort of field right there, which is actually the very top of Glen Canyon. And so we would hike all the way down to the bottom of Glen Canyon, which I think is one of the most beautiful places in San Francisco. And then we’d walk all the way to yet another playground. There’s also a rec center at the bottom of Glen Park. So we’d make a whole day out of it. Two playgrounds and a hike in one of the most beautiful places in the city.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Julia Hughes:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Hey, my name is Julia Hughes. I live in Berkeley. The favorite place that I grew up going to and that I take my kids to is Adventure Playground. It’s in the Berkeley Marina. It is free to go into and it has like structures and things that are built by the kids who go there and it’s all reused recycled materials. It kind of takes you back to like the 80s era where kids could roam free and just play. I mean there’s just so many things and it’s so different from anywhere else. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Laura:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Hi, it’s Laura, and I live in San Francisco, and one thing that we love to do with our kids is go into Golden Gate Park, and you don’t need to have any agenda, you can just roll on in, and there’s so many cool things to explore. One thing we like to do is look for fairy doors, and then see what’s inside of them. We also love going to Blue Heron Lake, and at this time of year, you might be able to find babies, like ducklings. It’s also really fun to take out a paddle boat, or pro tip, the line is much shorter if you take out a row boat.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Is there anything that we would add to this list? I mean, you can’t skip over our great museums, especially once your kid gets a little bit older, once they’re kind of like three plus. We have had a great time at CuriOdyssey in San Mateo. I think it’s especially great because it’s the one closest to our house. I think, if you’re a parent here, find the closest museum that is age appropriate for your child and buy a membership and just go all the time. We’ve had great experiences at the Oakland Zoo, the Discovery Museum in San Jose, a lot of people love the one in Sausalito as well. I haven’t been to Fairyland or the Exploratorium or the Cal Academy of Sciences with my child yet, but that’s definitely on the agenda. I think no matter what quadrant of the Bay Area you live in, there is a fantastic museum that is age appropriate for younger kids. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And Fairyland we did a story about so you could go check out the origins of fairyland.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Should we drop the link in the show notes? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Oh, definitely.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">What about you? Anything that you want to throw in?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Well, right now my daughter’s still too young for a lot of those things, but I am really excited for some of the sort of whimsical things around the Bay Area. Like we recently did that story about the fairy houses in Point Richmond, which sounds so fun to me. I can’t wait until Esme is like old enough to really enjoy that and just kind of finding these little hidden treasures around the Bay Area. I’m excited for that. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">We’ll put a link to the Fairy Houses piece in our show notes, along with a few other resources that KQED has produced over the years, all about places to take kids.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Okay, so the third big bucket that we kind of thought about here is so Bay Area, which is housing.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Housing. We were lucky enough that the house that we were in, when we first started renting it, we were thinking already about the possibility of a child. So we did rent a place that had enough space to do that. So with the addition of our first child, it wasn’t a big deal. We lost our guest bedroom, but that was always a luxury anyway. But now we’re trying to add a second into the same house. So we don’t have like an extra bedroom at this point. So the baby will be with us for a while eventually in the same room with our four-year-old and we’re kind of curious how that’s going to go. Actually the first kind of project for myself on maternity leave is re-puzzling our house together. So it’s going to work for a family of four instead of a family of three. And it’s gonna be tight quarters. I mean I think our house is something like 900 square feet. But I grew up in a big ranch house in North Carolina where acres and acres of land came cheap. So the idea of puzzling our growing family into this space that feels tiny is gonna be a challenge.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Well, and you know, I do think it’s a moment to re-evaluate what your priorities are, because certainly people, you know if they have the means, go buy a house sometimes when they have a kid. But I know tons of people who are just making it work with the space they have because of limitations around rent and things like that. And you know wanting to stay in the city. I mean, you have to kind of think about like what’s most important to you, like the house, the place you live, your community, like what you want to be near. These questions come up more frequently as you talk about adding people to your family and having less. Flexibility, I guess, with where you are. We actually had to leave the place that we had been living for over 10 years when I was pregnant, and it was a little bit scary. We didn’t know where we were gonna be able to land, what we could afford, but we got very lucky to move into a place right next door to some friends who have a baby who’s about the same age as our kid. So we actually have a lot of community right where we live, which has been totally awesome. But there was a moment of uncertainty there that was kind of scary.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yeah, I feel like housing decisions in the Bay Area are especially tough. And yeah, probably one of the harder things about raising kids here. Okay, and with that, I will officially pass you the host baton. Do you wanna take us out?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Yeah. Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is produced by Olivia Allen Price, Christopher Beal, Gabriela Glueck, and me, Katrina Schwartz. Extra support from Katie Springer. Maha Sanad. Alana Walker. Jen Chien. Holly Kernan. And everyone at team KQED. Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by the Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists, San Francisco, Northern California Local. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I’ll be back later this week with a very special episode featuring the voices of four Bay Area high school students. It’s part of Youth Takeover Week here at KQED, and it’s really something special. Make sure you don’t miss it. Have a great week. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> So, Olivia, how are you doing? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Well, Katrina, I’m tired all the time. I have heartburn that is nearly constant, and I’m down to about five shirts that fit over my giant pregnant belly. Yes, everyone, my family is growing with our second child expected in early May. So I’ll be stepping back from editing and hosting Bay Curious for a while during my maternity leave. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> And just like four years ago when Olivia was out with her first child, I’ll be filling in as host and senior editor on the show. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yay! We’re happy to have you back. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It’s big shoes to fill but I’m excited to do it. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">If you’ve been listening closely to the show for a while you actually probably know that Katrina herself just got back from her own maternity leave in January so there’s something in the water here. You might say that we’re kind of in the young family trenches. Which is actually really lovely to be doing it together. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yeah. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Now shortly after my first child, Sullivan, was born, a listener sent in a question asking how having a kid had impacted my life in the Bay Area. And to be honest, when I first saw that question, I was still a brand new parent and I felt super under qualified to answer it. But now that I’ve got four years under my belt, we thought for this special maternity leave announcement bonus episode, that we would talk a bit about our experiences parenting in the Bay Area. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Plus, we asked you about your favorite places to take kids, so we’ll share those answers too.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> I’m Olivia Allen-Price. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And I’m Katrina Schwartz.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This is Bay Curious, stay with us. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">So the question this week is honestly massive. How has having kids impacted our lives in the Bay Area? At least for me, having a kid has been the single most drastically life altering thing that I’ve ever done. And I imagine I ever will do, is that true for you? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yeah, having my daughter Esme was a total reorientation of life. So we grouped this episode into three big ways that our lives in the Bay Area have changed. Community, our favorite places and spaces to go with kids, and housing.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">So the first one is the impact on our communities. One big way that having a kid has changed life is that it changes who you hang out with, who you see, who you identify with, in some dramatic ways. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yeah, so for me, I feel like my community, because I did not grow up in the Bay Area, I moved here a little over a decade ago, my community drastically grew. I had friends before, sure, but joining, you know, parent organizations, sending my kid eventually off to daycare, honestly, just like saying hello to people at the local park and then kind of seeing them week in and week out and building relationships there. I just have so many more people in my life now than I did four or five years ago before Sullivan was born. And that’s been probably like one of the things that have brought me the most joy is just watching my network grow.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">There’s a number of other transplants that I’ve connected with and we kind of, you know, lament that we are doing this without family nearby. But what’s been kind of cool is I feel like there’s, you know we’ve formed this network of people who are in the same boat, who are raising kids without family. And we almost like make these packs where it’s like, I will show up for you just like family would. You can ask me to do the favor that really sucks. Like I will pick you up from the airport at 6 a.m. if that’s what you need. So having a child has kind of opened the door to like these deeper, richer relationships because of just like pure necessity. But your experience has been a bit different because you had a deep community here. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I ended up having my daughter when a lot of other friends were having babies. And so there’s been this sort of deepening of connection to people that I’ve known for a long time. A lot of my friends come from the frisbee community. So there are people that did an activity with that I really love and have grown with over time. But now we’re all going through this kind of momentous life change as well and watching how our community spaces and the things we wanna do together change because we’re now parents. So that’s been really cool, but also just the facts of it, like I do not see my friends that live in the far East Bay as much as I used to. I just don’t have the time to like be driving a screaming baby an hour across the Bay, you know? So I end up hanging out more with the people that live close to me. So proximity has become kind of like a bigger deal than it was before.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Okay, so the second way that children, we have decided, have greatly impacted our lives here is that parenthood has changed our favorite places and spaces. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">When we started talking about this, my first reaction was when I had first had my daughter, it was so hard to go even just leave the house because I had to know where I could pump. Like she wasn’t very good at breastfeeding for a while and so I just remember this fateful visit to the park, to the Arboretum for the pianos and I was toting my milk pump and it needed to be plugged in and there was nowhere to plug it in and I needed an adapter and it was such a fiasco. So there is this sort of like mental map of where you can pump when you’re out and about. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But then just like more generally, even as she’s gotten older, we don’t go out to restaurants as much. We’re certainly not going out to as many concerts and late night things. And when we go on hikes, they have to be short because you’re on a timeline.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yeah, I think our favorite places and spaces have changed. Obviously, we’re just more attuned to places that are kid-friendly now. You can walk into a restaurant and just feel if the host or hostess is looking at you with pleasure, happy you are there, or like, oh no, we have kids, we have to find a corner to stuff them in. So I definitely think we have changed our favorite restaurants to some degree. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I think also, one thing I will say very positively about the Bay Area is I think we have throughout the region just fantastic playgrounds. When we travel outside of the region and we’re staying at a hotel or an Airbnb or we’re back with family on the East Coast, I am always shocked at how far we have to travel to find the nearest playground. No matter where we are in the Bay Area, if we’re stopping off at a playground to let our child burn off some energy, there are solid options here.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yeah, we have one around the corner. I mean, Esme is not quite old enough for playgrounds, but definitely excited to go there when she’s ready, beyond swing time, which is what we’re at right now. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">So we wanted to offer up some concrete suggestions, some favorite places and spaces. So we actually invited you, our Bay Curious listeners, to share, and we also asked some colleagues at KQED to share. So let’s just hear some of the favorite spots in the Bay Area for kids.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Jason: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Hey, I love you guy’s podcast. This is Jason from Alameda. And I just want to give a shout out to Zocalo Coffeehouse. That’s Z-o-c-a-l-o in San Leandro. They have this awesome play area in the back that’s surrounded by waist high walls. So it’s mostly closed in. It helps keep both the kid and the noise inside for the most part. I have great memories of taking my son there when he was younger.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Derek Heilman:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This is Derek and Jack Heilman. And Jack, my eight-year-old son who’s here with me, loves going to the sand dunes down near Monterey and Seaside. They’re incredible for rolling down and running up and sliding on boards and just having all sorts of fun. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Hello Bay Curious, it’s me, your occasional correspondent on all things weird and spooky, Carly Severn. One of my favorite places to take kids in the Bay Area is called Stafford Lake Park. It is in the North Bay, it is just west of Novato. This place rules because it has a big kids playground by the lake that is full of stuff to jump on and explore. It also has this big zipline which is just far off enough ground to feel exciting for them. And aside from the playground, Stafford Lake itself is just seriously beautiful. It is part of the Marin County Park system, so there are these lovely hikes all around the lake, and also a bike park too.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ted Goldberg:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Hey, this is Ted Goldberg. I’m the managing editor of News and Newscast at KQED and I’m gonna take off my journalist hat and put on my dad of two kids in San Francisco hat. When my kids were younger, we used to go over to the George Christopher Playground over in Diamond Heights. We’d go there, play, there was a big dog walking sort of field right there, which is actually the very top of Glen Canyon. And so we would hike all the way down to the bottom of Glen Canyon, which I think is one of the most beautiful places in San Francisco. And then we’d walk all the way to yet another playground. There’s also a rec center at the bottom of Glen Park. So we’d make a whole day out of it. Two playgrounds and a hike in one of the most beautiful places in the city.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Julia Hughes:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Hey, my name is Julia Hughes. I live in Berkeley. The favorite place that I grew up going to and that I take my kids to is Adventure Playground. It’s in the Berkeley Marina. It is free to go into and it has like structures and things that are built by the kids who go there and it’s all reused recycled materials. It kind of takes you back to like the 80s era where kids could roam free and just play. I mean there’s just so many things and it’s so different from anywhere else. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Laura:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Hi, it’s Laura, and I live in San Francisco, and one thing that we love to do with our kids is go into Golden Gate Park, and you don’t need to have any agenda, you can just roll on in, and there’s so many cool things to explore. One thing we like to do is look for fairy doors, and then see what’s inside of them. We also love going to Blue Heron Lake, and at this time of year, you might be able to find babies, like ducklings. It’s also really fun to take out a paddle boat, or pro tip, the line is much shorter if you take out a row boat.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Is there anything that we would add to this list? I mean, you can’t skip over our great museums, especially once your kid gets a little bit older, once they’re kind of like three plus. We have had a great time at CuriOdyssey in San Mateo. I think it’s especially great because it’s the one closest to our house. I think, if you’re a parent here, find the closest museum that is age appropriate for your child and buy a membership and just go all the time. We’ve had great experiences at the Oakland Zoo, the Discovery Museum in San Jose, a lot of people love the one in Sausalito as well. I haven’t been to Fairyland or the Exploratorium or the Cal Academy of Sciences with my child yet, but that’s definitely on the agenda. I think no matter what quadrant of the Bay Area you live in, there is a fantastic museum that is age appropriate for younger kids. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And Fairyland we did a story about so you could go check out the origins of fairyland.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Should we drop the link in the show notes? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Oh, definitely.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">What about you? Anything that you want to throw in?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Well, right now my daughter’s still too young for a lot of those things, but I am really excited for some of the sort of whimsical things around the Bay Area. Like we recently did that story about the fairy houses in Point Richmond, which sounds so fun to me. I can’t wait until Esme is like old enough to really enjoy that and just kind of finding these little hidden treasures around the Bay Area. I’m excited for that. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">We’ll put a link to the Fairy Houses piece in our show notes, along with a few other resources that KQED has produced over the years, all about places to take kids.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Okay, so the third big bucket that we kind of thought about here is so Bay Area, which is housing.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Housing. We were lucky enough that the house that we were in, when we first started renting it, we were thinking already about the possibility of a child. So we did rent a place that had enough space to do that. So with the addition of our first child, it wasn’t a big deal. We lost our guest bedroom, but that was always a luxury anyway. But now we’re trying to add a second into the same house. So we don’t have like an extra bedroom at this point. So the baby will be with us for a while eventually in the same room with our four-year-old and we’re kind of curious how that’s going to go. Actually the first kind of project for myself on maternity leave is re-puzzling our house together. So it’s going to work for a family of four instead of a family of three. And it’s gonna be tight quarters. I mean I think our house is something like 900 square feet. But I grew up in a big ranch house in North Carolina where acres and acres of land came cheap. So the idea of puzzling our growing family into this space that feels tiny is gonna be a challenge.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Well, and you know, I do think it’s a moment to re-evaluate what your priorities are, because certainly people, you know if they have the means, go buy a house sometimes when they have a kid. But I know tons of people who are just making it work with the space they have because of limitations around rent and things like that. And you know wanting to stay in the city. I mean, you have to kind of think about like what’s most important to you, like the house, the place you live, your community, like what you want to be near. These questions come up more frequently as you talk about adding people to your family and having less. Flexibility, I guess, with where you are. We actually had to leave the place that we had been living for over 10 years when I was pregnant, and it was a little bit scary. We didn’t know where we were gonna be able to land, what we could afford, but we got very lucky to move into a place right next door to some friends who have a baby who’s about the same age as our kid. So we actually have a lot of community right where we live, which has been totally awesome. But there was a moment of uncertainty there that was kind of scary.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yeah, I feel like housing decisions in the Bay Area are especially tough. And yeah, probably one of the harder things about raising kids here. Okay, and with that, I will officially pass you the host baton. Do you wanna take us out?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Yeah. Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is produced by Olivia Allen Price, Christopher Beal, Gabriela Glueck, and me, Katrina Schwartz. Extra support from Katie Springer. Maha Sanad. Alana Walker. Jen Chien. Holly Kernan. And everyone at team KQED. Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by the Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists, San Francisco, Northern California Local. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I’ll be back later this week with a very special episode featuring the voices of four Bay Area high school students. It’s part of Youth Takeover Week here at KQED, and it’s really something special. Make sure you don’t miss it. Have a great week. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "the-south-bay-is-all-stevens-creek-this-and-stevens-creek-that-so-who-is-this-stevens-anyway",
"title": "The South Bay Is All 'Stevens Creek' This and 'Stevens Creek' That. So Who Is This Stevens Anyway?",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pete Smoot’s driven along Stevens Creek Boulevard. He’s hiked in the \u003ca href=\"https://mghydro.com/watersheds/shared/2F3905.html\">Stevens Creek watershed\u003c/a>, which tumbles down from the Santa Cruz Mountains to the San Francisco Bay. Smoot used to ride his bike around the Stevens Creek Reservoir. And he couldn’t help but notice a lot of things in the South Bay named after somebody named \u003cem>Stevens\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Who is Stevens, and why is Stevens Creek Boulevard in San José and in Cupertino named after him or her?” he asked Bay Curious. “The whole reason to name something after someone is to memorialize them, and we’re failing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The man behind the name\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To start with, the Stevens of Stevens Creek et al, spelled his name thusly: “Elisha Stephens\u003cem>,\u003c/em> spelled E-L-I-S-H-A, last name Stephens, S-T-E-P-H-E-N-S,” said Dan White, whose book \u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Cactus-Eaters-Almost-Myself-Pacific/dp/0061376930/ref=sr_1_1?dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.wrqoBTLcmOIKou_MuTbqEn6TBcBxgx4WyhiI5olXcUA.ceIYpRu8lYS1_frb3-X8DlVzP90YD1QD5ClCfdjoy9c&dib_tag=se&keywords=the+cactus+eaters+dan+white&qid=1743802935&sr=8-1\">\u003cem>The Cactus Eaters\u003c/em>\u003c/a> includes a passage on Stephens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He’s commemorated, but misspelled egregiously, in so many landmarks around Silicon Valley,” White told me while walking through Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino, along with Smoot, our question asker.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035351\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035351\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Longtime Bay Curious fan Pete Smoot — pictured here at the Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino — grew up in Massachusetts but has lived in South San José for over 30 years, working as a software developer. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>So who was Elisha Stephens, and what was his proudest accomplishment, the one that got so many local place names named after him?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He was captain of a party of pioneers that opened up what is now known as Donner Pass. Yes, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11940118/the-real-story-of-the-donner-party\">THAT Donner Pass\u003c/a>, nine miles west of Truckee, where desperate pioneers ATE each other.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Donner Party, it turns out, was not the first group in a wagon train to cross this particular mountain pass. The \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4yztTzfLpE\">Stephens-Townsend-Murphy Party was\u003c/a>. They started with 50 people in eleven wagons and arrived in California with two more people, thanks to childbirths along the way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This entire overland party did not lose a single man, woman or child at all,” White said. “In fact, it increased by two because of procreation. They came down from the mountain with more people than they started out with, and yet, who is the pass named after? The Donners, who made a colossal mess of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s not to say the Stephens Party had an easy time of it when they crossed the pass in 1844. Enough beaver trappers and such had made the journey to California that people back East knew going in that \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/articles/000/young-man-alone-snowbound-in-the-sierra-nevada-1844.htm\">the hardest part\u003c/a> of the journey would be at the end of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A Northern Paiute tribal leader who helped thousands of white people in the 1840s and ’50s cross the barren Great Basin of Nevada suggested the party follow a river up to its source in the Sierra Nevada mountains. (The guide would often shout, “Tro-kay!” meaning “Everything is alright!” and that’s how a number of things, including the river, were later named “Truckee.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035352\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035352\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Author and amateur historian Dan White — pictured here at the Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino — has written about Elisha Stephens. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In any case, it was a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QodvJY8hC-c\">miserable, hard slog\u003c/a>, especially for the pregnant women and the oxen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“At one point, there was a granite ledge, a 10-foot rocky barrier blocking the way. Instead of giving up, they unpacked everything from the wagons, and they hoisted each one up that ledge, and they used a rope pulley chained to the backs of the oxen,” White said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to the most detailed account — the party was careful about sticking together in one big group until mid-November, when they were knee-deep in snow in the mountains. The leadership of the party — so presumably, Stephens — decided to split up the group. This would leave three young men behind and have them guard the wagons in the same rough location where the Donner Party met their fateful end. The rest of the group, including all the women and children, continued westward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No diaries of the Stephens Party journey west are known to survive, but a couple of participants dictated their memories of what happened decades later, including one account published in 1888, \u003cem>The Diary of Moses Schallenberger. \u003c/em>Schallenberger was among the men that stayed behind. He was 17 at the time, and he barely survived that winter in a cabin he helped build himself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At first, “We thought the snow would soon melt, but we were doomed to disappointment. A week passed, and instead of any snow going off, more came. At last, we were compelled to kill our cows, for the snow was so deep that they could not get around to eat. They were nothing but skin and bones, but we killed the poor things to keep them from starving to death.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Schallenberger nearly starved to death. When a member of the advance party was sent back on snowshoes with provisions, Schallenberger was found trying to eat boiled leather.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The promised land of California\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Once Stephens and the rest of the party made it down to the promised land of California, easy living lay ahead. As a young man, Stephens was a blacksmith and trapper. Now in his 40s, he settled in what we call Cupertino, buying 160 acres of land originally part of the Spanish/Mexican land grant known as Rancho San Antonio. Stephens named his patch of paradise Blackberry Farm. A decade later, he essentially doubled his land holdings with more acres in Mountain View.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035361\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1587px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035361\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1587\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2.jpg 1587w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-800x1008.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-1020x1285.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-160x202.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-1219x1536.jpg 1219w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1587px) 100vw, 1587px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This is the only known photo of Elisha Stephens, believed to have been taken in San José in 1860. \u003ccite>(Source unknown)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>He bought the land through legal means, but the broader context of land ownership in California during the mid-19th century is complicated, given that Americans took California from Mexico, which took it from indigenous peoples.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Possibly because nobody in the Stephens party died, White surmises, major newspapers of the day didn’t cover its arrival. Which might explain why Stephens felt he had to toot his own horn to South Bay neighbors, often with a fair bit of bitterness involved. So, locals did know of his exploits but largely tried to steer clear of a dinner invite from Stephens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He was well-known for making an exceptional ragout that was made out of the fat and juicy rattlesnakes that he caught in the brush around Cupertino. And some people avoided his house because they knew that if we went to see him, \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t3umO6_D8cg\">rattlesnake was on the menu\u003c/a>,” White said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Elisha Stephens became a beekeeper and a chicken farmer, and also “a real grump,” White said. Never married. Never had any kids that we know about. In 1862, he moved to Bakersfield, complaining that the South Bay had become “too durn civilized” — and this was before the sun-baked suburbia we’re all familiar with today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Very tellingly, in the late 1860s, after the Central Pacific Railroad route across the mountain pass was finished, I think it would have been classy for somebody to invite him to the ribbon cutting ceremony, but they didn’t. Nobody thought to invite him,” said White.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It gets worse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“One day he ends up with a stroke. He’s paralyzed in the local hospital. This is when he’s living in Kern County. Then he drops dead. He was initially in a potter’s field in Bakersfield,” said White. A potter’s field is a burial ground for poor, unidentified or unclaimed individuals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035353\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1334px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035353\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1334\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED.jpg 1334w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-800x1199.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-1020x1529.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-1025x1536.jpg 1025w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1334px) 100vw, 1334px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This plaque dedicated to Elisha Stevens by the California-Nevada chapter of the Oregon California Trail Association, Cupertino Historical Society, City of Cupertino, and the Mountain Charlie Chapter 1850 E Clampus Vitus, sits embedded in an unassuming concrete and stone pedestal located in the parking lot of the Blackberry Farm golf course. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The \u003ca href=\"https://www.unioncemeterybakersfield.com/services/elisha-stevens-blazed-the-trail-to-california/\">cemetery\u003c/a> even lost his internment records,” White continued. “But in 2009, somehow, some historical minded people found his grave. So at least they found his grave. But I mean that’s a lot of forgetting, and a lot of obscurity, even during one’s lifetime, let alone afterwards.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>And what accounts for\u003c/strong>\u003cstrong> the \u003c/strong>\u003cstrong>misspelling of ‘Stevens Creek’? \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“This is just my pet theory, okay?” White said. “Now, there is an author named George R. Stewart, who wrote some really popular books about the Donners, about Donner Summit, about all those explorers, and over and over again, he misspelled Stephens’ last name S-T-E-V-E-N-S. I mean, this stings me on a personal level because I can also tell you from first-hand experience that a one-time bureaucratic error can be sustained over time in the most egregious ways. For example, my name — my byline — is Dan White, W-H-I-T-E, which is a horrific misspelling.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because many people, especially locally, would think of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11706248/40-years-after-assassinations-assessing-the-legacies-of-harvey-milk-and-george-moscone\">Dan White infamous for killing\u003c/a> San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone in 1978.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035354\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035354\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Stevens Creek Dam and Reservoir, located about 2 miles southwest of Cupertino. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I descend from Ukrainian and Russian and German Jews, and the last name should be spelled as it was spelled for hundreds and hundreds of years, W-E-I-T. It’s a mistake on my father’s birth certificate that was never corrected. So I’ve got that in common with Stephens. Our last names are butchered, and also with consequences, right? I think what people often say is say whatever you want about me, but spell my name right,” White said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That got a rise out of our question-asker, Pete Smoot. “My family name was a misspelling from about 400 years ago. It gave us a very unique last name. So now, when I see someone with the same name, I can assume that they’re related to me. But yeah, I’m with Dan. Call me anything you want, but at least get my name right,” Smoot said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Much of the terrain that attracted Stephens to settle here during the 1840s is still parkland, full of oak trees, wild turkeys, bobcats, burrowing owls — and in the springtime, dotted with periwinkle and Indian paintbrush flowers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The valley floor itself is all suburbia and companies. Yeah, but get up into the hills, and the hills are beautiful. They’re filled with trees and wildlife and babbling brooks,” said Smoot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032757\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032757\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The gravestone for Elisha Stephens in the Historic Union Cemetery in Bakersfield on March 23, 2025. \u003ccite>(Martin do Nascimento/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Was Smoot surprised to learn of the real man behind all things named “Stevens Creek” in the South Bay? Not really. “This area was filled with people who migrated from the East Coast. I’m one of them. When there was a land rush in the 1840s, people would have grabbed chunks of land. Some people would have risen to prominence, and they get a bunch of stuff named after them,” Smoot said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not to get too philosophical on you, but it does seem like Elisha Stephens’ story is emblematic of so much of California history writ large. There are these layers and layers of human stories of travail and triumph that just get paved over as new generations come through and forge their own paths in the Golden State.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>The naming of things is a serious matter, something we’ve all been paying a bit more attention to in recent years. Who do we memorialize and why? If the honorees don’t merit a mention in school books, who even remembers them after the last living person to know them dies? I’ve been thinking about this a lot ever since we got this question from longtime listener Pete Smoot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot: \u003c/strong>Who is Stevens, and why is Stevens Creek Boulevard in San José and in Cupertino named after him or her? \u003cstrong>\u003cbr>\n\u003c/strong>\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Pete’s driven along Stevens Creek Boulevard. He’s hiked in the Stevens Creek watershed, which tumbles down from the Santa Cruz Mountains to the San Francisco Bay. He used to ride his bike around the Stevens Creek Reservoir. And he couldn’t help but notice a lot of things in the South Bay named after somebody named Stevens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot: \u003c/strong>The whole reason to name something after someone is to memorialize them. And we’re failing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This week, we’re digging into the all-but-forgotten history of Elisha Stephens. It’s a tale full of adventure that will take us over the high Sierra a few years before gold was found in this state. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. This is Bay Curious. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>OK, so Pete wants to know why so many things in Cupertino, Mountain View and Sunnyvale are called “Stevens Creek.” KQED’s Rachael Myrow did some digging, and here’s what she found …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>You know how most searches start on the Internet? Well, the first thing I realized upon looking for Elisha Stephens was there are a lot of different spellings of his name. And the right one is not the one that’s on all the place names and street signs. Author Dan White — whose book “The Cactus Eaters” includes a passage on Stephens — explains.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White: \u003c/strong>Elisha Stephens\u003cem>,\u003c/em> spelled E-L-I-S-H-A, last name Stephens, S-T-E-P-H-E-N-S. He’s commemorated, but misspelled egregiously, in so many landmarks around Silicon Valley, which is kind of bizarre.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>I met Dan, along with Pete, our question asker, at Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino to discuss the story of a South Carolina born man who was, by his own account, under-appreciated during his lifetime — and also, by a lot of other accounts, deserved to be remembered better than he has been.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003cstrong>\u003cbr>\n\u003c/strong>\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> Essentially, he was a part of an immigrant party that opened up what is now known as Donner Pass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>That Donner Pass? The one 9 miles west of Truckee, where desperate pioneers ate each other? Yes. Fun fact: The Donner Party was not the first wagon train to cross this particular mountain pass. The Stephens-Townsend-Murphy Party was! They began in what was then the Iowa Territory. Stephens joined when they stopped in St. Joseph, Missouri. Reflecting their collective respect for his leadership skills, the 50 people in eleven wagons elected him captain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> The rub is that this entire overland party did not lose a single man, woman or child at all. In fact, it increased by two because of procreation. They came down from the mountain with more people than they started out with, and and yet, who is the pass named after? The Donners, who made a colossal mess of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Which is not to say that the Stephens Party had an easy time of it when they crossed the pass in 1844. Enough beaver trappers and such had made the journey to California that people back East knew going in the hardest part of the journey would be at the end of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>A Northern Paiute tribal leader who helped thousands of white people in the 1840s and ’50s cross the barren Great Basin of Nevada suggested the party follow a river up to its source in the Sierra Nevada mountains. The guide would often shout, “Tro-kay!” meaning “Everything is alright!” and that’s how a number of things, including the river, were later named “Truckee.” In any case, it was a miserable, hard slog, especially for the pregnant women and the oxen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> At one point, there was a granite ledge that they got towards, and there was a 10-foot rocky barrier blocking the way. And instead of giving up, what they did was they unpacked everything from the wagons, and they hoisted each one up that ledge, and they used a rope pulley chained to the backs of the oxen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Once Stephens and the rest of the party made it down to the promised land of California, easy living lay ahead. As a young man, Stephens was a blacksmith and trapper. Now in his 40s, he settled in what we call Cupertino, buying 160 acres of land originally part of the Spanish/Mexican land grant known as Rancho San Antonio. Stephens named his patch of paradise Blackberry Farm. And a decade later, he essentially doubled his land holdings with more acres in Mountain View.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Through legal means at the time, but the broader context of land ownership in California during the mid-19th century is … complicated, given that Americans took California from Mexico, which took it from indigenous peoples.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But back to opening that mountain path to the Pacific …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> It became a huge, big deal. It was part of the incursion into California. The 49ers used it, other immigrants used it, and a railroad and a freeway would both breach that same pass. Millions more people going from that same mountain notch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Possibly because nobody in the Stephens party died, White surmises major newspapers of the day didn’t cover its arrival. That might explain why Stephens felt he had to toot his own horn to South Bay neighbors. They knew about his most famous exploit. But at the time, he was most famous or infamous, for his favorite dish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> He was well-known for making an exceptional ragout that was made out of the fat and juicy rattlesnakes that he caught in the brush around Cupertino. And some people avoided his house because they knew that if we went to see him, rattlesnake was on the menu.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Elisha Stephens became a beekeeper and a chicken farmer. There’s only one known photo of him, and he looks like what you’d expect a 19th-century pioneer to look like: from his hat to his utility knife hanging from his big, big belt. He was tall and skinny, with deep, sunken eyes and cheekbones, a scraggly, snow white beard that extended down to his rough and ready Western cravat, and a piercing, direct stare that was common in studio photos of the time, because if you smiled the whole thing was likely to come out blurry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White: \u003c/strong>He became a real grump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Never married. Never had any kids that we know about. In 1862, he moved to Bakersfield, complaining that the South Bay had become “too durn civilized.” And this was before the sun-baked suburbia we’re all familiar with today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> Very tellingly, in the late 1860s, after the Central Pacific Railroad uh route across the mountain pass was finished, I think it would have been classy for somebody to invite him to the ribbon cutting ceremony, but they didn’t. Nobody thought to invite him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Awwww. It gets worse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> One day, he ends up with a stroke. He’s paralyzed in the local hospital. This is when he’s living in Kern County. Then he drops dead. He was initially in a potter’s field in Bakersfield.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>A potter’s field is a burial ground for poor, unidentified or unclaimed individuals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> The cemetery even lost his internment records. But in 2009, somehow, some historical-minded people found his grave. So at least they found his grave. But I mean, that’s a lot of forgetting and a lot of obscurity, even during one’s lifetime, let alone afterwards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>So how did a guy most everyone forgot get so many South Bay place names named after him? We’ll never know for sure, but Stephens wouldn’t be the only faded-glory pioneer with big land holdings to get memorialized in this particular way in California. What is unusual is the misspelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> This is just my pet theory, okay? Now, there is an author named George R. Stewart, who wrote some really popular books about the Donners, about Donner Summit, about all those explorers, and over and over again, he misspelled Stephens’ last name S-T-E-V-E-N-S. I mean, this stings me on a personal level because I can also tell you from first-hand experience, that a one-time bureaucratic error, can be sustained over time in the most egregious ways. For example, my name — my byline — is Dan White, W-H-I-T-E, which is a horrific misspelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Because many people, especially locally, would think of the Dan White infamous for killing San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone in 1978.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> I descend from Ukrainian and Russian and German Jews, and the last name should be spelled as it was spelled for hundreds and hundreds of years, W-E-I-T. It’s a mistake on my father’s birth certificate that was never corrected. So I’ve got that in common with Stephens. Our last names are butchered, and also with consequences, right? I think what people often say is say whatever you want about me, but spell my name right.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>That gets a rise out of our question asker, Pete Smoot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot:\u003c/strong> My family name was a misspelling from about 400 years ago. It gave us a very unique last name. So now, when I see someone with the same name, I can assume that they’re related to me. But yeah, I’m with Dan. Call me anything you want, but at least get my name right.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Much of the terrain that attracted Stephens to settle here during the 1840s is still parkland, full of oak trees, wild turkeys, bobcats, burrowing owls — and in the springtime, dotted with periwinkle and Indian paintbrush flowers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot:\u003c/strong> The valley floor itself is all suburbia and companies. Yeah, but get up into the hills, and the hills are beautiful. They’re filled with trees and wildlife and babbling brooks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Is this story that you’re hearing, is it what you expected to hear? Are there surprises in it for you?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot:\u003c/strong> I didn’t really have an expectation. It makes perfect sense, and I’m not surprised to hear it. I mean, this area was filled with people who migrated from the East Coast. I’m one of them. When there was a land rush in the 1840s, people would have grabbed chunks of land. Some people would have risen to prominence, and they get a bunch of stuff named after them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Not to get too philosophical on you, but it does seem like Elisha Stephens’ story is emblematic of so much of California history writ large. There are these layers and layers of human stories of travail and triumph that just get paved over, as new generations come through and forge their own paths in the Golden State.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was Rachael Myrow, Senior Editor of KQED’s Silicon Valley Desk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks to Pete Smoot for asking the question this week. It was chosen by you in a public voting round at BayCuriuos.org. There’s a new voting round up now, and we’re asking you to consider questions about tree frogs, metal music in the Bay Area, and “the San Francisco Twins” … a well-known pair of actresses. Head to BayCurious.org and cast your vote for which story you’d like to hear on this podcast next.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. As you may have heard, funding for public media is at risk right now. You can help KQED continue to offer high-quality, fact-checked news and information by becoming a member today. Learn more at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>. And thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra support from Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and everyone on Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pete Smoot’s driven along Stevens Creek Boulevard. He’s hiked in the \u003ca href=\"https://mghydro.com/watersheds/shared/2F3905.html\">Stevens Creek watershed\u003c/a>, which tumbles down from the Santa Cruz Mountains to the San Francisco Bay. Smoot used to ride his bike around the Stevens Creek Reservoir. And he couldn’t help but notice a lot of things in the South Bay named after somebody named \u003cem>Stevens\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Who is Stevens, and why is Stevens Creek Boulevard in San José and in Cupertino named after him or her?” he asked Bay Curious. “The whole reason to name something after someone is to memorialize them, and we’re failing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The man behind the name\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To start with, the Stevens of Stevens Creek et al, spelled his name thusly: “Elisha Stephens\u003cem>,\u003c/em> spelled E-L-I-S-H-A, last name Stephens, S-T-E-P-H-E-N-S,” said Dan White, whose book \u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Cactus-Eaters-Almost-Myself-Pacific/dp/0061376930/ref=sr_1_1?dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.wrqoBTLcmOIKou_MuTbqEn6TBcBxgx4WyhiI5olXcUA.ceIYpRu8lYS1_frb3-X8DlVzP90YD1QD5ClCfdjoy9c&dib_tag=se&keywords=the+cactus+eaters+dan+white&qid=1743802935&sr=8-1\">\u003cem>The Cactus Eaters\u003c/em>\u003c/a> includes a passage on Stephens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He’s commemorated, but misspelled egregiously, in so many landmarks around Silicon Valley,” White told me while walking through Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino, along with Smoot, our question asker.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035351\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035351\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Longtime Bay Curious fan Pete Smoot — pictured here at the Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino — grew up in Massachusetts but has lived in South San José for over 30 years, working as a software developer. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>So who was Elisha Stephens, and what was his proudest accomplishment, the one that got so many local place names named after him?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He was captain of a party of pioneers that opened up what is now known as Donner Pass. Yes, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11940118/the-real-story-of-the-donner-party\">THAT Donner Pass\u003c/a>, nine miles west of Truckee, where desperate pioneers ATE each other.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Donner Party, it turns out, was not the first group in a wagon train to cross this particular mountain pass. The \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4yztTzfLpE\">Stephens-Townsend-Murphy Party was\u003c/a>. They started with 50 people in eleven wagons and arrived in California with two more people, thanks to childbirths along the way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This entire overland party did not lose a single man, woman or child at all,” White said. “In fact, it increased by two because of procreation. They came down from the mountain with more people than they started out with, and yet, who is the pass named after? The Donners, who made a colossal mess of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s not to say the Stephens Party had an easy time of it when they crossed the pass in 1844. Enough beaver trappers and such had made the journey to California that people back East knew going in that \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/articles/000/young-man-alone-snowbound-in-the-sierra-nevada-1844.htm\">the hardest part\u003c/a> of the journey would be at the end of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A Northern Paiute tribal leader who helped thousands of white people in the 1840s and ’50s cross the barren Great Basin of Nevada suggested the party follow a river up to its source in the Sierra Nevada mountains. (The guide would often shout, “Tro-kay!” meaning “Everything is alright!” and that’s how a number of things, including the river, were later named “Truckee.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035352\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035352\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Author and amateur historian Dan White — pictured here at the Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino — has written about Elisha Stephens. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In any case, it was a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QodvJY8hC-c\">miserable, hard slog\u003c/a>, especially for the pregnant women and the oxen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“At one point, there was a granite ledge, a 10-foot rocky barrier blocking the way. Instead of giving up, they unpacked everything from the wagons, and they hoisted each one up that ledge, and they used a rope pulley chained to the backs of the oxen,” White said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to the most detailed account — the party was careful about sticking together in one big group until mid-November, when they were knee-deep in snow in the mountains. The leadership of the party — so presumably, Stephens — decided to split up the group. This would leave three young men behind and have them guard the wagons in the same rough location where the Donner Party met their fateful end. The rest of the group, including all the women and children, continued westward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No diaries of the Stephens Party journey west are known to survive, but a couple of participants dictated their memories of what happened decades later, including one account published in 1888, \u003cem>The Diary of Moses Schallenberger. \u003c/em>Schallenberger was among the men that stayed behind. He was 17 at the time, and he barely survived that winter in a cabin he helped build himself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At first, “We thought the snow would soon melt, but we were doomed to disappointment. A week passed, and instead of any snow going off, more came. At last, we were compelled to kill our cows, for the snow was so deep that they could not get around to eat. They were nothing but skin and bones, but we killed the poor things to keep them from starving to death.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Schallenberger nearly starved to death. When a member of the advance party was sent back on snowshoes with provisions, Schallenberger was found trying to eat boiled leather.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The promised land of California\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Once Stephens and the rest of the party made it down to the promised land of California, easy living lay ahead. As a young man, Stephens was a blacksmith and trapper. Now in his 40s, he settled in what we call Cupertino, buying 160 acres of land originally part of the Spanish/Mexican land grant known as Rancho San Antonio. Stephens named his patch of paradise Blackberry Farm. A decade later, he essentially doubled his land holdings with more acres in Mountain View.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035361\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1587px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035361\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1587\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2.jpg 1587w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-800x1008.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-1020x1285.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-160x202.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-1219x1536.jpg 1219w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1587px) 100vw, 1587px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This is the only known photo of Elisha Stephens, believed to have been taken in San José in 1860. \u003ccite>(Source unknown)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>He bought the land through legal means, but the broader context of land ownership in California during the mid-19th century is complicated, given that Americans took California from Mexico, which took it from indigenous peoples.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Possibly because nobody in the Stephens party died, White surmises, major newspapers of the day didn’t cover its arrival. Which might explain why Stephens felt he had to toot his own horn to South Bay neighbors, often with a fair bit of bitterness involved. So, locals did know of his exploits but largely tried to steer clear of a dinner invite from Stephens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He was well-known for making an exceptional ragout that was made out of the fat and juicy rattlesnakes that he caught in the brush around Cupertino. And some people avoided his house because they knew that if we went to see him, \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t3umO6_D8cg\">rattlesnake was on the menu\u003c/a>,” White said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Elisha Stephens became a beekeeper and a chicken farmer, and also “a real grump,” White said. Never married. Never had any kids that we know about. In 1862, he moved to Bakersfield, complaining that the South Bay had become “too durn civilized” — and this was before the sun-baked suburbia we’re all familiar with today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Very tellingly, in the late 1860s, after the Central Pacific Railroad route across the mountain pass was finished, I think it would have been classy for somebody to invite him to the ribbon cutting ceremony, but they didn’t. Nobody thought to invite him,” said White.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It gets worse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“One day he ends up with a stroke. He’s paralyzed in the local hospital. This is when he’s living in Kern County. Then he drops dead. He was initially in a potter’s field in Bakersfield,” said White. A potter’s field is a burial ground for poor, unidentified or unclaimed individuals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035353\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1334px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035353\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1334\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED.jpg 1334w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-800x1199.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-1020x1529.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-1025x1536.jpg 1025w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1334px) 100vw, 1334px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This plaque dedicated to Elisha Stevens by the California-Nevada chapter of the Oregon California Trail Association, Cupertino Historical Society, City of Cupertino, and the Mountain Charlie Chapter 1850 E Clampus Vitus, sits embedded in an unassuming concrete and stone pedestal located in the parking lot of the Blackberry Farm golf course. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The \u003ca href=\"https://www.unioncemeterybakersfield.com/services/elisha-stevens-blazed-the-trail-to-california/\">cemetery\u003c/a> even lost his internment records,” White continued. “But in 2009, somehow, some historical minded people found his grave. So at least they found his grave. But I mean that’s a lot of forgetting, and a lot of obscurity, even during one’s lifetime, let alone afterwards.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>And what accounts for\u003c/strong>\u003cstrong> the \u003c/strong>\u003cstrong>misspelling of ‘Stevens Creek’? \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“This is just my pet theory, okay?” White said. “Now, there is an author named George R. Stewart, who wrote some really popular books about the Donners, about Donner Summit, about all those explorers, and over and over again, he misspelled Stephens’ last name S-T-E-V-E-N-S. I mean, this stings me on a personal level because I can also tell you from first-hand experience that a one-time bureaucratic error can be sustained over time in the most egregious ways. For example, my name — my byline — is Dan White, W-H-I-T-E, which is a horrific misspelling.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because many people, especially locally, would think of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11706248/40-years-after-assassinations-assessing-the-legacies-of-harvey-milk-and-george-moscone\">Dan White infamous for killing\u003c/a> San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone in 1978.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035354\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035354\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Stevens Creek Dam and Reservoir, located about 2 miles southwest of Cupertino. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I descend from Ukrainian and Russian and German Jews, and the last name should be spelled as it was spelled for hundreds and hundreds of years, W-E-I-T. It’s a mistake on my father’s birth certificate that was never corrected. So I’ve got that in common with Stephens. Our last names are butchered, and also with consequences, right? I think what people often say is say whatever you want about me, but spell my name right,” White said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That got a rise out of our question-asker, Pete Smoot. “My family name was a misspelling from about 400 years ago. It gave us a very unique last name. So now, when I see someone with the same name, I can assume that they’re related to me. But yeah, I’m with Dan. Call me anything you want, but at least get my name right,” Smoot said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Much of the terrain that attracted Stephens to settle here during the 1840s is still parkland, full of oak trees, wild turkeys, bobcats, burrowing owls — and in the springtime, dotted with periwinkle and Indian paintbrush flowers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The valley floor itself is all suburbia and companies. Yeah, but get up into the hills, and the hills are beautiful. They’re filled with trees and wildlife and babbling brooks,” said Smoot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032757\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032757\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The gravestone for Elisha Stephens in the Historic Union Cemetery in Bakersfield on March 23, 2025. \u003ccite>(Martin do Nascimento/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Was Smoot surprised to learn of the real man behind all things named “Stevens Creek” in the South Bay? Not really. “This area was filled with people who migrated from the East Coast. I’m one of them. When there was a land rush in the 1840s, people would have grabbed chunks of land. Some people would have risen to prominence, and they get a bunch of stuff named after them,” Smoot said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not to get too philosophical on you, but it does seem like Elisha Stephens’ story is emblematic of so much of California history writ large. There are these layers and layers of human stories of travail and triumph that just get paved over as new generations come through and forge their own paths in the Golden State.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>The naming of things is a serious matter, something we’ve all been paying a bit more attention to in recent years. Who do we memorialize and why? If the honorees don’t merit a mention in school books, who even remembers them after the last living person to know them dies? I’ve been thinking about this a lot ever since we got this question from longtime listener Pete Smoot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot: \u003c/strong>Who is Stevens, and why is Stevens Creek Boulevard in San José and in Cupertino named after him or her? \u003cstrong>\u003cbr>\n\u003c/strong>\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Pete’s driven along Stevens Creek Boulevard. He’s hiked in the Stevens Creek watershed, which tumbles down from the Santa Cruz Mountains to the San Francisco Bay. He used to ride his bike around the Stevens Creek Reservoir. And he couldn’t help but notice a lot of things in the South Bay named after somebody named Stevens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot: \u003c/strong>The whole reason to name something after someone is to memorialize them. And we’re failing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This week, we’re digging into the all-but-forgotten history of Elisha Stephens. It’s a tale full of adventure that will take us over the high Sierra a few years before gold was found in this state. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. This is Bay Curious. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>OK, so Pete wants to know why so many things in Cupertino, Mountain View and Sunnyvale are called “Stevens Creek.” KQED’s Rachael Myrow did some digging, and here’s what she found …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>You know how most searches start on the Internet? Well, the first thing I realized upon looking for Elisha Stephens was there are a lot of different spellings of his name. And the right one is not the one that’s on all the place names and street signs. Author Dan White — whose book “The Cactus Eaters” includes a passage on Stephens — explains.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White: \u003c/strong>Elisha Stephens\u003cem>,\u003c/em> spelled E-L-I-S-H-A, last name Stephens, S-T-E-P-H-E-N-S. He’s commemorated, but misspelled egregiously, in so many landmarks around Silicon Valley, which is kind of bizarre.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>I met Dan, along with Pete, our question asker, at Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino to discuss the story of a South Carolina born man who was, by his own account, under-appreciated during his lifetime — and also, by a lot of other accounts, deserved to be remembered better than he has been.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003cstrong>\u003cbr>\n\u003c/strong>\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> Essentially, he was a part of an immigrant party that opened up what is now known as Donner Pass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>That Donner Pass? The one 9 miles west of Truckee, where desperate pioneers ate each other? Yes. Fun fact: The Donner Party was not the first wagon train to cross this particular mountain pass. The Stephens-Townsend-Murphy Party was! They began in what was then the Iowa Territory. Stephens joined when they stopped in St. Joseph, Missouri. Reflecting their collective respect for his leadership skills, the 50 people in eleven wagons elected him captain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> The rub is that this entire overland party did not lose a single man, woman or child at all. In fact, it increased by two because of procreation. They came down from the mountain with more people than they started out with, and and yet, who is the pass named after? The Donners, who made a colossal mess of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Which is not to say that the Stephens Party had an easy time of it when they crossed the pass in 1844. Enough beaver trappers and such had made the journey to California that people back East knew going in the hardest part of the journey would be at the end of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>A Northern Paiute tribal leader who helped thousands of white people in the 1840s and ’50s cross the barren Great Basin of Nevada suggested the party follow a river up to its source in the Sierra Nevada mountains. The guide would often shout, “Tro-kay!” meaning “Everything is alright!” and that’s how a number of things, including the river, were later named “Truckee.” In any case, it was a miserable, hard slog, especially for the pregnant women and the oxen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> At one point, there was a granite ledge that they got towards, and there was a 10-foot rocky barrier blocking the way. And instead of giving up, what they did was they unpacked everything from the wagons, and they hoisted each one up that ledge, and they used a rope pulley chained to the backs of the oxen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Once Stephens and the rest of the party made it down to the promised land of California, easy living lay ahead. As a young man, Stephens was a blacksmith and trapper. Now in his 40s, he settled in what we call Cupertino, buying 160 acres of land originally part of the Spanish/Mexican land grant known as Rancho San Antonio. Stephens named his patch of paradise Blackberry Farm. And a decade later, he essentially doubled his land holdings with more acres in Mountain View.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Through legal means at the time, but the broader context of land ownership in California during the mid-19th century is … complicated, given that Americans took California from Mexico, which took it from indigenous peoples.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But back to opening that mountain path to the Pacific …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> It became a huge, big deal. It was part of the incursion into California. The 49ers used it, other immigrants used it, and a railroad and a freeway would both breach that same pass. Millions more people going from that same mountain notch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Possibly because nobody in the Stephens party died, White surmises major newspapers of the day didn’t cover its arrival. That might explain why Stephens felt he had to toot his own horn to South Bay neighbors. They knew about his most famous exploit. But at the time, he was most famous or infamous, for his favorite dish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> He was well-known for making an exceptional ragout that was made out of the fat and juicy rattlesnakes that he caught in the brush around Cupertino. And some people avoided his house because they knew that if we went to see him, rattlesnake was on the menu.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Elisha Stephens became a beekeeper and a chicken farmer. There’s only one known photo of him, and he looks like what you’d expect a 19th-century pioneer to look like: from his hat to his utility knife hanging from his big, big belt. He was tall and skinny, with deep, sunken eyes and cheekbones, a scraggly, snow white beard that extended down to his rough and ready Western cravat, and a piercing, direct stare that was common in studio photos of the time, because if you smiled the whole thing was likely to come out blurry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White: \u003c/strong>He became a real grump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Never married. Never had any kids that we know about. In 1862, he moved to Bakersfield, complaining that the South Bay had become “too durn civilized.” And this was before the sun-baked suburbia we’re all familiar with today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> Very tellingly, in the late 1860s, after the Central Pacific Railroad uh route across the mountain pass was finished, I think it would have been classy for somebody to invite him to the ribbon cutting ceremony, but they didn’t. Nobody thought to invite him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Awwww. It gets worse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> One day, he ends up with a stroke. He’s paralyzed in the local hospital. This is when he’s living in Kern County. Then he drops dead. He was initially in a potter’s field in Bakersfield.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>A potter’s field is a burial ground for poor, unidentified or unclaimed individuals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> The cemetery even lost his internment records. But in 2009, somehow, some historical-minded people found his grave. So at least they found his grave. But I mean, that’s a lot of forgetting and a lot of obscurity, even during one’s lifetime, let alone afterwards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>So how did a guy most everyone forgot get so many South Bay place names named after him? We’ll never know for sure, but Stephens wouldn’t be the only faded-glory pioneer with big land holdings to get memorialized in this particular way in California. What is unusual is the misspelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> This is just my pet theory, okay? Now, there is an author named George R. Stewart, who wrote some really popular books about the Donners, about Donner Summit, about all those explorers, and over and over again, he misspelled Stephens’ last name S-T-E-V-E-N-S. I mean, this stings me on a personal level because I can also tell you from first-hand experience, that a one-time bureaucratic error, can be sustained over time in the most egregious ways. For example, my name — my byline — is Dan White, W-H-I-T-E, which is a horrific misspelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Because many people, especially locally, would think of the Dan White infamous for killing San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone in 1978.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> I descend from Ukrainian and Russian and German Jews, and the last name should be spelled as it was spelled for hundreds and hundreds of years, W-E-I-T. It’s a mistake on my father’s birth certificate that was never corrected. So I’ve got that in common with Stephens. Our last names are butchered, and also with consequences, right? I think what people often say is say whatever you want about me, but spell my name right.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>That gets a rise out of our question asker, Pete Smoot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot:\u003c/strong> My family name was a misspelling from about 400 years ago. It gave us a very unique last name. So now, when I see someone with the same name, I can assume that they’re related to me. But yeah, I’m with Dan. Call me anything you want, but at least get my name right.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Much of the terrain that attracted Stephens to settle here during the 1840s is still parkland, full of oak trees, wild turkeys, bobcats, burrowing owls — and in the springtime, dotted with periwinkle and Indian paintbrush flowers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot:\u003c/strong> The valley floor itself is all suburbia and companies. Yeah, but get up into the hills, and the hills are beautiful. They’re filled with trees and wildlife and babbling brooks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Is this story that you’re hearing, is it what you expected to hear? Are there surprises in it for you?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot:\u003c/strong> I didn’t really have an expectation. It makes perfect sense, and I’m not surprised to hear it. I mean, this area was filled with people who migrated from the East Coast. I’m one of them. When there was a land rush in the 1840s, people would have grabbed chunks of land. Some people would have risen to prominence, and they get a bunch of stuff named after them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Not to get too philosophical on you, but it does seem like Elisha Stephens’ story is emblematic of so much of California history writ large. There are these layers and layers of human stories of travail and triumph that just get paved over, as new generations come through and forge their own paths in the Golden State.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was Rachael Myrow, Senior Editor of KQED’s Silicon Valley Desk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks to Pete Smoot for asking the question this week. It was chosen by you in a public voting round at BayCuriuos.org. There’s a new voting round up now, and we’re asking you to consider questions about tree frogs, metal music in the Bay Area, and “the San Francisco Twins” … a well-known pair of actresses. Head to BayCurious.org and cast your vote for which story you’d like to hear on this podcast next.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. As you may have heard, funding for public media is at risk right now. You can help KQED continue to offer high-quality, fact-checked news and information by becoming a member today. Learn more at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>. And thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra support from Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and everyone on Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "inside-the-sailing-ships-that-carried-thousands-of-san-francisco-workers-to-alaska",
"title": "How Canned Salmon Became Big Business in Gold Rush San Francisco",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Walk along San Francisco Bay near Ghirardelli Square, and it’s hard not to be intrigued by the three masts jutting into the sky at Hyde Street Pier. It looks like a pirate ship straight out of \u003cem>Pirates of the Caribbean\u003c/em>. But the 301-foot-long square-sailed ship isn’t a Hollywood prop, it’s a piece of history from a time when San Francisco was the largest and most consequential seaport on the West Coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Known as the \u003cem>Balclutha/Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, the ship is part of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/safr/index.htm\">San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park, \u003c/a>and it’s one of the best physical reminders of a once-booming San Francisco industry — salmon canning. In the early 20th century, the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> was part of the Alaska Packers’ Association fleet. It was the salmon canning industry’s largest and most influential company, and their headquarters were in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every summer, ships like the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> sailed to remote, wild southeastern Alaska, full of all the gear, material, food and people required to run a salmon cannery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The start of fish canning in California\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Two brothers, William and George Hume, moved out to California in the 1850s to seek their Gold Rush fortunes. They were from a fishing family in Maine and put those skills to good use when they arrived in the Golden State. They caught salmon in the Sacramento River. This was before widespread access to electric refrigeration, so the brothers sold the salmon either fresh or preserved in salt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034261\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12034261\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-800x1200.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013.jpg 1333w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Balclutha/Star of Alaska in the San Francisco port on March 21, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Their friend, Andrew Hapgood, was a tinsmith and had experimented with canning oysters back in Maine. When he followed the Humes out to California, the three men joined forces to open the \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/subjects/nationalhistoriclandmarks/first-pacific-coast-salmon-cannery-site.htm\">first West Coast salmon cannery\u003c/a> in 1864.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“After two years, they decided to move the cannery north to the Columbia River,” said James Chiao, an amateur historian who has spent years researching the \u003ca href=\"https://chinesecannerylaborers.home.blog/\">history of salmon canning\u003c/a>. Originally from Taiwan, Chiao worked in the Alaska canneries in the 1970s to earn money to pay his college tuition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chiao said that back in the 1860s, the fishing was good in Oregon. Each of the three business partners soon opened his own cannery along the Columbia. In 1970, George Hume, who was white, hired 12 Chinese laborers to work in his cannery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Hume] found their work satisfactory, better than his other workers,” Chiao said. “It became the success formula. If you want to be successful, you need to have the capital. You need to have the technology — how to make the cans. And number three, you need Chinese workers.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1874, there were 13 canneries along the Columbia River and 95% of the cannery workers were Chinese, Chiao said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the rapid growth of the salmon canning industry was hard on the salmon populations in Oregon. Soon, the cannery operators had their sights set on \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/articles/alaska-cannery-cultural-landscapes.htm\">even bigger fishing grounds — Alaska\u003c/a>. *The Humes and several other big canning companies banded together to form the Alaska Packers’ Association, which operated out of San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035022\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1300px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035022\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1300\" height=\"814\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map.jpg 1300w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map-800x501.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map-1020x639.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map-160x100.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1300px) 100vw, 1300px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">General locations of past and present canneries, based on descriptions provided in ‘Alaska Salmon Cannery Chronology, 1878 to 1950’ by Lewis MacDonald. \u003ccite>(National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Immigrant workforce suffers poor conditions\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The salmon canning industry exploded once it moved to Alaska. \u003ca href=\"https://alaskahistoricalsociety.org/history-in-a-can-2/\">According to the Alaska Historic Society\u003c/a>, Alaskan canneries shipped 36,000 cases of canned salmon in 1883. Just eight years later, that number had increased to 789,347 cases. It was one of the largest industries in Alaska at the time and had a huge economic and political impact on the region.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To produce that much salmon, the companies had to ship thousands of workers to Alaska and haul all the tin, machinery, food and other goods required to sustain a workforce in a remote location for several months. San Francisco was the first big shipping hub for the industry and later, Portland and Seattle would also become important departure points.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, the sailing ship anchored in San Francisco Bay, is set up as a museum to showcase what the conditions would have been like for cannery workers traveling to the salmon fields. The boat was strictly divided based on class and occupation. The captain’s quarters were at the back of the ship to limit the rock and sway. His quarters had sumptuous furnishings designed specifically for a ship, made of exotic woods and decked out with plush cushions. He had his own kitchen pantry, bedroom, bathroom and sitting room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034996\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034996\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Decorative woodwork in the captain’s quarters on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. Right: A portrait of Inda Francis Durkee, the daughter of a captain of the Balclutha/Star of Alaska, who was born aboard the ship in 1899 on a voyage from India to San Francisco. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>On the same level, but closer to the middle of the ship, were the sleeping quarters of the fishermen. The space is fairly large, with portholes that let in light and air along the sides.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The fishermen for \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> would have mostly been Italian or Scandinavian men living and working in the Bay Area,” said Sabrina Oliveros, a park ranger at the San Francisco Maritime National Historic Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She said there were about 80 of them, and they were unionized workers employed directly by the Alaska Packers Association. They also doubled as sailors on the ship for the voyage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Down below, on the tween deck and accessible by a narrow ladder, were the sleeping quarters for the cannery workers, commonly known as the “Chinese Gang” because in the early days of the industry, almost all the workers were Chinese.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There would have been anywhere from 100 to 300 cannery workers who were transported on ships like this going up to Alaska,” Oliveros said. “And they came back down on the same ship.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034271\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034271\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">National Park Service ranger Sabrina Oliveros poses for a portrait on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034985\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034985\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Part of the ‘Big Cargo’ exhibition on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Their quarters were small and cramped. Bunks were stacked three high, each without enough room to sit up. There was no natural light or fresh air. Men would smoke and gamble by lamplight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was sweating from the heat of my companions, I was seasick, I was vermin-covered, and I must admit, I was downright homesick,” wrote Max Stern in a serialized account of going undercover as a cannery worker in 1922.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stern was a white newspaper reporter who had heard of the squalid conditions for cannery workers and set out to shine a light on them. He describes buying himself a job by promising to purchase a prescribed set of exorbitantly priced goods from an outfitter, most of which were subpar or nonexistent. His account is riddled with the many ways that labor contractors and cannery owners took advantage of the cannery workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034267\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034267\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An illustration of life for Chinese workers from the 19th Century on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034268\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034268\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">James Chiao, of Fremont, poses for a portrait on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. Chiao, originally from Taiwan, worked in a salmon cannery in the 1970s. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> was sailing, it was not uncommon for the journey north to take close to 40 days. And when they arrived, Stern writes the conditions on land weren’t much better than those he experienced on the ship. He describes bunkhouses with walls so thin that an icy wind whipped through the boards while water lapped the floor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He and the rest of the cannery workers first made the wooden crates and tin cans that the fish would be stored in. Then, when the fishermen started bringing in large quantities of fish, they worked long hours butchering, cleaning, chopping and canning the salmon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the first 40 years of the industry, all this work was done manually and the Chinese workers gained a reputation for their fast and skilled butchering. The best could clean and butcher three fish per minute. But in 1903, things started to change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035023\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1111px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035023\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"1111\" height=\"818\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped.png 1111w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped-800x589.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped-1020x751.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped-160x118.png 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1111px) 100vw, 1111px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Butchering salmon in a canning establishment in Astoria, Oregon. \u003ccite>(Robert N. Dennis collection via Wikipedia)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035024\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035024\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Salmon catch on the floor of an unidentified cannery, Alaska. Right: Sailing vessel ‘Star of Greenland’ at the dock of the Alaska Packers’ Association cannery, Wrangell, Alaska, in August 1918. \u003ccite>(John Nathan Cobb via Wikipedia)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“This machine is a central artifact of this exhibit,” Park Ranger Oliveros said while gesturing at an\u003ca href=\"https://mohai.org/collections-and-research/collections-search/?primaryKey=1970.4992&moduleName=collections&recordId=1226\"> 8-foot-tall iron contraption\u003c/a> on board the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>. “It was designed to start replacing human labor. The earliest versions of the salmon butchering machine could have done like 50, 60 fish in a minute.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The advent of mechanization coincided with a shortage of Chinese workers due to the \u003ca href=\"https://history.state.gov/milestones/1866-1898/chinese-immigration\">Chinese Exclusion Act, which was passed in 1882\u003c/a>. Already, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/safr/learn/historyculture/asiancanneryworkers.htm\">canneries had been hiring more Japanese and Filipino workers\u003c/a>, but the salmon butchering machine signaled the end of a majority-Chinese cannery workforce. By the 1920s and ’30s, there were very few left.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Decline of the salmon canning industry\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Cannery workers fought for and won the right to unionize in the 1930s. With unionization, there were fewer opportunities for labor contractors and other middlemen to take advantage of workers. Wages and conditions improved, but decades of overfishing meant salmon populations were on the decline. The peak of the Alaska salmon canning industry was in 1936.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Canned salmon was an important provision for soldiers during World War II, but after the war, consumer tastes started to shift towards canned tuna and frozen fish. \u003ca href=\"https://www.conservationgateway.org/ConservationByGeography/NorthAmerica/UnitedStates/alaska/seak/era/cfm/Documents/9.5_SalmonIndustry.pdf\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Native Alaskans were fighting for more sovereignty and better fishery protections (PDF)\u003c/a>, making it more difficult for canneries to operate with impunity as they had done for much of the industry’s early history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Canneries still exist in Alaska today, and much of the salmon we eat is still caught in Alaskan waters. However, it’s far more common now for the fish to be flash-frozen and shipped around the world to be eaten fresh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The cannery workers who pioneered the salmon canning industry have been largely forgotten, but historians like James Chiao and park rangers like Sabrina Oliveros at the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park are working to preserve their legacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034263\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034263\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Downtown San Francisco, seen from on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>*A prior version of this story stated that Andrew Hapgood was part of forming the Alaska Packers Association. He was not. We regret this error.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. And you’re listening to Bay Curious. Nowadays, if you’re eating fish out of a can, it’s likely tuna. But in the early 20th century, canned salmon was far more popular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement Sound: \u003c/strong>Whitneys the quality canned salmon from Alaska’s world famous waters. Serve Whitney’s salmon in baked seafood salad, salmon loaf, or molded salmon ring.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This advertisement for Alaskan canned salmon is from the 1950s, but the salmon canning industry has roots in California, starting in the mid-1800s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement Sound:\u003c/strong> Whitneys, whitneys, whitneys … For a tasty dish with zing, a can of whitneys is the thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>The biggest canning companies were headquartered in San Francisco. And seasonal workers boarded ships in San Francisco to get to those Alaskan waters. There’s even a piece of this history still floating out in the San Francisco Bay!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras:\u003c/strong> It’s not exactly a pirate ship, but if you let us tell you the story, there were some pretty nefarious things going on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Today on Bay Curious, we trace the salmon connections between San Francisco and Alaska … and learn about the early workers who made the industry possible. Batten down the hatches; there are rough seas ahead! Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sponsor message\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Starting in the mid-1800s, Salmon canneries were big business along the West Coast, stretching all the way up to Alaska. San Francisco played an outsized role in the industry — and especially in providing the workers who did the tough, dirty, low-paid work in the canneries. Bay Curious editor and producer Katrina Schwartz starts us off in Bristol Bay, Alaska, in the 1970s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Imagine a stretch of marshy ground in an isolated bay. A nondescript factory built on a pier hunkers near the shore surrounded by a few low bunkhouses and a smattering of cabins. Patches of melting snow dot the ground. It’s austere. Lonely. Beautiful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>Such a remote place. No radio. No newspaper, no TV. So you’re totally cut off from the outside world. My name is James Chiao, and I am an immigrant. I was born in Taiwan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James and his brother Philip worked at the salmon canneries in Alaska in the 1970s for several summers during college. James stood next to a machine that gutted and cleaned the salmon. A more seasoned co-worker stood next to him, pulling the eggs out of the fish. James took care of any that slipped by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: T\u003c/strong>he salmon, the fish would come in on a conveyor belt passing, I’d say maybe 60 to 80 fish per minute. So they were flying by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James would stand there clad in tall rubber boots and full rain gear, water flushing the fish carcasses down a conveyor belt, sometimes working a 16- or 18-hour shift.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>It was noisy. There’s water and blood everywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> He says it was mind-numbing, repetitive work, but he didn’t mind. It was a nice change of pace from studying. The scenery in Alaska was fantastic. And the money was good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>When I was attending University of Washington, the tuition was probably over $1,000 a year. And I was able to make in two months enough money to pay my tuition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James remembers that time fondly. It was a unique experience, but not his real life. He went on to become an electrical engineer. And when he retired a few years ago, he began reflecting on his life, thinking back to those summers in Alaska in the ’70s. And he started to do a little research about the salmon canning industry, which dates back to the 1860s. He was interested to learn he wasn’t the only immigrant to find themselves canning salmon in Alaska. Far from it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>I think we should go back, you know, to the Hume brothers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Brothers William and George Hume were fishermen originally from Maine. They moved to California, like so many others, to seek their fortune. When they arrived, they started catching and selling salmon. Now, these were the days before electric refrigeration was widely available … so they sold the salmon either fresh caught or preserved in salt. So when their buddy from Maine, Andrew Hapgood, moved out to California and brought materials to can and preserve fish with him, they knew they had a good business idea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>In 1864, they founded the first salmon cannery in on the Sacramento River.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> It didn’t take them long to realize runoff from mining was killing the salmon. So they moved their operations to the Columbia River in Oregon. The Humes, who were white, hired 12 Chinese workers to do the canning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>He found their work satisfactory. Better than his other workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The Transcontinental Railroad was almost complete, and Chinese laborers who had immigrated to the U.S. were looking for more work. The Hume brothers hired them through the same contractors who found workers for the railroads and paid them a similarly low wage. Other salmon cannery owners along the Columbia copied the Humes business model.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> Almost like it become the success formula. Look, if you want to be successful, you need to have the capital. You need to have the technology. How to make the cans. And number three, you need Chinese workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James says by 1874, there were 13 canneries along the Columbia River and 95% of the cannery workers were Chinese. Pretty soon, the Humes, and most of the other cannery owners, moved their operations to Alaska, where the really big salmon runs were. San Francisco was the biggest city on the West Coast. Everything flowed in and out of its seaport.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> The components are all in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The fishermen and cannery workers. All the supplies and provisions needed for the trip. And, of course, the vessels that carried it all to Alaskan waters. The Hume brothers’ company joined up with several other big canneries to form the largest salmon canning company, the Alaska Packers Association. It was headquartered in San Francisco and shipped canned salmon all over the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sound of creaking of ship\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras:\u003c/strong> We are we are right now around the main deck of the \u003cem>Balclutha/Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, right under the main mast. My name is Sabrina Oliveras, my title is Park Ranger Interpretation Exhibits and I work at San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James and I meet Sabrina on board the Balclutha … a sailing ship built in 1886 … and known as the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> when it sailed as a cannery vessel. It’s one of the best physical reminders of the salmon canning trade still floating in the Bay. It was on a ship like this that salmon cannery workers would begin their long journeys. The \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> was strictly divided based on social class and occupation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras (giving tour): \u003c/strong>So right now, we are where we call the Captain’s Saloon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The captain’s quarters are at the far back of the ship, where the rock and sway of the ocean is less noticeable. He would have had a private bedroom, bathroom, pantry and sitting room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>This also was where a captain would hold office while in port. So you know he’d have to like entertain other merchants or captains or ship owners and all that, which is why it’s nice, and it has a skylight, detailed glasswork.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Beautiful hardwood floors, plush seats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>Yeah, plush seats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Towards the middle of the ship, but still on the same level, were the fisherman’s quarters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>The fishermen for \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> would have mostly been Italian or Scandinavian men, you know, living and working in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> There were about 80 of them, and they were unionized workers for the Alaska Packers’ Association. They also acted as the sailors on the month-long journey up to Alaska.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>There’s probably like over 10 portholes that you can open.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Portholes mean there was sunlight and fresh air. Once the ship arrived in Alaska, the fishermen would be in charge of catching the salmon. But the canneries also needed people to butcher, chop and can the fish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>There would have been anywhere from 100 to 300 cannery workers who were transported on ships like this going up to Alaska, and they came back down on the same ship. They would have lived below decks in the area. We now call the tween deck\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Walking downstairs\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> To get there, we take the stairs, thoughtfully installed by the park for visitors. Back in the day, the cannery workers would have used a ladder only about a foot-and-a-half wide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>We are looking into an area where on either side of us, there are three levels of bunks. This is a representation of what they called at the time the Oriental Quarters or in some sources they call it Chinatown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The space is cramped. The bunks short, with not even enough room to sit up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> To me, this is amazing. I’ve never thought of someone stay here in this kind of condition for over four weeks, right? Takes about 30 days, 33 days to travel from San Francisco to Bristol Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James says when he went to work in the Alaska canneries, he could travel there in one day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>This place is so hot. And also, there’s no ventilation. And there’s no electricity. OK, we have a light here. So it was lit by candles or lamps. It’s just totally, you know, it’s not a very good experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Unlike the fishermen, who were mostly white, the cannery workers were not employed directly by the Alaska Packers Association. Instead, they were hired by independent labor contractors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>The APA really just let the labor contractors do what they want, essentially, which is why they had so much power and there was so much opportunity to exploit. Because the APA would just say, you set the terms, we just want so-and-so amount of crates delivered at the end of it all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> At least two primary sources describe being forced to pay for passage on the ship, for specific clothes that often weren’t necessary, and for bedding as a condition of employment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>A lot of them were, you know, they spent so much money on their clothing, on outfit, and then there’s also gambling, and also they have to pay some of the canned food. So, usually, by the time they come back to San Francisco, all those money were subtracted off of their wages. So they have very little left.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Sometimes, workers would end the season in debt to the labor contractor, ensuring they’d come back for the following year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> And so these ships, laden with men and supplies, would sail out from San Francisco and make their way to remote, wild southwestern Alaska every summer. One of the most detailed first-person narratives comes from Max Stern, a white newspaperman who went undercover on assignment as part of the so-called “Chinese Gang” in 1922. It didn’t take long for him to feel the pain of being in the lowest social class on the ship.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice reading the writings of Max Stern:\u003c/strong> I was sweating from the heat of my companions, I was seasick, I was vermin-covered, and I must admit, I was downright homesick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> After arriving in Bristol Bay, the first task in the cannery was to turn the metal they brought with them into cans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice reading the writings of Max Stern: \u003c/strong>My job was testing cans. I would stand over a little tank of hot water, place a finished can into the basket, and with a foot lever immerse it. If there were any leaks, bubbles would appear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> In the late 1800s, decades before Stern was on his undercover mission, skilled Chinese butchers would spend long hours butchering, cleaning, cutting and processing the fish. Sabrina says a skilled worker could remove the fins, head, tail and entrails of three fish per minute. But around 1903, times were beginning to change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>This machine, it is a central artifact of this exhibit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Back on the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, Park Ranger Sabrina shows us an\u003ca href=\"https://www.loc.gov/resource/hhh.ak0330.sheet/?sp=5\"> 8-foot tall\u003c/a>, massive \u003ca href=\"https://mohai.org/collections-and-research/collections-search/?primaryKey=1970.4992&moduleName=collections&recordId=1226&searchQuery=Alaska&Stevens&Lumber_Co_&Puget_Sound_Navigation_Co_&modules%5B0%5D=item&modules%5B1%5D=collections&modules%5B2%5D=library&pageNum=5\">iron contraption\u003c/a>. Now called a “salmon butchering machine,” it was known by a more racist name when it was invented.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>It was designed to start replacing human labor. The earliest versions of the salmon butchering machine could have done like 50, 60 fish in a minute. So as you can imagine, like this machine was welcomed by the industry for a variety of reasons, one of which was, you know, he needed to keep producing more and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Cannery owners were eager to replace the workers who had made the industry possible. James Chiao again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jim Chiao\u003c/strong>: Even in their advertisements, they said they wanted to replace all the Chinese Butchers. And by the 1920s and ’30s, it did.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> By this time, the industry was feeling the effects of the Chinese Exclusion Act. Chinese labor was harder to find, and many roles were replaced by other Asian immigrants. First, Japanese … and later Filipino folks. Farmworkers in California would finish up the spring harvest and head to San Francisco to hop on a salmon boat bound for Alaska. When the summer fishing season was over, they’d return to California for the fall harvest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>Which is why eventually, in the 1930s, when they started unionizing, it wasn’t just a cannery workers union; it was a canary workers and farm laborers union.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (during interview): \u003c/strong>Wow, because it was the same folks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Once the union came in, there was less opportunity for labor contractors to exploit workers, and conditions at the canneries improved. James Chiao says he benefited from those changes by the time he arrived in Alaska in the ’70s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> In general, I thought it was it was okay. It was decent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Much of the salmon we eat is still caught in Alaska, but canning isn’t the big business it used to be. The Alaska Packers Association eventually became part of the Del Monte conglomerate, which sold its last canneries in the early 1980s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> Oh yeah, there’s a huge change in how they process the salmon, how they just freeze the salmon and ship it to the supermarkets directly. So now, the canned salmon is no longer really something that we are familiar or used to. That’s a big change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James says even in the ’70s, when he was working in Alaska, cannery workers rarely tried the product.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>In the mess hall, we never got to eat salmon. So, many years later, I went to the grocery store and tried canned salmon. My goodness, it was no good! (laughs)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> These days — few signs remain of the once booming salmon canning industry in San Francisco. Most of the companies have been sold off or moved elsewhere. But for James and the National Park Staff overseeing the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> — the hard work and sacrifice of the workers who once kept them running hasn’t been forgotten.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music end\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was Bay Curious editor and producer Katrina Schwartz. Head to BayCurious.org to see photos from our trip to the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, plus archival photos from San Francisco’s salmon canning history. We’ll drop a link in our show notes, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I love episodes like this one … they open my eyes to something about the Bay Area that … frankly, I had no idea about. That’s one of our big goals here at Bay Curious, actually. And if you think we’re the mark, please consider leaving us a rating or a review on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever else you might listen. Kind words keep us going and help other potential listeners find our program. It only takes moment, and we really appreciate it. Thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Alana Walker, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I hope you have a wonderful week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Walk along San Francisco Bay near Ghirardelli Square, and it’s hard not to be intrigued by the three masts jutting into the sky at Hyde Street Pier. It looks like a pirate ship straight out of \u003cem>Pirates of the Caribbean\u003c/em>. But the 301-foot-long square-sailed ship isn’t a Hollywood prop, it’s a piece of history from a time when San Francisco was the largest and most consequential seaport on the West Coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Known as the \u003cem>Balclutha/Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, the ship is part of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/safr/index.htm\">San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park, \u003c/a>and it’s one of the best physical reminders of a once-booming San Francisco industry — salmon canning. In the early 20th century, the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> was part of the Alaska Packers’ Association fleet. It was the salmon canning industry’s largest and most influential company, and their headquarters were in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every summer, ships like the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> sailed to remote, wild southeastern Alaska, full of all the gear, material, food and people required to run a salmon cannery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The start of fish canning in California\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Two brothers, William and George Hume, moved out to California in the 1850s to seek their Gold Rush fortunes. They were from a fishing family in Maine and put those skills to good use when they arrived in the Golden State. They caught salmon in the Sacramento River. This was before widespread access to electric refrigeration, so the brothers sold the salmon either fresh or preserved in salt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034261\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12034261\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-800x1200.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013.jpg 1333w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Balclutha/Star of Alaska in the San Francisco port on March 21, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Their friend, Andrew Hapgood, was a tinsmith and had experimented with canning oysters back in Maine. When he followed the Humes out to California, the three men joined forces to open the \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/subjects/nationalhistoriclandmarks/first-pacific-coast-salmon-cannery-site.htm\">first West Coast salmon cannery\u003c/a> in 1864.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“After two years, they decided to move the cannery north to the Columbia River,” said James Chiao, an amateur historian who has spent years researching the \u003ca href=\"https://chinesecannerylaborers.home.blog/\">history of salmon canning\u003c/a>. Originally from Taiwan, Chiao worked in the Alaska canneries in the 1970s to earn money to pay his college tuition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chiao said that back in the 1860s, the fishing was good in Oregon. Each of the three business partners soon opened his own cannery along the Columbia. In 1970, George Hume, who was white, hired 12 Chinese laborers to work in his cannery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Hume] found their work satisfactory, better than his other workers,” Chiao said. “It became the success formula. If you want to be successful, you need to have the capital. You need to have the technology — how to make the cans. And number three, you need Chinese workers.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1874, there were 13 canneries along the Columbia River and 95% of the cannery workers were Chinese, Chiao said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the rapid growth of the salmon canning industry was hard on the salmon populations in Oregon. Soon, the cannery operators had their sights set on \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/articles/alaska-cannery-cultural-landscapes.htm\">even bigger fishing grounds — Alaska\u003c/a>. *The Humes and several other big canning companies banded together to form the Alaska Packers’ Association, which operated out of San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035022\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1300px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035022\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1300\" height=\"814\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map.jpg 1300w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map-800x501.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map-1020x639.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map-160x100.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1300px) 100vw, 1300px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">General locations of past and present canneries, based on descriptions provided in ‘Alaska Salmon Cannery Chronology, 1878 to 1950’ by Lewis MacDonald. \u003ccite>(National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Immigrant workforce suffers poor conditions\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The salmon canning industry exploded once it moved to Alaska. \u003ca href=\"https://alaskahistoricalsociety.org/history-in-a-can-2/\">According to the Alaska Historic Society\u003c/a>, Alaskan canneries shipped 36,000 cases of canned salmon in 1883. Just eight years later, that number had increased to 789,347 cases. It was one of the largest industries in Alaska at the time and had a huge economic and political impact on the region.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To produce that much salmon, the companies had to ship thousands of workers to Alaska and haul all the tin, machinery, food and other goods required to sustain a workforce in a remote location for several months. San Francisco was the first big shipping hub for the industry and later, Portland and Seattle would also become important departure points.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, the sailing ship anchored in San Francisco Bay, is set up as a museum to showcase what the conditions would have been like for cannery workers traveling to the salmon fields. The boat was strictly divided based on class and occupation. The captain’s quarters were at the back of the ship to limit the rock and sway. His quarters had sumptuous furnishings designed specifically for a ship, made of exotic woods and decked out with plush cushions. He had his own kitchen pantry, bedroom, bathroom and sitting room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034996\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034996\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Decorative woodwork in the captain’s quarters on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. Right: A portrait of Inda Francis Durkee, the daughter of a captain of the Balclutha/Star of Alaska, who was born aboard the ship in 1899 on a voyage from India to San Francisco. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>On the same level, but closer to the middle of the ship, were the sleeping quarters of the fishermen. The space is fairly large, with portholes that let in light and air along the sides.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The fishermen for \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> would have mostly been Italian or Scandinavian men living and working in the Bay Area,” said Sabrina Oliveros, a park ranger at the San Francisco Maritime National Historic Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She said there were about 80 of them, and they were unionized workers employed directly by the Alaska Packers Association. They also doubled as sailors on the ship for the voyage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Down below, on the tween deck and accessible by a narrow ladder, were the sleeping quarters for the cannery workers, commonly known as the “Chinese Gang” because in the early days of the industry, almost all the workers were Chinese.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There would have been anywhere from 100 to 300 cannery workers who were transported on ships like this going up to Alaska,” Oliveros said. “And they came back down on the same ship.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034271\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034271\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">National Park Service ranger Sabrina Oliveros poses for a portrait on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034985\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034985\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Part of the ‘Big Cargo’ exhibition on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Their quarters were small and cramped. Bunks were stacked three high, each without enough room to sit up. There was no natural light or fresh air. Men would smoke and gamble by lamplight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was sweating from the heat of my companions, I was seasick, I was vermin-covered, and I must admit, I was downright homesick,” wrote Max Stern in a serialized account of going undercover as a cannery worker in 1922.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stern was a white newspaper reporter who had heard of the squalid conditions for cannery workers and set out to shine a light on them. He describes buying himself a job by promising to purchase a prescribed set of exorbitantly priced goods from an outfitter, most of which were subpar or nonexistent. His account is riddled with the many ways that labor contractors and cannery owners took advantage of the cannery workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034267\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034267\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An illustration of life for Chinese workers from the 19th Century on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034268\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034268\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">James Chiao, of Fremont, poses for a portrait on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. Chiao, originally from Taiwan, worked in a salmon cannery in the 1970s. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> was sailing, it was not uncommon for the journey north to take close to 40 days. And when they arrived, Stern writes the conditions on land weren’t much better than those he experienced on the ship. He describes bunkhouses with walls so thin that an icy wind whipped through the boards while water lapped the floor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He and the rest of the cannery workers first made the wooden crates and tin cans that the fish would be stored in. Then, when the fishermen started bringing in large quantities of fish, they worked long hours butchering, cleaning, chopping and canning the salmon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the first 40 years of the industry, all this work was done manually and the Chinese workers gained a reputation for their fast and skilled butchering. The best could clean and butcher three fish per minute. But in 1903, things started to change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035023\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1111px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035023\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"1111\" height=\"818\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped.png 1111w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped-800x589.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped-1020x751.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped-160x118.png 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1111px) 100vw, 1111px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Butchering salmon in a canning establishment in Astoria, Oregon. \u003ccite>(Robert N. Dennis collection via Wikipedia)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035024\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035024\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Salmon catch on the floor of an unidentified cannery, Alaska. Right: Sailing vessel ‘Star of Greenland’ at the dock of the Alaska Packers’ Association cannery, Wrangell, Alaska, in August 1918. \u003ccite>(John Nathan Cobb via Wikipedia)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“This machine is a central artifact of this exhibit,” Park Ranger Oliveros said while gesturing at an\u003ca href=\"https://mohai.org/collections-and-research/collections-search/?primaryKey=1970.4992&moduleName=collections&recordId=1226\"> 8-foot-tall iron contraption\u003c/a> on board the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>. “It was designed to start replacing human labor. The earliest versions of the salmon butchering machine could have done like 50, 60 fish in a minute.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The advent of mechanization coincided with a shortage of Chinese workers due to the \u003ca href=\"https://history.state.gov/milestones/1866-1898/chinese-immigration\">Chinese Exclusion Act, which was passed in 1882\u003c/a>. Already, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/safr/learn/historyculture/asiancanneryworkers.htm\">canneries had been hiring more Japanese and Filipino workers\u003c/a>, but the salmon butchering machine signaled the end of a majority-Chinese cannery workforce. By the 1920s and ’30s, there were very few left.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Decline of the salmon canning industry\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Cannery workers fought for and won the right to unionize in the 1930s. With unionization, there were fewer opportunities for labor contractors and other middlemen to take advantage of workers. Wages and conditions improved, but decades of overfishing meant salmon populations were on the decline. The peak of the Alaska salmon canning industry was in 1936.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Canned salmon was an important provision for soldiers during World War II, but after the war, consumer tastes started to shift towards canned tuna and frozen fish. \u003ca href=\"https://www.conservationgateway.org/ConservationByGeography/NorthAmerica/UnitedStates/alaska/seak/era/cfm/Documents/9.5_SalmonIndustry.pdf\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Native Alaskans were fighting for more sovereignty and better fishery protections (PDF)\u003c/a>, making it more difficult for canneries to operate with impunity as they had done for much of the industry’s early history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Canneries still exist in Alaska today, and much of the salmon we eat is still caught in Alaskan waters. However, it’s far more common now for the fish to be flash-frozen and shipped around the world to be eaten fresh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The cannery workers who pioneered the salmon canning industry have been largely forgotten, but historians like James Chiao and park rangers like Sabrina Oliveros at the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park are working to preserve their legacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034263\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034263\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Downtown San Francisco, seen from on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>*A prior version of this story stated that Andrew Hapgood was part of forming the Alaska Packers Association. He was not. We regret this error.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. And you’re listening to Bay Curious. Nowadays, if you’re eating fish out of a can, it’s likely tuna. But in the early 20th century, canned salmon was far more popular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement Sound: \u003c/strong>Whitneys the quality canned salmon from Alaska’s world famous waters. Serve Whitney’s salmon in baked seafood salad, salmon loaf, or molded salmon ring.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This advertisement for Alaskan canned salmon is from the 1950s, but the salmon canning industry has roots in California, starting in the mid-1800s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement Sound:\u003c/strong> Whitneys, whitneys, whitneys … For a tasty dish with zing, a can of whitneys is the thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>The biggest canning companies were headquartered in San Francisco. And seasonal workers boarded ships in San Francisco to get to those Alaskan waters. There’s even a piece of this history still floating out in the San Francisco Bay!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras:\u003c/strong> It’s not exactly a pirate ship, but if you let us tell you the story, there were some pretty nefarious things going on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Today on Bay Curious, we trace the salmon connections between San Francisco and Alaska … and learn about the early workers who made the industry possible. Batten down the hatches; there are rough seas ahead! Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sponsor message\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Starting in the mid-1800s, Salmon canneries were big business along the West Coast, stretching all the way up to Alaska. San Francisco played an outsized role in the industry — and especially in providing the workers who did the tough, dirty, low-paid work in the canneries. Bay Curious editor and producer Katrina Schwartz starts us off in Bristol Bay, Alaska, in the 1970s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Imagine a stretch of marshy ground in an isolated bay. A nondescript factory built on a pier hunkers near the shore surrounded by a few low bunkhouses and a smattering of cabins. Patches of melting snow dot the ground. It’s austere. Lonely. Beautiful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>Such a remote place. No radio. No newspaper, no TV. So you’re totally cut off from the outside world. My name is James Chiao, and I am an immigrant. I was born in Taiwan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James and his brother Philip worked at the salmon canneries in Alaska in the 1970s for several summers during college. James stood next to a machine that gutted and cleaned the salmon. A more seasoned co-worker stood next to him, pulling the eggs out of the fish. James took care of any that slipped by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: T\u003c/strong>he salmon, the fish would come in on a conveyor belt passing, I’d say maybe 60 to 80 fish per minute. So they were flying by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James would stand there clad in tall rubber boots and full rain gear, water flushing the fish carcasses down a conveyor belt, sometimes working a 16- or 18-hour shift.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>It was noisy. There’s water and blood everywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> He says it was mind-numbing, repetitive work, but he didn’t mind. It was a nice change of pace from studying. The scenery in Alaska was fantastic. And the money was good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>When I was attending University of Washington, the tuition was probably over $1,000 a year. And I was able to make in two months enough money to pay my tuition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James remembers that time fondly. It was a unique experience, but not his real life. He went on to become an electrical engineer. And when he retired a few years ago, he began reflecting on his life, thinking back to those summers in Alaska in the ’70s. And he started to do a little research about the salmon canning industry, which dates back to the 1860s. He was interested to learn he wasn’t the only immigrant to find themselves canning salmon in Alaska. Far from it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>I think we should go back, you know, to the Hume brothers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Brothers William and George Hume were fishermen originally from Maine. They moved to California, like so many others, to seek their fortune. When they arrived, they started catching and selling salmon. Now, these were the days before electric refrigeration was widely available … so they sold the salmon either fresh caught or preserved in salt. So when their buddy from Maine, Andrew Hapgood, moved out to California and brought materials to can and preserve fish with him, they knew they had a good business idea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>In 1864, they founded the first salmon cannery in on the Sacramento River.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> It didn’t take them long to realize runoff from mining was killing the salmon. So they moved their operations to the Columbia River in Oregon. The Humes, who were white, hired 12 Chinese workers to do the canning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>He found their work satisfactory. Better than his other workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The Transcontinental Railroad was almost complete, and Chinese laborers who had immigrated to the U.S. were looking for more work. The Hume brothers hired them through the same contractors who found workers for the railroads and paid them a similarly low wage. Other salmon cannery owners along the Columbia copied the Humes business model.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> Almost like it become the success formula. Look, if you want to be successful, you need to have the capital. You need to have the technology. How to make the cans. And number three, you need Chinese workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James says by 1874, there were 13 canneries along the Columbia River and 95% of the cannery workers were Chinese. Pretty soon, the Humes, and most of the other cannery owners, moved their operations to Alaska, where the really big salmon runs were. San Francisco was the biggest city on the West Coast. Everything flowed in and out of its seaport.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> The components are all in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The fishermen and cannery workers. All the supplies and provisions needed for the trip. And, of course, the vessels that carried it all to Alaskan waters. The Hume brothers’ company joined up with several other big canneries to form the largest salmon canning company, the Alaska Packers Association. It was headquartered in San Francisco and shipped canned salmon all over the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sound of creaking of ship\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras:\u003c/strong> We are we are right now around the main deck of the \u003cem>Balclutha/Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, right under the main mast. My name is Sabrina Oliveras, my title is Park Ranger Interpretation Exhibits and I work at San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James and I meet Sabrina on board the Balclutha … a sailing ship built in 1886 … and known as the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> when it sailed as a cannery vessel. It’s one of the best physical reminders of the salmon canning trade still floating in the Bay. It was on a ship like this that salmon cannery workers would begin their long journeys. The \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> was strictly divided based on social class and occupation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras (giving tour): \u003c/strong>So right now, we are where we call the Captain’s Saloon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The captain’s quarters are at the far back of the ship, where the rock and sway of the ocean is less noticeable. He would have had a private bedroom, bathroom, pantry and sitting room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>This also was where a captain would hold office while in port. So you know he’d have to like entertain other merchants or captains or ship owners and all that, which is why it’s nice, and it has a skylight, detailed glasswork.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Beautiful hardwood floors, plush seats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>Yeah, plush seats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Towards the middle of the ship, but still on the same level, were the fisherman’s quarters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>The fishermen for \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> would have mostly been Italian or Scandinavian men, you know, living and working in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> There were about 80 of them, and they were unionized workers for the Alaska Packers’ Association. They also acted as the sailors on the month-long journey up to Alaska.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>There’s probably like over 10 portholes that you can open.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Portholes mean there was sunlight and fresh air. Once the ship arrived in Alaska, the fishermen would be in charge of catching the salmon. But the canneries also needed people to butcher, chop and can the fish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>There would have been anywhere from 100 to 300 cannery workers who were transported on ships like this going up to Alaska, and they came back down on the same ship. They would have lived below decks in the area. We now call the tween deck\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Walking downstairs\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> To get there, we take the stairs, thoughtfully installed by the park for visitors. Back in the day, the cannery workers would have used a ladder only about a foot-and-a-half wide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>We are looking into an area where on either side of us, there are three levels of bunks. This is a representation of what they called at the time the Oriental Quarters or in some sources they call it Chinatown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The space is cramped. The bunks short, with not even enough room to sit up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> To me, this is amazing. I’ve never thought of someone stay here in this kind of condition for over four weeks, right? Takes about 30 days, 33 days to travel from San Francisco to Bristol Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James says when he went to work in the Alaska canneries, he could travel there in one day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>This place is so hot. And also, there’s no ventilation. And there’s no electricity. OK, we have a light here. So it was lit by candles or lamps. It’s just totally, you know, it’s not a very good experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Unlike the fishermen, who were mostly white, the cannery workers were not employed directly by the Alaska Packers Association. Instead, they were hired by independent labor contractors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>The APA really just let the labor contractors do what they want, essentially, which is why they had so much power and there was so much opportunity to exploit. Because the APA would just say, you set the terms, we just want so-and-so amount of crates delivered at the end of it all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> At least two primary sources describe being forced to pay for passage on the ship, for specific clothes that often weren’t necessary, and for bedding as a condition of employment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>A lot of them were, you know, they spent so much money on their clothing, on outfit, and then there’s also gambling, and also they have to pay some of the canned food. So, usually, by the time they come back to San Francisco, all those money were subtracted off of their wages. So they have very little left.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Sometimes, workers would end the season in debt to the labor contractor, ensuring they’d come back for the following year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> And so these ships, laden with men and supplies, would sail out from San Francisco and make their way to remote, wild southwestern Alaska every summer. One of the most detailed first-person narratives comes from Max Stern, a white newspaperman who went undercover on assignment as part of the so-called “Chinese Gang” in 1922. It didn’t take long for him to feel the pain of being in the lowest social class on the ship.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice reading the writings of Max Stern:\u003c/strong> I was sweating from the heat of my companions, I was seasick, I was vermin-covered, and I must admit, I was downright homesick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> After arriving in Bristol Bay, the first task in the cannery was to turn the metal they brought with them into cans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice reading the writings of Max Stern: \u003c/strong>My job was testing cans. I would stand over a little tank of hot water, place a finished can into the basket, and with a foot lever immerse it. If there were any leaks, bubbles would appear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> In the late 1800s, decades before Stern was on his undercover mission, skilled Chinese butchers would spend long hours butchering, cleaning, cutting and processing the fish. Sabrina says a skilled worker could remove the fins, head, tail and entrails of three fish per minute. But around 1903, times were beginning to change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>This machine, it is a central artifact of this exhibit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Back on the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, Park Ranger Sabrina shows us an\u003ca href=\"https://www.loc.gov/resource/hhh.ak0330.sheet/?sp=5\"> 8-foot tall\u003c/a>, massive \u003ca href=\"https://mohai.org/collections-and-research/collections-search/?primaryKey=1970.4992&moduleName=collections&recordId=1226&searchQuery=Alaska&Stevens&Lumber_Co_&Puget_Sound_Navigation_Co_&modules%5B0%5D=item&modules%5B1%5D=collections&modules%5B2%5D=library&pageNum=5\">iron contraption\u003c/a>. Now called a “salmon butchering machine,” it was known by a more racist name when it was invented.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>It was designed to start replacing human labor. The earliest versions of the salmon butchering machine could have done like 50, 60 fish in a minute. So as you can imagine, like this machine was welcomed by the industry for a variety of reasons, one of which was, you know, he needed to keep producing more and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Cannery owners were eager to replace the workers who had made the industry possible. James Chiao again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jim Chiao\u003c/strong>: Even in their advertisements, they said they wanted to replace all the Chinese Butchers. And by the 1920s and ’30s, it did.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> By this time, the industry was feeling the effects of the Chinese Exclusion Act. Chinese labor was harder to find, and many roles were replaced by other Asian immigrants. First, Japanese … and later Filipino folks. Farmworkers in California would finish up the spring harvest and head to San Francisco to hop on a salmon boat bound for Alaska. When the summer fishing season was over, they’d return to California for the fall harvest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>Which is why eventually, in the 1930s, when they started unionizing, it wasn’t just a cannery workers union; it was a canary workers and farm laborers union.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (during interview): \u003c/strong>Wow, because it was the same folks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Once the union came in, there was less opportunity for labor contractors to exploit workers, and conditions at the canneries improved. James Chiao says he benefited from those changes by the time he arrived in Alaska in the ’70s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> In general, I thought it was it was okay. It was decent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Much of the salmon we eat is still caught in Alaska, but canning isn’t the big business it used to be. The Alaska Packers Association eventually became part of the Del Monte conglomerate, which sold its last canneries in the early 1980s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> Oh yeah, there’s a huge change in how they process the salmon, how they just freeze the salmon and ship it to the supermarkets directly. So now, the canned salmon is no longer really something that we are familiar or used to. That’s a big change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James says even in the ’70s, when he was working in Alaska, cannery workers rarely tried the product.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>In the mess hall, we never got to eat salmon. So, many years later, I went to the grocery store and tried canned salmon. My goodness, it was no good! (laughs)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> These days — few signs remain of the once booming salmon canning industry in San Francisco. Most of the companies have been sold off or moved elsewhere. But for James and the National Park Staff overseeing the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> — the hard work and sacrifice of the workers who once kept them running hasn’t been forgotten.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music end\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was Bay Curious editor and producer Katrina Schwartz. Head to BayCurious.org to see photos from our trip to the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, plus archival photos from San Francisco’s salmon canning history. We’ll drop a link in our show notes, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I love episodes like this one … they open my eyes to something about the Bay Area that … frankly, I had no idea about. That’s one of our big goals here at Bay Curious, actually. And if you think we’re the mark, please consider leaving us a rating or a review on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever else you might listen. Kind words keep us going and help other potential listeners find our program. It only takes moment, and we really appreciate it. Thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Alana Walker, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I hope you have a wonderful week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "the-trashy-history-of-berkeleys-cesar-chavez-park",
"title": "The 'Trashy' History of Berkeley’s César Chávez Park",
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"headTitle": "The ‘Trashy’ History of Berkeley’s César Chávez Park | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Tom Rauch grew up in Berkeley in the 1960s. Some of his most vivid memories from that time are of the old Berkeley dump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It really was just this big, giant pit where you backed up your car, opened up your trunk and just shoveled whatever you had into this open pit,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The dump was located on Berkeley’s waterfront. Rauch remembers it as the Wild West. It smelled rank and was loud, with big bulldozers constantly shifting and compacting the garbage. Seagulls were ever-present, squawking above the roar of the machinery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As a little kid, of course, I was fascinated by this because there were all manner of things,” Rauch said. “There [were] refrigerators and lumber and whatever people didn’t want. It was just sitting right there, and the bulldozers would come and push it over.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fast forward to today, and the dump is long gone. In its place is César Chávez Park, a big grassy expanse with sweeping views of the entire bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rauch visits the park from time to time, and he recently started to wonder about the old dump. How did it go from a squalid mass of junk to a beautiful shoreline park where people go to walk their dogs, fly kites and have picnics?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Transition from dump to park\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The city of Berkeley operated the 90-acre landfill site from the mid-1950s until 1983, when it stopped receiving waste.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The site, like much of the bay’s shoreline, was \u003ca href=\"https://baynature.org/article/east-bay-shoreline-became-park-people/\">saved from development\u003c/a> thanks in large part to environmental activists like Sylvia McLaughlin, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11991017/transcript-how-environmental-activism-that-saved-the-bay\">co-founder of what’s now known as Save the Bay.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>City officials decided to turn the spit of land into a park. But to do that, they had to seal off the garbage to ensure nothing would leak out and contaminate the environment. They capped the landfill with soil and clay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034169\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-800x1035.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12034169\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-800x1035.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1035\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-800x1035.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-1020x1320.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-160x207.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-1187x1536.jpg 1187w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-1583x2048.jpg 1583w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08.jpg 1700w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Berkeley Landfill on May 3, 1979. \u003ccite>(Berkeley Landfill Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>If you take a cross section of the park’s underground, you’d see a layer cake of soil and garbage: starting from the bottom, about four feet of garbage, two feet of clean soil, two feet of compacted clay and about a foot of topsoil on top of that, all capped with grass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This means the garbage remains to this day. Those grassy, green hills you see when you visit the park? It’s just grass-covered garbage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But that wasn’t always the plan for the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After it capped the dump, city officials started to think about how to landscape and develop the open space. Should it have tennis courts, a redwood tree grove, a playground?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They decided to solicit design proposals from landscape architects and eventually settled on a local designer named John Roberts. Roberts studied landscape architecture at UC Berkeley, where he graduated in 1974. \u003ca href=\"https://johnnorthmoreroberts.com/\">His firm focuses\u003c/a> on ecological and socially conscious landscape design. And he had all kinds of ideas for the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He was collaborating with another consultant based in Seattle \u003ca href=\"https://www.tclf.org/pioneer/richard-haag\">named Richard Haag\u003c/a>, who had worked on landfill conversions before.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What was revelatory to me was what Rich Haag had done in Seattle, which was to treat the landfill as a giant compost pile,” Roberts said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, instead of capping and forgetting about the garbage, they proposed digging it up, cleaning it up and encouraging it to break down naturally, with the help of the already-existing bacteria and microbes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027171\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027171\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">John Roberts, a landscape architect, walks through César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The garbage is being cleaned up by the bugs that are here, and we could use that to our advantage,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Roberts and his collaborators wanted to return the land to as close to its original form as they could before it was inundated with garbage. Their proposal included things like cultivating native plant species, dedicating space to wetland habitat and even building a beach where humans and animals could access the bay more easily.[aside postID=news_11799297 hero='https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2020/01/GettyImages-1583045-1020x687.jpg']Roberts spent seven years on the project. However, when it came time for approval, the city decided not to move forward with the proposal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They had a 57-word phrase that said how much they liked the plan and how it reflected all their values, but they couldn’t approve it,” Roberts said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The proposal was bold and broke a lot of norms for landfill restoration. Roberts suspects it was too much of a hassle for the city and that money was probably a factor, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He was extremely disappointed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t come out here for 15 years,” he said. “I could see what it could have been. It could have been something so much different.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027173\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027173\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">People walk through César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Bumps in the road\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Leaving all that trash underground has led to some complications for the city of Berkeley.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As it breaks down, the garbage produces methane, which is a combustible gas. Leaving it there is dangerous, so instead, the city installed a series of underground pipes to collect the gas and send it to a flaring station, where it burns off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The flaring station is located on the east side of the park, near the dog area. It’s a bit of an eyesore — and it can also be dangerous.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area Air District has issued numerous notices of violation to the city of Berkeley over its management of the landfill flaring. Violations include missing gas collection wells, severe methane leaks and failure to continuously operate the system during power outages.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027175\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027175\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Information about the former landfill at what is now César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Last year, the air district \u003ca href=\"https://www.berkeleyside.org/2024/04/04/cesar-chavez-park-methane-gas-bay-area-air-quality-management-district\">fined the city $130,000\u003c/a> for air quality violations at César Chávez Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Berkeley city officials declined a request for an interview for this story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to air regulators, water regulators have also kept close tabs on the park. That’s after \u003ca href=\"https://documents.geotracker.waterboards.ca.gov/regulators/deliverable_documents/9874448478/Berkeley%20Landfill%2013267%20Letter%201-18-2024.pdf\">archival documents emerged (PDF)\u003c/a> showing that more than 11,000 tons of industrial waste believed to contain radioactive material was disposed of at the Berkeley dump in the 1960s and ’70s.[aside postID=news_11868474 hero='https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/04/Recology-bins-1020x574.jpg']It all started in May 2023, when Keith Roberson, who oversees landfills for the San Francisco Bay Regional Water Quality Control Board, was talking on the phone with a colleague at the EPA’s Department of Toxic Substances Control (DTSC), which oversees hazardous waste sites.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My counterpart at DTSC mentioned, you know, ‘By the way, I have run across a document that I want to share with you that indicates that the Berkeley landfill apparently had accepted some material from a chemical plant in Richmond that was known as Stauffer Chemical,’” Roberson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The water board immediately sent a letter to the city of Berkeley asking them to conduct radiation testing at the park, \u003ca href=\"https://www.berkeleyside.org/2024/09/11/radiation-testing-to-start-this-month-at-cesar-chavez-park\">which they did late last year\u003c/a>. With the help of UC Berkeley experts, the city attached a highly sensitive radiation sensor to a drone and flew it over the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s really no indication from the Gamma survey that there are any places on the surface of the Berkeley landfill that pose a threat to human health,” Roberson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, the city also collected water samples during its survey, and those results showed elevated concentrations of radium-226 — a radioactive compound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Whether or not that poses any threat to humans above the surface, we don’t think so,” Roberson said. “Does it pose a threat to water quality in the bay? We don’t think so. But we’re still in the process of analyzing that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027174\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027174\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A dog walker gives treats to a group of dogs at César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Alternate uses for shuttered landfills\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>César Chávez Park isn’t the only former landfill-turned-beautiful park in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Albany Bulb, for example, used to be a dumping ground for construction debris. The Bulb was also recently tested for radiation, and levels there were also not dangerous to human health.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003ca href=\"https://www.petaluma360.com/article/news/where-the-tails-are-wagging/\">Petaluma dog park\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.cityofpaloalto.org/Departments/Public-Works/Engineering-Services/Engineering-Projects/Byxbee-Park\">Byxbee Park\u003c/a> in Palo Alto, are also former dumps!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“From the water board’s perspective, that’s probably our preferred usage,” Roberson said.[aside postID=news_11991017 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/06/GettyImages-492064784_qut-1020x665.jpg']Turning former landfills into open space is generally a low-risk use, said Roberson, especially compared to something like commercial development.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, due to the high cost of land in the Bay Area, some cities are doing just that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city of Santa Clara, for example, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12016083/santa-clara-approves-major-housing-and-office-development-could-take-25-years-to-build\">approved a plan late last year\u003c/a> to put a shopping center, office space and even condominiums on a former landfill site near Levi’s Stadium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s more concerning, Roberson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Landfills contain organic material that’s decomposing,” he said. “So the landfill surface is subsiding, and it doesn’t subside evenly. Some parts may drop four feet, some parts may drop 12 feet. So you get this very uneven hummocky surface.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes a lot of additional planning to safely put a building on top of a former landfill, and even then, it’s risky — especially for the groundwater.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not to mention, many former landfill sites in the Bay Area are located directly on the water line, which poses a risk as the climate changes and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12027540/land-sinking-fast-around-bay-area-worsening-effects-sea-level-rise\">sea levels rise\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027172\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027172\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A flare station in César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>A nostalgic place\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Tom Rauch, our question-asker, went on a walk at César Chávez Park recently. He wanted to refresh his memory of the place. It was a cold, rainy day. He said he was struck by how beautiful it looked and at the outstanding views of the San Francisco Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But there was something tugging at him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I know we shouldn’t have this, but it would be so much fun if you could still drive your car to the mouth of this pit and just shovel away and have the seagulls and the bulldozers keeping you company.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A landfill right on the water isn’t a great idea these days, he gets that. But Rauch said he’s glad his memories remain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There are a lot of us who grew up in that Berkeley experience that are starting to remember fondly those kinds of Berkeley days.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Tom Rauch grew up in Berkeley in the 1960s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He has vivid memories of that time. His mom worked at UC Berkeley and his dad was a grad student there, so he and his brother spent many days riding their bikes around campus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another memory he still thinks about to this day… one of his most vivid… is going to the Berkeley dump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch: \u003c/strong>It really was just this big, giant pit where you backed up your car. You know, you turned around, you backed up your car, opened up your trunk and just shoveled whatever you had into this open pit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>It was on the west side of Berkeley, right on the water. It was like the Wild West. It smelled rank. It was loud, with big bull dozers shifting and compacting the garbage. And then there were the birds! Hundreds of sea gulls squawking above the roar of the machinery…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tom says back then, it seemed like the dump stretched for miles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch: \u003c/strong>And as a little kid, of course, I was fascinated by this because there was all manner of things. You know, there’s refrigerators and lumber and whatever people didn’t want. It was just sitting right there and the bulldozers would come and, of course, you know, push it over.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Now… fast forward to today… and the dump is long gone. In its place is Cesar Chavez park… a big grassy expanse with sweeping views of the entire bay. And Tom still visits! He goes once a month or so with his family… to walk around and take in the views. But he recently started to wonder about the old dump. Was it really the way he remembers it? How could it go from a squalid mass of junk… to this beautiful shoreline park, where people go to walk their dogs, fly kites and have picnics? So, he did some research. Or, he tried.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch: \u003c/strong>There is a surprisingly almost nonexistent amount of information about it there. Really. I couldn’t, maybe there are, but I couldn’t find any images of it. I couldn’t find any kind of recollections of it, any historical documents associated with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So, he did what any Bay Area resident does when they have questions they can’t find the answers to: He reached out to Bay Curious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Theme music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I’m Olivia Allen-Price and on today’s episode of Bay Curious… how did Berkeley’s former landfill site become one of its most popular public parks? And what are some of the challenges of turning a big pile of trash into a recreational space? All that, after this break.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>To uncover the mystery of the Berkeley dump we asked reporter Dana Cronin to see what she could dig up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> As a frequent visitor to Cesar Chavez park… I was excited about this one. I love taking my dog there to run the perimeter of the park. On a clear day, I don’t think there’s a better view of the Golden Gate Bridge. But… I was not around in the 1960s, and had no idea about the park’s former life as a landfill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, I called someone who does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> It was pretty thrilling to come down and just dump stuff out. And I don’t. You didn’t do it. I guess you were it before your time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana\u003c/strong> \u003cstrong>(laughing)\u003c/strong>: Yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> This is John Roberts. He’s a landscape architect here in Berkeley. I meet him … surprise surprise… at Cesar Chavez park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Park sounds\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> It’s a slightly cool and breezy morning, and we’re sitting on a park bench overlooking the bay. Ground squirrels dart around us, birds fly overhead, and a sea lion pops its head out of the water. It’s beautiful out here. But, as John likes to remind me…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> This is garbage. We’re on our garbage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> And let me just say, talking with John has totally changed how I think about this park. Before I met him, I thought of it as a beautiful green park with great views. But John still sees it as a big pile of trash, covered in grass. He says it could have been so much more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Music\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> The Berkeley dump stopped receiving waste in the mid-80’s, and the city decided to landscape it and turn it into a park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To do that, they had to seal off the garbage… to prevent leakage and contamination. So, they trucked in a whole lot of soil.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> There’s a four foot cross section of garbage. Then there’s two feet of clean soil and two feet of compacted clay and a foot of a foot of topsoil on top of that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> This layer cake of garbage and soil was capped with grass. And that’s pretty much how it looks to this day. Those rolling, green grassy hills? It’s all just grass-covered garbage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But this wasn’t always the plan. After it capped the pile of trash, the city started to think about how to develop the space. Should it have tennis courts, a redwood tree grove, a playground?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city put out a call to landscape architects for design proposals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s where John comes in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> 1986 or ’87, something like that, there was a call for proposals and I was selected as the prime consultant\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> He had all kinds of ideas. He was working with another consultant based in Seattle, who had worked on landfills before. And he had the idea to treat this site like a big compost pile.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, instead of capping and forgetting about the garbage… they would dig it up, clean it up, and encourage it to break down naturally… with the help of the already-existing bacteria and microbes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> The garbage is being cleaned up by the bugs that are here. And we could use that to our advantage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> Ultimately, John wanted to return this spit of land to its original form — before all the garbage. Or at least, as close as he could get.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The area used to be all marsh so John wanted to cultivate native plant species… dedicate space to wetland habitat… maybe even build a beach where humans and animals could access the bay more easily.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But… as you may have guessed by now… none of that stuff happened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After spending about seven years on this project, the city of Berkeley decided NOT to move forward with John’s proposal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> They found a 57-word phrase that said how much they liked the plan and how it reflected all their values, but they couldn’t approve it.\u003cem> \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> The proposal was bold and broke a lot of norms for landfill restoration. John says he thinks it was just too complicated and too much of a hassle for the city. He says money was probably a factor too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin (to John in tape):\u003c/strong> How did it feel at that final vote when they endorsed but, you know, chose not to move forward with the project. How did you feel after having worked on it for so long?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> Disappointed. I didn’t come out here for 15 years, I could see what it could have been. It could have been something so much different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Had the city moved forward with John’s proposal, the park would look much different than it does today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It also potentially could have saved the city of Berkeley from a lot of maintenance issues that have cropped up over the last several years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because, as it turns out, that decision to keep the garbage underground has led to some complications.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First of all as it breaks down the garbage is producing methane. Methane is a combustible gas, so they can’t just leave it there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, they’ve put in a series of pipes underground to collect it. If you visit and look for them, you can see white access pipes sticking out of the ground every 200 feet or so throughout the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> So here we are. There’s a white pipe there. You see another white pipe over there, the white pipe sticking up all over the place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>All that methane is sent to a flaring station on the east side of the park, near the dog area, where it burns off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Flaring station ambi\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>The flaring station is a bit of an eyesore. And it can also be dangerous. Air regulators have issued numerous notices of violation to the city of Berkeley over its management of the landfill flaring. Violations include missing gas collection wells, severe methane leaks, and failure to continuously operate the system during power outages.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Last year the air district fined the city 130-thousand dollars for air quality violations. I did reach out to Berkeley city officials for this story. They declined my request for an interview.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Now, it’s not just air regulators that have been keeping a close eye on the park. Water regulators are too. Specifically this guy…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>Hi, my name is Keith Roberson.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Keith works for the San Francisco Bay Regional Water Quality Control Board. He’s responsible for overseeing landfills — both active and closed — to ensure they’re not contaminating the bay. Two years ago, he started to worry about the old Berkeley dump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>In May of 2023, I was having a phone conversation with one of my colleagues at the DTSC.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>DTSC is the Department of Toxic Substances Control. It’s a part of the EPA, and it’s in charge of landfills that house hazardous waste.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>My counterpart at DTSC mentioned, you know, by the way, I have run across a document that I want to share with you that indicates that the Berkeley landfill and the Albany landfill as well apparently had accepted some material from a chemical plant in Richmond that was known as Stauffer Chemical.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Hazardous material, that is. This letter was from the 1980’s, from the Stauffer Chemical company… and indicated that waste from one of their pesticide manufacturing facilities had likely ended up at the Berkeley landfill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>That’s when we first learned that, you know, there was a possibility or a likelihood that the Berkeley and Albany landfills had accepted some radioactive material\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Stauffer processed aluminum ore in their pesticide production, and the type of ore they used contains some naturally occurring radioactive elements. And this changed everything. Prior to this letter, there hadn’t been any indication that the Berkeley landfill contained any hazardous material. This was a matter of public safety.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, Keith sent letters to both cities, asking them to do some radiation testing at their respective parks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And late last year, Berkeley did just that. With the help of UC Berkeley experts, the city attached a highly sensitive radiation sensor to a drone, and flew it over the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then, the results were in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>They did not find any spectral variation in the gamma signal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>In other words…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>There’s really no indication from the Gamma survey that there are any places on the surface of the Berkeley landfill that pose a threat to human health.\u003cem> \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>So, that’s obviously a relief. But, the city also took some water samples during this survey. And Keith says, those results were a bit more concerning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>They did find elevated concentrations of radium 226 in their water samples.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Radium 226 is a radioactive compound, which, with enough exposure, can cause cancer and even death in humans. But Keith says they didn’t detect concentrations that high at the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>Now, whether or not that poses any threat to humans above the surface, we don’t think so. Does it pose a threat to water quality in the bay? We don’t think so. But we’re still in the process of analyzing that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>But, Keith says, clearly there’s something buried in that pile of trash that’s starting to leak out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Now, Cesar Chavez park isn’t the only former landfill site-turned beautiful park in the Bay Area. The Albany Bulb — for example — used to be a landfill for construction debris. And, as Keith mentioned earlier, the Bulb was also tested for radiation. Luckily, levels there were also not dangerous to human health.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Petaluma dog park… Byxbee Park in Palo Alto… all former dumps!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Keith says yes, there are risks with turning a landfill into open space, but…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>From the water board’s perspective, that’s probably our preferred usage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>What’s more risky, he says, is trying to convert a former landfill site into, say, a commercial space. But, given the high value of land here in the Bay Area, some cities are doing just that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city of Santa Clara, for example, recently decided to move forward with a proposal to put a shopping center, office space and even condominiums on a former landfill site, near Levi’s Stadium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s a little more concerning, Keith says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>Landfills contain organic material that’s decomposing. So the landfill surface is subsiding and it doesn’t subside evenly. You know, some parts may drop four feet, some parts may drop 12ft. So you get this very uneven hummocky surface.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>He says it takes a lot of planning to put a building on top of a former landfill and, even then, it’s risky — especially for the groundwater. Also, a lot of these former landfill sites lie right on the water line, which poses a real risk with climate change and sea level rise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Tom, our question-asker, went on a walk in Cesar Chavez park recently. He says he wanted to refresh his memory of the place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was a cold and rainy day. He says he was struck by how beautiful it looked… and at the outstanding views of the San Francisco Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch:\u003c/strong> And at the same time, there was that little tug about, well, you know, I know we shouldn’t have this, but it would be so much fun if you could still drive your car to the mouth of this pit and just shovel away and have the seagulls and the bulldozers keeping you company.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Tom says he gets that these days a landfill right on the water isn’t a great idea. And even though the Berkeley dump is long gone… his vivid memories of the smells, the sounds, the whole experience of the place… remain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED’s Dana Cronin. Thanks to Tom Rauch for asking this week’s question. You can check out what the old Berkeley dump used to look like by heading over to Baycurious.org. We’ve got archival photos and new ones too! And while you’re there, why not sign up for the Bay Curious newsletter? We answer even more of your questions there and it only comes once a month, so it won’t clog your inbox.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "Sitting on Berkeley’s beautiful waterfront, César Chávez Park offers visitors sweeping vistas and rolling green hills. The site used to be the city’s dumping ground.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Tom Rauch grew up in Berkeley in the 1960s. Some of his most vivid memories from that time are of the old Berkeley dump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It really was just this big, giant pit where you backed up your car, opened up your trunk and just shoveled whatever you had into this open pit,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The dump was located on Berkeley’s waterfront. Rauch remembers it as the Wild West. It smelled rank and was loud, with big bulldozers constantly shifting and compacting the garbage. Seagulls were ever-present, squawking above the roar of the machinery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As a little kid, of course, I was fascinated by this because there were all manner of things,” Rauch said. “There [were] refrigerators and lumber and whatever people didn’t want. It was just sitting right there, and the bulldozers would come and push it over.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fast forward to today, and the dump is long gone. In its place is César Chávez Park, a big grassy expanse with sweeping views of the entire bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rauch visits the park from time to time, and he recently started to wonder about the old dump. How did it go from a squalid mass of junk to a beautiful shoreline park where people go to walk their dogs, fly kites and have picnics?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Transition from dump to park\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The city of Berkeley operated the 90-acre landfill site from the mid-1950s until 1983, when it stopped receiving waste.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The site, like much of the bay’s shoreline, was \u003ca href=\"https://baynature.org/article/east-bay-shoreline-became-park-people/\">saved from development\u003c/a> thanks in large part to environmental activists like Sylvia McLaughlin, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11991017/transcript-how-environmental-activism-that-saved-the-bay\">co-founder of what’s now known as Save the Bay.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>City officials decided to turn the spit of land into a park. But to do that, they had to seal off the garbage to ensure nothing would leak out and contaminate the environment. They capped the landfill with soil and clay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034169\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-800x1035.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12034169\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-800x1035.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1035\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-800x1035.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-1020x1320.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-160x207.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-1187x1536.jpg 1187w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-1583x2048.jpg 1583w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08.jpg 1700w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Berkeley Landfill on May 3, 1979. \u003ccite>(Berkeley Landfill Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>If you take a cross section of the park’s underground, you’d see a layer cake of soil and garbage: starting from the bottom, about four feet of garbage, two feet of clean soil, two feet of compacted clay and about a foot of topsoil on top of that, all capped with grass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This means the garbage remains to this day. Those grassy, green hills you see when you visit the park? It’s just grass-covered garbage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But that wasn’t always the plan for the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After it capped the dump, city officials started to think about how to landscape and develop the open space. Should it have tennis courts, a redwood tree grove, a playground?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They decided to solicit design proposals from landscape architects and eventually settled on a local designer named John Roberts. Roberts studied landscape architecture at UC Berkeley, where he graduated in 1974. \u003ca href=\"https://johnnorthmoreroberts.com/\">His firm focuses\u003c/a> on ecological and socially conscious landscape design. And he had all kinds of ideas for the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He was collaborating with another consultant based in Seattle \u003ca href=\"https://www.tclf.org/pioneer/richard-haag\">named Richard Haag\u003c/a>, who had worked on landfill conversions before.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What was revelatory to me was what Rich Haag had done in Seattle, which was to treat the landfill as a giant compost pile,” Roberts said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, instead of capping and forgetting about the garbage, they proposed digging it up, cleaning it up and encouraging it to break down naturally, with the help of the already-existing bacteria and microbes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027171\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027171\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">John Roberts, a landscape architect, walks through César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The garbage is being cleaned up by the bugs that are here, and we could use that to our advantage,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Roberts and his collaborators wanted to return the land to as close to its original form as they could before it was inundated with garbage. Their proposal included things like cultivating native plant species, dedicating space to wetland habitat and even building a beach where humans and animals could access the bay more easily.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Roberts spent seven years on the project. However, when it came time for approval, the city decided not to move forward with the proposal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They had a 57-word phrase that said how much they liked the plan and how it reflected all their values, but they couldn’t approve it,” Roberts said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The proposal was bold and broke a lot of norms for landfill restoration. Roberts suspects it was too much of a hassle for the city and that money was probably a factor, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He was extremely disappointed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t come out here for 15 years,” he said. “I could see what it could have been. It could have been something so much different.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027173\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027173\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">People walk through César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Bumps in the road\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Leaving all that trash underground has led to some complications for the city of Berkeley.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As it breaks down, the garbage produces methane, which is a combustible gas. Leaving it there is dangerous, so instead, the city installed a series of underground pipes to collect the gas and send it to a flaring station, where it burns off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The flaring station is located on the east side of the park, near the dog area. It’s a bit of an eyesore — and it can also be dangerous.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area Air District has issued numerous notices of violation to the city of Berkeley over its management of the landfill flaring. Violations include missing gas collection wells, severe methane leaks and failure to continuously operate the system during power outages.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027175\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027175\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Information about the former landfill at what is now César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Last year, the air district \u003ca href=\"https://www.berkeleyside.org/2024/04/04/cesar-chavez-park-methane-gas-bay-area-air-quality-management-district\">fined the city $130,000\u003c/a> for air quality violations at César Chávez Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Berkeley city officials declined a request for an interview for this story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to air regulators, water regulators have also kept close tabs on the park. That’s after \u003ca href=\"https://documents.geotracker.waterboards.ca.gov/regulators/deliverable_documents/9874448478/Berkeley%20Landfill%2013267%20Letter%201-18-2024.pdf\">archival documents emerged (PDF)\u003c/a> showing that more than 11,000 tons of industrial waste believed to contain radioactive material was disposed of at the Berkeley dump in the 1960s and ’70s.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>It all started in May 2023, when Keith Roberson, who oversees landfills for the San Francisco Bay Regional Water Quality Control Board, was talking on the phone with a colleague at the EPA’s Department of Toxic Substances Control (DTSC), which oversees hazardous waste sites.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My counterpart at DTSC mentioned, you know, ‘By the way, I have run across a document that I want to share with you that indicates that the Berkeley landfill apparently had accepted some material from a chemical plant in Richmond that was known as Stauffer Chemical,’” Roberson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The water board immediately sent a letter to the city of Berkeley asking them to conduct radiation testing at the park, \u003ca href=\"https://www.berkeleyside.org/2024/09/11/radiation-testing-to-start-this-month-at-cesar-chavez-park\">which they did late last year\u003c/a>. With the help of UC Berkeley experts, the city attached a highly sensitive radiation sensor to a drone and flew it over the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s really no indication from the Gamma survey that there are any places on the surface of the Berkeley landfill that pose a threat to human health,” Roberson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, the city also collected water samples during its survey, and those results showed elevated concentrations of radium-226 — a radioactive compound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Whether or not that poses any threat to humans above the surface, we don’t think so,” Roberson said. “Does it pose a threat to water quality in the bay? We don’t think so. But we’re still in the process of analyzing that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027174\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027174\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A dog walker gives treats to a group of dogs at César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Alternate uses for shuttered landfills\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>César Chávez Park isn’t the only former landfill-turned-beautiful park in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Albany Bulb, for example, used to be a dumping ground for construction debris. The Bulb was also recently tested for radiation, and levels there were also not dangerous to human health.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003ca href=\"https://www.petaluma360.com/article/news/where-the-tails-are-wagging/\">Petaluma dog park\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.cityofpaloalto.org/Departments/Public-Works/Engineering-Services/Engineering-Projects/Byxbee-Park\">Byxbee Park\u003c/a> in Palo Alto, are also former dumps!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“From the water board’s perspective, that’s probably our preferred usage,” Roberson said.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Turning former landfills into open space is generally a low-risk use, said Roberson, especially compared to something like commercial development.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, due to the high cost of land in the Bay Area, some cities are doing just that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city of Santa Clara, for example, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12016083/santa-clara-approves-major-housing-and-office-development-could-take-25-years-to-build\">approved a plan late last year\u003c/a> to put a shopping center, office space and even condominiums on a former landfill site near Levi’s Stadium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s more concerning, Roberson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Landfills contain organic material that’s decomposing,” he said. “So the landfill surface is subsiding, and it doesn’t subside evenly. Some parts may drop four feet, some parts may drop 12 feet. So you get this very uneven hummocky surface.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes a lot of additional planning to safely put a building on top of a former landfill, and even then, it’s risky — especially for the groundwater.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not to mention, many former landfill sites in the Bay Area are located directly on the water line, which poses a risk as the climate changes and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12027540/land-sinking-fast-around-bay-area-worsening-effects-sea-level-rise\">sea levels rise\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027172\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027172\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A flare station in César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>A nostalgic place\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Tom Rauch, our question-asker, went on a walk at César Chávez Park recently. He wanted to refresh his memory of the place. It was a cold, rainy day. He said he was struck by how beautiful it looked and at the outstanding views of the San Francisco Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But there was something tugging at him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I know we shouldn’t have this, but it would be so much fun if you could still drive your car to the mouth of this pit and just shovel away and have the seagulls and the bulldozers keeping you company.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A landfill right on the water isn’t a great idea these days, he gets that. But Rauch said he’s glad his memories remain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There are a lot of us who grew up in that Berkeley experience that are starting to remember fondly those kinds of Berkeley days.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Tom Rauch grew up in Berkeley in the 1960s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He has vivid memories of that time. His mom worked at UC Berkeley and his dad was a grad student there, so he and his brother spent many days riding their bikes around campus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another memory he still thinks about to this day… one of his most vivid… is going to the Berkeley dump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch: \u003c/strong>It really was just this big, giant pit where you backed up your car. You know, you turned around, you backed up your car, opened up your trunk and just shoveled whatever you had into this open pit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>It was on the west side of Berkeley, right on the water. It was like the Wild West. It smelled rank. It was loud, with big bull dozers shifting and compacting the garbage. And then there were the birds! Hundreds of sea gulls squawking above the roar of the machinery…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tom says back then, it seemed like the dump stretched for miles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch: \u003c/strong>And as a little kid, of course, I was fascinated by this because there was all manner of things. You know, there’s refrigerators and lumber and whatever people didn’t want. It was just sitting right there and the bulldozers would come and, of course, you know, push it over.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Now… fast forward to today… and the dump is long gone. In its place is Cesar Chavez park… a big grassy expanse with sweeping views of the entire bay. And Tom still visits! He goes once a month or so with his family… to walk around and take in the views. But he recently started to wonder about the old dump. Was it really the way he remembers it? How could it go from a squalid mass of junk… to this beautiful shoreline park, where people go to walk their dogs, fly kites and have picnics? So, he did some research. Or, he tried.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch: \u003c/strong>There is a surprisingly almost nonexistent amount of information about it there. Really. I couldn’t, maybe there are, but I couldn’t find any images of it. I couldn’t find any kind of recollections of it, any historical documents associated with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So, he did what any Bay Area resident does when they have questions they can’t find the answers to: He reached out to Bay Curious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Theme music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I’m Olivia Allen-Price and on today’s episode of Bay Curious… how did Berkeley’s former landfill site become one of its most popular public parks? And what are some of the challenges of turning a big pile of trash into a recreational space? All that, after this break.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>To uncover the mystery of the Berkeley dump we asked reporter Dana Cronin to see what she could dig up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> As a frequent visitor to Cesar Chavez park… I was excited about this one. I love taking my dog there to run the perimeter of the park. On a clear day, I don’t think there’s a better view of the Golden Gate Bridge. But… I was not around in the 1960s, and had no idea about the park’s former life as a landfill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, I called someone who does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> It was pretty thrilling to come down and just dump stuff out. And I don’t. You didn’t do it. I guess you were it before your time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana\u003c/strong> \u003cstrong>(laughing)\u003c/strong>: Yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> This is John Roberts. He’s a landscape architect here in Berkeley. I meet him … surprise surprise… at Cesar Chavez park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Park sounds\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> It’s a slightly cool and breezy morning, and we’re sitting on a park bench overlooking the bay. Ground squirrels dart around us, birds fly overhead, and a sea lion pops its head out of the water. It’s beautiful out here. But, as John likes to remind me…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> This is garbage. We’re on our garbage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> And let me just say, talking with John has totally changed how I think about this park. Before I met him, I thought of it as a beautiful green park with great views. But John still sees it as a big pile of trash, covered in grass. He says it could have been so much more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Music\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> The Berkeley dump stopped receiving waste in the mid-80’s, and the city decided to landscape it and turn it into a park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To do that, they had to seal off the garbage… to prevent leakage and contamination. So, they trucked in a whole lot of soil.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> There’s a four foot cross section of garbage. Then there’s two feet of clean soil and two feet of compacted clay and a foot of a foot of topsoil on top of that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> This layer cake of garbage and soil was capped with grass. And that’s pretty much how it looks to this day. Those rolling, green grassy hills? It’s all just grass-covered garbage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But this wasn’t always the plan. After it capped the pile of trash, the city started to think about how to develop the space. Should it have tennis courts, a redwood tree grove, a playground?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city put out a call to landscape architects for design proposals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s where John comes in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> 1986 or ’87, something like that, there was a call for proposals and I was selected as the prime consultant\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> He had all kinds of ideas. He was working with another consultant based in Seattle, who had worked on landfills before. And he had the idea to treat this site like a big compost pile.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, instead of capping and forgetting about the garbage… they would dig it up, clean it up, and encourage it to break down naturally… with the help of the already-existing bacteria and microbes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> The garbage is being cleaned up by the bugs that are here. And we could use that to our advantage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> Ultimately, John wanted to return this spit of land to its original form — before all the garbage. Or at least, as close as he could get.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The area used to be all marsh so John wanted to cultivate native plant species… dedicate space to wetland habitat… maybe even build a beach where humans and animals could access the bay more easily.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But… as you may have guessed by now… none of that stuff happened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After spending about seven years on this project, the city of Berkeley decided NOT to move forward with John’s proposal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> They found a 57-word phrase that said how much they liked the plan and how it reflected all their values, but they couldn’t approve it.\u003cem> \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> The proposal was bold and broke a lot of norms for landfill restoration. John says he thinks it was just too complicated and too much of a hassle for the city. He says money was probably a factor too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin (to John in tape):\u003c/strong> How did it feel at that final vote when they endorsed but, you know, chose not to move forward with the project. How did you feel after having worked on it for so long?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> Disappointed. I didn’t come out here for 15 years, I could see what it could have been. It could have been something so much different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Had the city moved forward with John’s proposal, the park would look much different than it does today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It also potentially could have saved the city of Berkeley from a lot of maintenance issues that have cropped up over the last several years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because, as it turns out, that decision to keep the garbage underground has led to some complications.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First of all as it breaks down the garbage is producing methane. Methane is a combustible gas, so they can’t just leave it there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, they’ve put in a series of pipes underground to collect it. If you visit and look for them, you can see white access pipes sticking out of the ground every 200 feet or so throughout the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> So here we are. There’s a white pipe there. You see another white pipe over there, the white pipe sticking up all over the place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>All that methane is sent to a flaring station on the east side of the park, near the dog area, where it burns off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Flaring station ambi\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>The flaring station is a bit of an eyesore. And it can also be dangerous. Air regulators have issued numerous notices of violation to the city of Berkeley over its management of the landfill flaring. Violations include missing gas collection wells, severe methane leaks, and failure to continuously operate the system during power outages.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Last year the air district fined the city 130-thousand dollars for air quality violations. I did reach out to Berkeley city officials for this story. They declined my request for an interview.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Now, it’s not just air regulators that have been keeping a close eye on the park. Water regulators are too. Specifically this guy…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>Hi, my name is Keith Roberson.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Keith works for the San Francisco Bay Regional Water Quality Control Board. He’s responsible for overseeing landfills — both active and closed — to ensure they’re not contaminating the bay. Two years ago, he started to worry about the old Berkeley dump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>In May of 2023, I was having a phone conversation with one of my colleagues at the DTSC.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>DTSC is the Department of Toxic Substances Control. It’s a part of the EPA, and it’s in charge of landfills that house hazardous waste.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>My counterpart at DTSC mentioned, you know, by the way, I have run across a document that I want to share with you that indicates that the Berkeley landfill and the Albany landfill as well apparently had accepted some material from a chemical plant in Richmond that was known as Stauffer Chemical.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Hazardous material, that is. This letter was from the 1980’s, from the Stauffer Chemical company… and indicated that waste from one of their pesticide manufacturing facilities had likely ended up at the Berkeley landfill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>That’s when we first learned that, you know, there was a possibility or a likelihood that the Berkeley and Albany landfills had accepted some radioactive material\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Stauffer processed aluminum ore in their pesticide production, and the type of ore they used contains some naturally occurring radioactive elements. And this changed everything. Prior to this letter, there hadn’t been any indication that the Berkeley landfill contained any hazardous material. This was a matter of public safety.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, Keith sent letters to both cities, asking them to do some radiation testing at their respective parks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And late last year, Berkeley did just that. With the help of UC Berkeley experts, the city attached a highly sensitive radiation sensor to a drone, and flew it over the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then, the results were in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>They did not find any spectral variation in the gamma signal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>In other words…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>There’s really no indication from the Gamma survey that there are any places on the surface of the Berkeley landfill that pose a threat to human health.\u003cem> \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>So, that’s obviously a relief. But, the city also took some water samples during this survey. And Keith says, those results were a bit more concerning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>They did find elevated concentrations of radium 226 in their water samples.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Radium 226 is a radioactive compound, which, with enough exposure, can cause cancer and even death in humans. But Keith says they didn’t detect concentrations that high at the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>Now, whether or not that poses any threat to humans above the surface, we don’t think so. Does it pose a threat to water quality in the bay? We don’t think so. But we’re still in the process of analyzing that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>But, Keith says, clearly there’s something buried in that pile of trash that’s starting to leak out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Now, Cesar Chavez park isn’t the only former landfill site-turned beautiful park in the Bay Area. The Albany Bulb — for example — used to be a landfill for construction debris. And, as Keith mentioned earlier, the Bulb was also tested for radiation. Luckily, levels there were also not dangerous to human health.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Petaluma dog park… Byxbee Park in Palo Alto… all former dumps!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Keith says yes, there are risks with turning a landfill into open space, but…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>From the water board’s perspective, that’s probably our preferred usage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>What’s more risky, he says, is trying to convert a former landfill site into, say, a commercial space. But, given the high value of land here in the Bay Area, some cities are doing just that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city of Santa Clara, for example, recently decided to move forward with a proposal to put a shopping center, office space and even condominiums on a former landfill site, near Levi’s Stadium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s a little more concerning, Keith says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>Landfills contain organic material that’s decomposing. So the landfill surface is subsiding and it doesn’t subside evenly. You know, some parts may drop four feet, some parts may drop 12ft. So you get this very uneven hummocky surface.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>He says it takes a lot of planning to put a building on top of a former landfill and, even then, it’s risky — especially for the groundwater. Also, a lot of these former landfill sites lie right on the water line, which poses a real risk with climate change and sea level rise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Tom, our question-asker, went on a walk in Cesar Chavez park recently. He says he wanted to refresh his memory of the place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was a cold and rainy day. He says he was struck by how beautiful it looked… and at the outstanding views of the San Francisco Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch:\u003c/strong> And at the same time, there was that little tug about, well, you know, I know we shouldn’t have this, but it would be so much fun if you could still drive your car to the mouth of this pit and just shovel away and have the seagulls and the bulldozers keeping you company.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Tom says he gets that these days a landfill right on the water isn’t a great idea. And even though the Berkeley dump is long gone… his vivid memories of the smells, the sounds, the whole experience of the place… remain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED’s Dana Cronin. Thanks to Tom Rauch for asking this week’s question. You can check out what the old Berkeley dump used to look like by heading over to Baycurious.org. We’ve got archival photos and new ones too! And while you’re there, why not sign up for the Bay Curious newsletter? We answer even more of your questions there and it only comes once a month, so it won’t clog your inbox.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#Transcript\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One thing we know for sure about the Bay Curious audience is that you have lots of questions about how we get around the Bay Area. From the very start of the podcast 10 years ago next month, transportation has been one of the topics that surface again and again and again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve received a lot of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11798346/why-are-bart-escalators-nearly-always-broken-and-how-did-they-build-those-tunnels\">questions\u003c/a> about BART, including \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11932690/why-doesnt-bart-go-more-places\">why it doesn’t go more places\u003c/a> and how the process of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11986396/when-bart-was-built-people-and-houses-had-to-go\">clearing businesses and homes from its route\u003c/a> worked when the system was built.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve received questions about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11892152/the-tale-of-the-bay-bridge-troll\">the Bay Bridge troll(s)\u003c/a>. And about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11864205/is-that-a-ghost-freeway-on-the-peninsula-and-are-our-highways-filthier-than-ever\">why there’s so much trash\u003c/a> on Bay Area freeways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So now, after 10 years and a total of 10,000 questions from you, our loyal audience, we’re returning to the transportation theme by answering a bunch of bridge-related questions and one inquiry that touches on how Bay Area residents express their personalities on our license plates. Here goes:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jump straight to:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#A\">Where does the toll money from Bay Area Bridges go?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#B\">Why is there a closed toll lane on the Bay Bridge?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#C\">Is the \u003c/a>\u003ca href=\"#C\">westbound\u003c/a>\u003ca href=\"#C\"> right carpool lane onto the Bay Bridge really ‘buses only’?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#D\">Why do so many Bay Area freeway names end in ‘80’?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#E\">What’s with the third lanes on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#F\">Why are there so many vanity license plates?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Where does all that toll money from Bay Area bridges go?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11958608\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11958608\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Aerial shot of cars at a series of toll booths on a bridge, with a $7 toll fee in a digital sign above the booths.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1634\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-800x511.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-1020x651.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-1536x980.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-2048x1307.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-1920x1225.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vehicles cross the toll plaza on the Bay Bridge during the afternoon commute in Oakland on June 26, 2023. \u003ccite>(Jane Tyska/Digital First Media/East Bay Times via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>First up, Dani Robillard has this question about the money we shell out when we drive across bridges in our region: \u003cem>Where does all that toll money from Bay Area bridges go? It’s got to be over $20 million a week, right?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\nYour guess of $20 million a week isn’t too far off, Dani. The tolls across the seven state-owned bridges in the Bay Area will bring in about $880 million in the current fiscal year, and that comes out to about $17 million a week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I think the natural inclination is to think that the money collected when you drive through a toll plaza is going to be spent on the bridge you’re crossing, end of story. But the reality is more complicated and involves decisions transportation officials and Bay Area voters have made over the last half-century or so. The tolls we pay go to operating and maintaining the bridges — and to lots of other transportation-related things.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Seven of the eight toll bridges in the Bay Area — the Bay Bridge, Antioch, Benicia, Carquinez, Richmond-San Rafael, San Mateo and Dumbarton spans — are owned by the state of California. The money drivers pay is collected by an agency called \u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/about-mtc/authorities/bay-area-toll-authority-bata\">the Bay Area Toll Authority\u003c/a>, or BATA, which also makes decisions about how to spend the revenue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In making its spending decisions, BATA has numerous obligations. Those include paying for ongoing maintenance and upkeep of the bridges, long-term rehabilitation projects, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.fitchratings.com/research/infrastructure-project-finance/fitch-rates-bata-series-2025-sr-toll-revs-aa-subrevs-aa-affirms-outstanding-rev-bonds-07-02-2025#:~:text=Fitch%20has%20affirmed%20BATA's%20%246.3,and%20all%20bonds%20is%20Stable.https://www.fitchratings.com/research/infrastructure-project-finance/fitch-rates-bata-series-2025-sr-toll-revs-aa-subrevs-aa-affirms-outstanding-rev-bonds-07-02-2025#:~:text=Fitch%20has%20affirmed%20BATA's%20%246.3,and%20all%20bonds%20is%20Stable.\">paying off bonds\u003c/a> floated to finance past projects like the $6.4 billion eastern span of the Bay Bridge. Last year, when tolls on the state-owned bridges were $7, BATA estimated that $4 of that charge was being spent in one way or another on the bridges.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But how about the other $3? That portion of your toll payment is going in all sorts of different directions due to a series of ballot measures that transportation officials and the Legislature have put before voters since the late 1980s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/funding/regional-funding/regional-measure-1-rm-1\">Regional Measure 1\u003c/a>, passed in 1988, created a uniform $1 toll for all seven state-owned bridges. (Before Measure 1, tolls on the bridges ranged from 40 cents to $1.) The new funding was used for several bridge improvements but also for several major street and highway improvements, including the Richmond Parkway in Contra Costa County.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/funding/regional-funding/regional-measure-2\">Regional Measure 2\u003c/a>, passed in 2004, raised tolls again by $1 (bringing them to $3 because of a 1998 increase imposed to help pay for the eastern span of the Bay Bridge). The proceeds from RM2 helped pay for the fourth bore of the Caldecott Tunnel, the new Transbay (now Salesforce) Transit Center and other big capital projects. The measure continues to provide day-to-day operating funds for AC Transit’s 1T bus rapid transit line on International Boulevard and San Francisco Muni’s T-Third light rail line and other services. Some RM2 funds also help pay for pedestrian and bike projects near the bridges.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11671240/10-things-to-know-regional-measure-3-the-proposed-bay-area-bridge-toll-increase\">Regional Measure 3\u003c/a>, passed in 2018, included $3 in toll increases that, as of Jan. 1 this year, brings the basic charge for crossing the state bridges to $8. RM3 is helping fund nearly three dozen projects and services around the region, including BART’s extension through downtown San José (coming in 2037, by current estimates), some of BART’s new train cars, improved ferry service, and freeway express lanes (toll lanes) in six different counties.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ll mention in closing that the Golden Gate Bridge is owned and operated by a separate agency that has its own toll and budget policies and priorities, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.goldengate.org/\">Golden Gate Bridge, Highway and Transportation District\u003c/a>. According to the district’s fiscal 2024–25 budget, tolls make up about half of its $320 million of its revenue this year. It’s spending about one-third of that — $108 million — on bridge operations. Most of the rest of the budget, $166 million, is going to pay for the district’s bus and ferry service.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"B\">\u003c/a>That closed toll lane on the Bay Bridge\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11635414\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11635414\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-1180x787.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-960x640.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-240x160.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-375x250.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-520x347.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vehicles approach the Bay Bridge Toll Plaza in Oakland on Dec. 5, 2017. Days before, a truck crashed into toll booth number 14 and killed worker Si Si Han. \u003ccite>(Farida Jhabvala Romero/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The next question comes from Andres Barraza: \u003cem>Why has that single lane at the toll plaza for the Bay Bridge been closed for years, and why won’t they reopen it again? Every time I’m passing, somebody’s always making a last second swerve to avoid the closed lane. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The closure of that lane at the Bay Bridge toll plaza — Lane 14, to be exact — is a tragic story that goes back more than seven years. In the early morning of Dec. 2, 2017, a box truck slammed into the toll booth and killed \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11635239/tollbooth-worker-killed-in-bay-bridge-crash-remembered-as-kind-generous\">the veteran toll taker there, 46-year-old Si Si Han\u003c/a>. The fact that the toll booth has never been rebuilt or the lane opened is due to a combination of circumstances.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Area bridge officials and Caltrans reportedly determined that the loss of the lane did not have a major impact on traffic flow through the toll plaza. That was especially true after the onset of the pandemic and the dramatic drop in traffic on the bridge. More recently, the rationale for leaving the lane as it is has shifted: The entire toll plaza will be phased out at some point in the next few years with the introduction of “\u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/operations/programs-projects/bridges/open-road-tolling\">open-road tolling\u003c/a>.” That’s a system that uses an overhead structure, called a gantry, equipped with cameras and tag-reading equipment that can record vehicles passing at highway speeds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You can get a little preview of how the system works on the two high-occupancy vehicle lanes on the north side of the Bay Area toll plaza, where carpool (and other) drivers currently zip beneath an overhead gantry equipped with cameras and tag readers.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"C\">\u003c/a>And speaking of that high-occupancy vehicle lane… How legit is ‘buses only’?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032187\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1024px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032187\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1024\" height=\"656\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939-800x513.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939-1020x653.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939-160x103.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">AC Transit buses roll toward the Bay Bridge in the carpool lane of the Eastshore Freeway in Berkeley on Thursday, May 10, 2018. \u003ccite>(Paul Chinn/The San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Listener Sam wrote this: \u003cem>Outside rush hour, the right carpool lane westbound onto the Bay Bridge is labeled buses only, but there’s always a constant stream of cars. Do they not enforce that at all, even with photo tolls? Can I use it too? \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve wondered what’s going on with this lane, too, and when we got Sam’s question, we asked John Goodwin from the Metropolitan Transportation Commission (MTC) what the story is: The brief answer is that during weekday commute hours — between 5 a.m. and 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. to 7 p.m. — buses, carpools with three or more people, motorcycles and, for now, cars with valid DMV clean-air stickers — are all permitted to use the lane. Outside of those hours, \u003cem>only buses can lawfully use that lane.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for enforcement, the MTC contracts with the California Highway Patrol to enforce high-occupancy vehicle lanes. If you’re caught using that Bay Bridge lane outside the legal hours, you’ll be subject to a fine of $490 or more. (The same goes for violating carpool hours or passenger and decal requirements on any California HOV lane.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sam also mentions the photo toll equipment on that Bay Bridge carpool lane. Two things about that:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First, drivers using the HOV lanes are supposed to have FasTrak tags, which are necessary to get the 50% discount that carpoolers get during weekday commute hours. Outside the designated carpool hours, when you’re violating the law by using the carpool lane, FasTrak will charge you a non-discounted toll for passing through the toll plaza.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Second, the photo equipment Sam mentions is used for toll collection, not carpool enforcement. The cameras, which are deployed on all the toll lanes at the Bay Bridge, serve as a sort of backup system for Fastrak. They capture license plate images for each passing vehicle and ensure that drivers who don’t have toll tags are charged for crossing the bridges like everyone else.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"D\">\u003c/a>Eighty! Eighty! Eighty!\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12003260\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12003260\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1298\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-800x541.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-1020x690.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-1536x1038.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An aerial view, cars travel along Interstate 80 on Jan. 16, 2024, in Berkeley. \u003ccite>(Justin Sullivan/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Our next question comes from Martin Aguilera, and he wants to know: \u003cem>Why do so many Bay Area freeways end with “80”? For instance, 880, 680, 280, 580. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The simple explanation for this numbering system is that all those three-digit routes are considered to be branches of Interstate 80 in the Bay Area. I-80 stretches from the George Washington Bridge in New York City to San Francisco, where it connects to U.S. 101 and heads south.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Under the federal government’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.fhwa.dot.gov/programadmin/interstate.cfm\">Interstate highway numbering system\u003c/a>, there are two kinds of these branch routes, each designated with the three-digit numbers Martin mentions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The routes that begin with even numbers. like 280, 680, and 880 in the Bay Area, are rather arbitrarily considered to be full or partial belt routes. Those are highways that traditionally run around the circumference of a region. The best example I know of, a true belt route, is Interstate 495 around Washington, D.C. Arguably, Interstates 680 and 280 in our region are peripheral routes, but there’s no way in the world you could put Interstate 880, from Oakland to San José, in that category. At least in our learned opinion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The routes that begin with odd numbers are considered to be spur or radial routes and they connect other major routes. And so we have 380, 580, 780 and 980. Most of these routes are very short. I-980, just west of downtown Oakland, is just 2 miles long; 380, which connects 280 with U.S. 101 at San Francisco International Airport, measures a little over 3 miles, and 780, between 80 and 680 in Solano County, is 6.5 miles. But sometimes these routes are really, really long: Interstate 580 runs 75 miles from Interstate 5 in San Joaquin County all the way to U.S. 101 in Marin.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"E\">\u003c/a>The saga of the third lanes on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11971910\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11971910\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Traffic on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge on Jan. 8, 2024. \u003ccite>(Martin do Nascimento/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Listener Phil Narodick asks: \u003cem>There’s a third lane on the lower deck of the Richmond Bridge that’s seemingly opened and closed based on the vibes. No rhyme or reason provided. What’s going on and why do they sometimes not want you to drive in it?\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To answer that, maybe a little bridge history is in order.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge opened in 1956, both its upper, westbound deck and lower, eastbound deck were configured with three lanes of traffic. Twenty years later, nature intervened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>California suffered through one of its worst droughts in 1976 and 1977. It was so dry for so long that Marin County’s reservoirs threatened to dry up. To respond to that crisis, water officials worked out an agreement to build a water pipeline across the upper deck of the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge to help relieve Marin’s shortage. That arrangement took the right lane on the westbound desk out of service. As it turned out, the pipeline was used for less than a year because the rains returned in the fall of 1977. A few years later, the pipeline was removed. But the space it occupied was turned into a lane for breakdowns and maintenance crews.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>OK — that was the upper deck, and we’ll have more to say about that in a moment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the lower deck that Phil is asking about, something similar happened, only without the pipeline. In 1980, Caltrans decided to reduce traffic from three lanes to two and use the right lane for motorist emergencies and bridge maintenance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And there things stood until about a decade ago when Caltrans and other agencies came up with a proposal to restore that third lane of traffic on the lower, eastbound deck. The reason: Afternoon commute congestion had grown so acute that traffic was backing up not only across the bridge but back along Interstate 580 to U.S. 101 and to surface streets in San Rafael. By \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11648255/san-rafael-richmond-bridge-eastbound-lane\">opening up a third lane\u003c/a>, traffic engineers reasoned, congestion could be reduced. The plan was adopted, and the restored third lane opened in 2018. It turned out the traffic engineers were right: Opening that lane during the afternoon commute resulted in a dramatic reduction in congestion for the corridor, one that continues today in part because of reduced traffic in the wake of the pandemic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As to the operating hours for that third lane: The Metropolitan Transportation Commission’s John Goodwin said Caltrans opens the lane from 2 p.m. to 7 p.m. seven days a week. He adds that Caltrans can adjust third-lane operations based on real-time conditions, but said that has seldom happened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now let’s revisit the upper deck: As part of the same four-year pilot project proposal that restored the eastbound third lane, transportation agencies \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11786768/richmond-san-rafael-bridge-bike-walking-path\">installed a bike and pedestrian pathway\u003c/a> on the old right lane of the westbound upper deck. The upper deck path opened in 2019. With the exception of the Golden Gate Bridge, which is extremely popular with bike riders, the Richmond-San Rafael path has become the most used bridge crossing for cyclists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it’s also become \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11971935/richmond-bridge-bike-path-has-an-amazing-view-and-an-uncertain-future\">an object of controversy\u003c/a>. Critics of the lane contend that it’s the main culprit in the long backups that form most weekday mornings as westbound traffic makes its way through Richmond to the bridge. At the same time, \u003ca href=\"https://www.bcdc.ca.gov/wp-content/uploads/sites/354/2024/12/2025-03-20-Richmond-San-Rafael-Bridge-PATH-Study-Phase-II-Attachment-A.pdf\">a study by UC Berkeley researchers (PDF)\u003c/a> hired to analyze the path’s effect on traffic found it hasn’t had a major impact on congestion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The critics, including the Bay Area Council business group and the Marin County Board of Supervisors, have urged Caltrans and the Metropolitan Transportation Commission to take action to relieve the congestion. The resulting MTC plan would close the path four days a week and use it as a breakdown lane. Bike riders and pedestrians would get to use it from Friday through Sunday, the path’s most popular days.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The ultimate decision on whether that plan will go forward rests with the Bay Conservation and Development Commission, which will consider the issue on April 3.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"F\">\u003c/a>Why so many vanity license plates?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032191\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032191\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">49ers fan Bobbie Lince holds her license plate at a tailgate party outside Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara on Jan. 28, 2024, before an NFC Championship Game between the San Francisco 49ers and the Detroit Lions. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>And one final question for this episode, from Marissa in Oakland. She asks: Why are there so many vanity license plates in the Bay Area? I grew up in Connecticut and remember going on road trips hoping to find some on our route and never really saw any. But now that I’ve been in California for about 8 years, they’re literally everywhere I look.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To our surprise, someone actually did a national survey on this. That’s very helpful in terms of giving Marissa what looks and feels like a solid answer. However, the study, carried out by the American Association of Motor Vehicle Administrators and a vanity license plate site called LCNS2ROM.com, was done in 2007. So does it reflect \u003cem>current\u003c/em> reality? We can’t swear that it does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But what we can say is back then, one state stood out above all others for the popularity of personalized license plates: Virginia. \u003ca href=\"https://web.archive.org/web/20080727002335/http:/www.lcns2rom.com/vanityplatesurvey.htm\">The survey\u003c/a>, which we tracked down on the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine, found that 16.19% of all plates issued there, one in six, were personalized. Virginia was followed by New Hampshire, Illinois, Nevada, Montana, Maine, Connecticut, New Jersey, North Dakota and Vermont. That’s your top ten for vanity license plates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Where did California come in? Twenty-second, with about 3.5% of all plates issued.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We can offer at least a partial update for those California numbers. As of 2007, the old survey said, the state had issued about 1.1 million personalized license plates. The Department of Motor Vehicles said that number is now 1,650,184, a 50% increase over the last 18 years. With about 32 million vehicles on the road, that would mean about 5% are carrying personalized plates. What we don’t know is where California ranks now among the other 49 states.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"Transcript\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Hey everyone, Olivia Allen-Price here. And I want to take you back for a moment to April 2015, when you could have been scanning the radio …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(sounds of switching through the radio dial)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>And settled on 88.5 KQED to hear the very first airing of a Bay Curious story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Archival Tape of KQED’s Joshua Johnson: \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003cem>OK, time for something fun. Today, we’re launching a special series about local oddities, mysterious and curiosities. We’re calling it Bay Curious.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>It was about this old wrecked car that hikers pass often on Mount Tamalpais. Reporter/Producer, Katrina Schwartz, and I hiked out to the wreck to check it out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Olivia and Katrina in archival tape: \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003cem>Holy cow that’s it! What a piece of junk. That is really unexpected…\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>In some ways, that was the perfect story to kick off what is now nearly a 10-year-old journalism experiment. It took us through some Bay Area history. We learned about car manufacturing in the 1940s. We talked to some fascinating people. It was a story that had all the elements that I hope Bay Curious has come to be known for. And … it was about a \u003cem>car\u003c/em>. Which, really, isn’t that surprising. Because, over the years, more than 10,000 questions have poured in from you, our dear audience, and \u003cem>transportation\u003c/em> is one of the topics that we get the most questions about. Maybe it’s because getting around our region … has some pain points? I dunno.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Today, as we barrel toward our 10-year anniversary, we thought we’d answer a bunch of your transit questions that have been lingering in the Bay Curious inbox. Like “how much toll money gets collected on our bridges, and where does it go?” “Why has one toll booth been closed on the Bay Bridge for years?” And “Are there more vanity license plates in California than in other places?” It’s a transit lighting round, so hold on tight, and we will get going to pick up some answers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Start and rev engine in background)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>When a transit question strikes, KQED editor and reporter Dan Brekke is the person that I always go to to ask. He’s been covering transportation in the Bay Area for more than 20 years, and he’s, I think it’s fair to say, an OG transit nerd. Welcome, Dan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Hi Olivia\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So we have a pile of questions to get through this morning, but more than half of them have to do with our bridges. So I want to start there. Now, every time you cross one of our major bridges, you should probably hear a little ka-ching sound go off because they all come with a toll, usually somewhere in the vicinity of $8 to $10 … less if you’ve been smart enough to carpool. Now, multiply that by thousands of motorists crossing those bridges every hour, and a listener and longtime San Francisco resident, named Dani Robillard, has been seeing dollar signs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dani Robillard: \u003c/strong>Where does all that toll money from Bay Area bridges go? It’s got to be over $20 million a week, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>What do you know, Dan?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So that money goes to maintaining the bridges and to lots of other things. Your guess of $20 million a week isn’t too far off. There’s an organization called the Bay Area Toll Authority. And that’s an agency that was created to collect all the revenue from all the bridges — the seven state-owned bridges — and then to allocate it for various projects that we’ve agreed to as a region over the years. So they say that they bring in about $880 million in the current fiscal year, and that comes out to about $17 million a week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Can we dig in a little bit deeper because Dani wants us to break it down further…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dani Robillard: \u003c/strong>We have so many bridges and prices are increasing at an alarming rate. And I just really question, when I see the roads, and at times the conditions of our cities, where does all that money go?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I always thought the toll was to pay for the bridge. And once the bridge was paid off, the toll maybe go away. But that’s clearly not the case because some of these bridges have been around for decades and I imagine some of these bridges are paid off by now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well, the bridges themselves might be paid off. You know, the Bay Bridge opened nearly 90 years ago. Next year will be the 90th anniversary. But, you know, there are ongoing costs, right? You build something that big and complex, and you have many needs over the years just to keep it up, to pave it, to reconfigure it if you need to. And so when you look at the toll dollars we spend going into this fiscal year, the Bay Area Toll Authority said about 60% of the toll funds were going into bridge stuff, right, all the things that I was just talking about, but the other 40% goes to a bunch of things that have, on the surface may be little to do with the bridges themselves but are all very important to the Bay Area’s transportation network. And those are things that range from BART’s brand new fleet of cars, to bike and pedestrian paths around the Bay Area and everything in between. So how did we decide to apportion 40% of those funds that we’re paying at the toll booth for these other things that you don’t see on the bridge? Well, there have been a series of regional measures called, cleverly enough, regional measures one, two, and three that we passed in 1988, 2004, and 2018. Those measures did two things. They raised tolls over time, and they apportioned the money from the new tolls to all these other projects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>All right, so let’s move on to our next question. And we have a few about the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge specifically, which, again, not surprising, because, according to the Metropolitan Transportation Commission, the Bay Bridge carries more than a third of all the state-owned bridge traffic, something like 42 million cars or so crossed in 2022–2023 fiscal year. Let’s hear our first question about it!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Andrés: \u003c/strong>Hi my name is Andrés and I live in San Francisco. My question is why has that single lane at the toll plaza for the Bay Bridge been closed for years, and why won’t they open it again? Every time I’m passing, somebody’s always making a last second swerve to avoid the closed lane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well, that’s a tragic story, actually. But first, I want to say I know exactly what he’s talking about. When you’re approaching the Bay Bridge toll plaza, especially if it’s not super crowded, right? You’re approaching at some speed, and you’re kind of lining up what lane you’re in. And then all of a sudden, there’s this one lane that’s closed, and you might have to change out of that lane to get into one of the other ones. So what happened there was that toll booth was wrecked, and the toll taker inside was killed when a truck smashed into it in December 2017. And Caltrans afterward decided not to rebuild immediately. The damage was really extreme. And a construction project in the toll plaza brings a lot of complications with it. The toll booth was still not fixed at the beginning of the pandemic in early 2020. And there was a big change in how tolls were collected at that point. All the toll takers were removed from the plaza, as well as all the other toll bridges around the region, and toll collection became automated. So there was little need to replace that lane at that point, right? You still have 16 plus other lanes that drivers can use. And, you know, the pandemic started five years ago, and you would think, well, maybe there’s time to go in and do that work. Well, there’s actually a plan to replace the entire toll plaza. So that’s why it’s not getting done now. And what’s going to replace the toll plaza? Something called open road tolling. You can see how that’s going to work if you go to the north side of the toll plaza, where there are a couple of carpool lanes. They’re actually called high occupancy vehicle lanes for buses and carpools. And they’ve got overhead toll tag readers that you can drive through going 60 miles an hour, and your toll tags will be read automatically. And so this technology is going to come to the Bay Bridge and other Bay Area bridges in the next two or three years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>All right, let’s move on to our next question, which also has to do with a lane on the Bay Bridge, not too far away from the one we’ve been talking about. Listener Sam wrote in with this: “Outside rush hour, the right carpool lane westbound onto the Bay Bridge is labeled busses only, but there’s always a constant stream of cars. Do they not enforce that at all, even with photo tolls? Can I use it too?” Dan, what have you got on this?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So there are a couple parts to this question. I asked John Goodwin from the MTC what the story is with this lane, and he answered with a delightful email. I’m going to read from that. “Outside of weekday commute hours, that right-hand carpool lane can be lawfully used only by buses.” So, let’s stop there. Only by busses. Everybody else is not legal. So if you see cars over there, they’re actually breaking the law. He goes on to say, “Every one of the drivers in that constant stream of cars you cite is a scofflaw, a miscreant, and a scoundrel.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Burn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>OK burn, exactly. So it’s a little judgmental, but it is very clear. You can only use that lane during carpool hours. That’s part one of the answer. But Sam is also asking, is there any enforcement there? And the answer is yes. The CHP is under contract with the Metropolitan Transportation Commission to pull drivers over when they’re violating the toll pool regulations. If the CHP is there and they pull you over, yes, you’re gonna get a ticket and you’re gonna get hit with a several hundred dollar fine. So essentially you’re taking your chances if you do that. Sam asked about the photo enforcement that’s there. Well, the photo equipment that’s there is not there for any kind of enforcement. It’s there to collect your toll. So if you drive through there in a non-carpool hour, that equipment will see you, it will record your license plate and you will be charged a toll. That’s all that will happen there. But remember, once you get through that point, sure, you’ve paid your $8 toll on the Bay Bridge, watch out for the CHP just waiting for you down the road.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music transition\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This next question takes us across the bridge to the San Francisco side of things now, still on the Bay Bridge, though, and still in the westbound direction. On the upper deck, there are structures on both sides of the roadway, and they kind of look like shelters of some sort. They have sort of openings the size of garage doors. And we’ve had a few listeners write in asking what they were. Now, I actually dug into this question a few years ago and Caltrans told me that they were once bus stops back from the era when buses could stop on the bridge, and they haven’t been used since probably about the 1960s. Dan, I was hoping you could kind of take us back to this era of bus stops on the bridge and even commuter trains on the Bay Bridge. Just what did the Bay Bridge look like in the ’60s?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So to begin with, the bridge was configured to have two-way traffic on the top deck, three lanes going in each direction. You also had to pay a toll each way. So you’d pay a toll coming into San Francisco and you’d pay a toll when you got back to the East Bay. That sounds like a treat, doesn’t it? And on the lower deck, there were train tracks for commuter train: The Key System, the Sacramento Northern, and the interurban electric railways all ran into the old Transbay Terminal across those tracks. There were also lanes set aside for truck traffic. No truck traffic was allowed on the upper deck. When the Key System abandoned service in the late 1950s, 1958 to be exact, a big project was undertaken to reconfigure how the bridge worked. So those train tracks were removed from the lower deck, and the two decks were made one way. Westbound traffic on the upper deck, eastbound traffic on the lower deck, just the way we see it today. And there were all sorts of little differences to the way the bridge worked. So as you said, yes, there were bus stops at the beginning of the bridge, on both sides actually and those were done away with when the bridge was reconfigured in October 1963.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music transition\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Our next question comes from Martin Aguilera, and he wants to know: “Why do so many Bay Area freeways end with 80, i.e., 880, 680, 280, 580?” And I have to admit, as somebody who, you know, gets around our region by car quite a bit, all those 80s can be sort of confusing. It makes me think of how Olympian boxer George Foreman famously named all five of his sons George, and I’ve always wondered what it’s like to live in a house with five Georges, six Georges. So Dan, why all these 80s?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So, you know, we actually have encountered this topic before in the Bay Curious newsletter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Which I’ll gently remind listeners they can subscribe to at BayCurious.org. Halfway down the page, just look for the big pink box!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>The simple explanation for this numbering system, all those three-digit routes are considered to be branches of Interstate 80 in the Bay Area. So Interstate 80 is the main drag, right? That’s the one that goes all the way across the country to the George Washington Bridge in New York City. And it ends right there in San Francisco where U.S. 101 comes in and heads south. And all these other 80s, the 580, the 680, the 280, 780 in the North Bay, those are all considered to be branches of one type or another of Interstate 80. There are two kinds of these branch routes. The ones that begin with even numbers, like 280, 680, and 880, are considered to be loop routes that provide a way around the periphery of the region. And I’ll observe while I say those numbers that none of those are really loop routes in and of themselves. Although 280 and 680 kind of make a loop. 880 is really a straight shot from Oakland down to State Highway 17 and San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The ones that begin with odd numbers are considered to be spur or radial routes and they’re basically to connect busy routes. And so we have 380, 580, 780 and 980.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>OK, so we’re moving a bit north of the Bay Bridge now, on 580 I will add, to answer this question about the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Phil Narodick: \u003c/strong>Hi my name is Phil Narodick. I live in Berkeley and here’s my question: There’s a third lane on the eastbound span of the Richmond Bridge that’s seemingly opened and closed based on the vibes. No rhyme or reason provided. What’s going on and why do they sometimes not want you to drive in it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Now Dan, the answer for this one might benefit from a little bridge history first — because the third lane in both directions on that bridge has had a number of uses over the years. Can you take us back?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>This bridge opened in 1956 with three lanes in each direction, right? Upper deck, westbound, lower deck, eastbound. We had a really bad drought in 1976 and 1977. Marin was out of water. So where was it going to get water? An agreement was made for East Bay MUD to build a pipeline across the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. Where did they put it? They put it in the right-hand lane of the upper deck. So, that lane was taken away, and it went from a three-lane to a two-lane bridge right there. Now, the pipeline was sort of a desperation measure and was very useful, but it was only needed for less than a year. And then it was taken out five years later, but traffic was never restored to that right-hand lane on the upper deck. It just became kind of a breakdown lane. And then a few years after that, on the lower deck, for no reason that I can actually determine, Caltrans decided to close the right-hand lane on the lower deck as well. There’s no reason given for it, except for the fact there wasn’t enough traffic to justify it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That changed a few years ago when Caltrans and other agencies started a pilot project to restore a third lane of traffic on the lower deck, the eastbound deck that Phil is talking about. And the reasons for doing that were that there’s enough congestion in the afternoon commute headed back to Contra Costa County from the North Bay, that something had to be done about it and restoring that lane seemed to be a possible answer. So, there is a project to get that done. The lane opened, as I say, a few years ago. And the simple answer from the Metropolitan Transportation Commission is Caltrans operates that lane and they open it from 2 to 7 every day, including weekends. Those are the operational hours, period.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Why would you have a lane closed at other times of the day?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Oh yeah, well, the reason you would see the lane closed at some times of day is because that third lane could still be used for construction activities, right? There’s lots of maintenance that happens on the Richmond-San Rafael bridge, and so there are other things that that lane can be used for.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Now while we’re talking about this, the third lane on the upper deck has been in the news a lot lately, can you give us a quick update on what’s going on up there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>The upper deck is a focus of attention right now because there’s a bike and pedestrian path in that right-hand lane now that went into service in 2019 as part of a pilot project. And it’s proven to be, I mean, it depends on who you ask. Cyclists absolutely love it. It’s gotten more use than any of the other bridge bike paths in the Bay Area. But there are questions about whether it’s making congestion worse in the morning hours going from Contra Costa County into Marin. There’s a proposal that would actually remove that bike lane four days of the week and restore it as a breakdown lane so that if somebody has a problem up there they get flat tire, run out of gas, have a little collision, they can pull over to the side, and they don’t impede traffic in the other two lanes. That’s been a big problem up there. And I want to say, this is a hugely fraught topic. I mean, there have been studies done about whether that bike lane has affected traffic and the delay getting onto the bridge in the morning. And the conclusion is, it hasn’t made a lot of difference. But there are people who feel passionately that it is really screwing with their lives and they wanna see it change. So that’s what’s going on up there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music Cue\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>And we’ve reached the final question of this transit lightning round, and it’s about license plates. Now I’ve always had sort of the boring numbers and letters assembly that is randomly assigned, but all over our state, you will find vanity plates where people have paid a little extra to be able to choose what their license plate says. And one listener feels like they’re seeing more of these plates in California…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marissa: \u003c/strong>This is Marissa from Oakland, and I’m wondering why there are so many vanity license plates in the Bay Area? I grew up in Connecticut and remember going on road trips hoping to find some on our route and never really saw any. Living in Massachusetts for years after that, I didn’t see very many either. But now that I’ve been in California for about 8 years, they’re literally everywhere I look. If I’m walking down the street, if I’m in a car, and I was just wondering why that is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well there was actually a study about this. Done a while ago. It’s the only study I can find — a survey actually, let’s call it a survey. And it was done in 2007 and what it found was California at that time ranked 22nd of the 50 states in the number of personalized or vanity plates. The number one state was Virginia. 16% of the plates in Virginia were personalized plates. And then given Marissa’s question and her regional roots, this is kind of interesting because the top 10 includes several states in the Northeast. Including New Hampshire, Maine, Connecticut, I think she said that’s her home state. And New Jersey. So, they’re out there somewhere. Maybe they were all parked up when you were looking. Of course, this was a survey done a long time ago and we did reach out to the Department of Motor Vehicles to see if there were some updated statistics. And one thing they could tell us for sure is that there are more personalized plates on the road than there used to be. So, in 2007, California had 1.1 million personalized plates, it now has about 1.6 million, so that’s quite a bit more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> But it’s interesting if California’s vanity license plate incidence has grown since the study was done, that’s kind of a trend happening across the country. So it could just be that as time has gone on, more people are choosing to do vanity plates, maybe they’re just more fun. There’s more interest in customizing your vehicle or something along those lines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well I think that’s possible. I think something that you and I were talking about in casual conversation is how much people have to pay. Virginia is famous for charging very little for a personalized plate, I think they charge only $10. And in California to get one of those basic plates, it costs $53 to have it personalized. And then you have to pay $43 each year on an ongoing basis. If you want to get one of those specialized plates, like the ones for Yosemite National Park, it costs $103 and $83 on an ongoing basis, so you know that’s kind of steep for a lot people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Have you thought about what your vanity plate would be if you were to get one?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Um…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>TRNSIT NRD\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>TRNSIT NRD!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>TRNSIT NRD!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>I think that’s too many letters, actually.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Well, Dan Brekke, thank you so much for joining us today. I really appreciate you sharing all your knowledge with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well, thanks for having me, you know, I really love being here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Two reminders on the way out — first, we have a Bay Curious Trivia night coming up on April 1, so be sure to round up a date or a few friends, and grab your tickets for that. That can be done at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/live\">KQED.org/live\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Also, we are working on an episode about the best places to take kids in the Bay Area and we would love your help! Do you have a favorite playground? Or a restaurant that’s sneakily kid-friendly? Or maybe that business where you can take your kiddos to burn off some energy? If so, share the knowledge! Send a voice memo to \u003ca href=\"mailto:baycurious@kqed.org\">baycurious@kqed.org\u003c/a> and tell us — your name, the city where you live, and your tip! You can also call our hotline and leave a message… how retro! … the number is 415-553-3334.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Andrés:\u003c/strong> Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marissa: \u003c/strong>The show is produced by …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Christopher Beale:\u003c/strong> Christopher Beale\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Katrina Schwartz\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Additional support from\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Maha Sanad:\u003c/strong> Maha Sanad\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katie Sprenger: \u003c/strong>Katie Sprenger\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jen Chien: \u003c/strong>Jen Chien\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Alana Walker:\u003c/strong> Alana Walker\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Holly Kernan: \u003c/strong>Holly Kernan\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Phil: \u003c/strong>And everyone at Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> I’m your host Olivia Allen-Price. Be well, my friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#Transcript\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One thing we know for sure about the Bay Curious audience is that you have lots of questions about how we get around the Bay Area. From the very start of the podcast 10 years ago next month, transportation has been one of the topics that surface again and again and again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve received a lot of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11798346/why-are-bart-escalators-nearly-always-broken-and-how-did-they-build-those-tunnels\">questions\u003c/a> about BART, including \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11932690/why-doesnt-bart-go-more-places\">why it doesn’t go more places\u003c/a> and how the process of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11986396/when-bart-was-built-people-and-houses-had-to-go\">clearing businesses and homes from its route\u003c/a> worked when the system was built.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve received questions about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11892152/the-tale-of-the-bay-bridge-troll\">the Bay Bridge troll(s)\u003c/a>. And about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11864205/is-that-a-ghost-freeway-on-the-peninsula-and-are-our-highways-filthier-than-ever\">why there’s so much trash\u003c/a> on Bay Area freeways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So now, after 10 years and a total of 10,000 questions from you, our loyal audience, we’re returning to the transportation theme by answering a bunch of bridge-related questions and one inquiry that touches on how Bay Area residents express their personalities on our license plates. Here goes:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jump straight to:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#A\">Where does the toll money from Bay Area Bridges go?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#B\">Why is there a closed toll lane on the Bay Bridge?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#C\">Is the \u003c/a>\u003ca href=\"#C\">westbound\u003c/a>\u003ca href=\"#C\"> right carpool lane onto the Bay Bridge really ‘buses only’?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#D\">Why do so many Bay Area freeway names end in ‘80’?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#E\">What’s with the third lanes on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#F\">Why are there so many vanity license plates?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Where does all that toll money from Bay Area bridges go?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11958608\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11958608\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Aerial shot of cars at a series of toll booths on a bridge, with a $7 toll fee in a digital sign above the booths.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1634\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-800x511.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-1020x651.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-1536x980.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-2048x1307.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-1920x1225.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vehicles cross the toll plaza on the Bay Bridge during the afternoon commute in Oakland on June 26, 2023. \u003ccite>(Jane Tyska/Digital First Media/East Bay Times via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>First up, Dani Robillard has this question about the money we shell out when we drive across bridges in our region: \u003cem>Where does all that toll money from Bay Area bridges go? It’s got to be over $20 million a week, right?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\nYour guess of $20 million a week isn’t too far off, Dani. The tolls across the seven state-owned bridges in the Bay Area will bring in about $880 million in the current fiscal year, and that comes out to about $17 million a week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I think the natural inclination is to think that the money collected when you drive through a toll plaza is going to be spent on the bridge you’re crossing, end of story. But the reality is more complicated and involves decisions transportation officials and Bay Area voters have made over the last half-century or so. The tolls we pay go to operating and maintaining the bridges — and to lots of other transportation-related things.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Seven of the eight toll bridges in the Bay Area — the Bay Bridge, Antioch, Benicia, Carquinez, Richmond-San Rafael, San Mateo and Dumbarton spans — are owned by the state of California. The money drivers pay is collected by an agency called \u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/about-mtc/authorities/bay-area-toll-authority-bata\">the Bay Area Toll Authority\u003c/a>, or BATA, which also makes decisions about how to spend the revenue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In making its spending decisions, BATA has numerous obligations. Those include paying for ongoing maintenance and upkeep of the bridges, long-term rehabilitation projects, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.fitchratings.com/research/infrastructure-project-finance/fitch-rates-bata-series-2025-sr-toll-revs-aa-subrevs-aa-affirms-outstanding-rev-bonds-07-02-2025#:~:text=Fitch%20has%20affirmed%20BATA's%20%246.3,and%20all%20bonds%20is%20Stable.https://www.fitchratings.com/research/infrastructure-project-finance/fitch-rates-bata-series-2025-sr-toll-revs-aa-subrevs-aa-affirms-outstanding-rev-bonds-07-02-2025#:~:text=Fitch%20has%20affirmed%20BATA's%20%246.3,and%20all%20bonds%20is%20Stable.\">paying off bonds\u003c/a> floated to finance past projects like the $6.4 billion eastern span of the Bay Bridge. Last year, when tolls on the state-owned bridges were $7, BATA estimated that $4 of that charge was being spent in one way or another on the bridges.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But how about the other $3? That portion of your toll payment is going in all sorts of different directions due to a series of ballot measures that transportation officials and the Legislature have put before voters since the late 1980s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/funding/regional-funding/regional-measure-1-rm-1\">Regional Measure 1\u003c/a>, passed in 1988, created a uniform $1 toll for all seven state-owned bridges. (Before Measure 1, tolls on the bridges ranged from 40 cents to $1.) The new funding was used for several bridge improvements but also for several major street and highway improvements, including the Richmond Parkway in Contra Costa County.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/funding/regional-funding/regional-measure-2\">Regional Measure 2\u003c/a>, passed in 2004, raised tolls again by $1 (bringing them to $3 because of a 1998 increase imposed to help pay for the eastern span of the Bay Bridge). The proceeds from RM2 helped pay for the fourth bore of the Caldecott Tunnel, the new Transbay (now Salesforce) Transit Center and other big capital projects. The measure continues to provide day-to-day operating funds for AC Transit’s 1T bus rapid transit line on International Boulevard and San Francisco Muni’s T-Third light rail line and other services. Some RM2 funds also help pay for pedestrian and bike projects near the bridges.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11671240/10-things-to-know-regional-measure-3-the-proposed-bay-area-bridge-toll-increase\">Regional Measure 3\u003c/a>, passed in 2018, included $3 in toll increases that, as of Jan. 1 this year, brings the basic charge for crossing the state bridges to $8. RM3 is helping fund nearly three dozen projects and services around the region, including BART’s extension through downtown San José (coming in 2037, by current estimates), some of BART’s new train cars, improved ferry service, and freeway express lanes (toll lanes) in six different counties.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ll mention in closing that the Golden Gate Bridge is owned and operated by a separate agency that has its own toll and budget policies and priorities, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.goldengate.org/\">Golden Gate Bridge, Highway and Transportation District\u003c/a>. According to the district’s fiscal 2024–25 budget, tolls make up about half of its $320 million of its revenue this year. It’s spending about one-third of that — $108 million — on bridge operations. Most of the rest of the budget, $166 million, is going to pay for the district’s bus and ferry service.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"B\">\u003c/a>That closed toll lane on the Bay Bridge\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11635414\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11635414\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-1180x787.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-960x640.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-240x160.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-375x250.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-520x347.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vehicles approach the Bay Bridge Toll Plaza in Oakland on Dec. 5, 2017. Days before, a truck crashed into toll booth number 14 and killed worker Si Si Han. \u003ccite>(Farida Jhabvala Romero/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The next question comes from Andres Barraza: \u003cem>Why has that single lane at the toll plaza for the Bay Bridge been closed for years, and why won’t they reopen it again? Every time I’m passing, somebody’s always making a last second swerve to avoid the closed lane. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The closure of that lane at the Bay Bridge toll plaza — Lane 14, to be exact — is a tragic story that goes back more than seven years. In the early morning of Dec. 2, 2017, a box truck slammed into the toll booth and killed \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11635239/tollbooth-worker-killed-in-bay-bridge-crash-remembered-as-kind-generous\">the veteran toll taker there, 46-year-old Si Si Han\u003c/a>. The fact that the toll booth has never been rebuilt or the lane opened is due to a combination of circumstances.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Area bridge officials and Caltrans reportedly determined that the loss of the lane did not have a major impact on traffic flow through the toll plaza. That was especially true after the onset of the pandemic and the dramatic drop in traffic on the bridge. More recently, the rationale for leaving the lane as it is has shifted: The entire toll plaza will be phased out at some point in the next few years with the introduction of “\u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/operations/programs-projects/bridges/open-road-tolling\">open-road tolling\u003c/a>.” That’s a system that uses an overhead structure, called a gantry, equipped with cameras and tag-reading equipment that can record vehicles passing at highway speeds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You can get a little preview of how the system works on the two high-occupancy vehicle lanes on the north side of the Bay Area toll plaza, where carpool (and other) drivers currently zip beneath an overhead gantry equipped with cameras and tag readers.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"C\">\u003c/a>And speaking of that high-occupancy vehicle lane… How legit is ‘buses only’?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032187\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1024px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032187\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1024\" height=\"656\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939-800x513.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939-1020x653.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939-160x103.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">AC Transit buses roll toward the Bay Bridge in the carpool lane of the Eastshore Freeway in Berkeley on Thursday, May 10, 2018. \u003ccite>(Paul Chinn/The San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Listener Sam wrote this: \u003cem>Outside rush hour, the right carpool lane westbound onto the Bay Bridge is labeled buses only, but there’s always a constant stream of cars. Do they not enforce that at all, even with photo tolls? Can I use it too? \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve wondered what’s going on with this lane, too, and when we got Sam’s question, we asked John Goodwin from the Metropolitan Transportation Commission (MTC) what the story is: The brief answer is that during weekday commute hours — between 5 a.m. and 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. to 7 p.m. — buses, carpools with three or more people, motorcycles and, for now, cars with valid DMV clean-air stickers — are all permitted to use the lane. Outside of those hours, \u003cem>only buses can lawfully use that lane.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for enforcement, the MTC contracts with the California Highway Patrol to enforce high-occupancy vehicle lanes. If you’re caught using that Bay Bridge lane outside the legal hours, you’ll be subject to a fine of $490 or more. (The same goes for violating carpool hours or passenger and decal requirements on any California HOV lane.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sam also mentions the photo toll equipment on that Bay Bridge carpool lane. Two things about that:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First, drivers using the HOV lanes are supposed to have FasTrak tags, which are necessary to get the 50% discount that carpoolers get during weekday commute hours. Outside the designated carpool hours, when you’re violating the law by using the carpool lane, FasTrak will charge you a non-discounted toll for passing through the toll plaza.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Second, the photo equipment Sam mentions is used for toll collection, not carpool enforcement. The cameras, which are deployed on all the toll lanes at the Bay Bridge, serve as a sort of backup system for Fastrak. They capture license plate images for each passing vehicle and ensure that drivers who don’t have toll tags are charged for crossing the bridges like everyone else.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"D\">\u003c/a>Eighty! Eighty! Eighty!\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12003260\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12003260\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1298\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-800x541.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-1020x690.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-1536x1038.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An aerial view, cars travel along Interstate 80 on Jan. 16, 2024, in Berkeley. \u003ccite>(Justin Sullivan/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Our next question comes from Martin Aguilera, and he wants to know: \u003cem>Why do so many Bay Area freeways end with “80”? For instance, 880, 680, 280, 580. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The simple explanation for this numbering system is that all those three-digit routes are considered to be branches of Interstate 80 in the Bay Area. I-80 stretches from the George Washington Bridge in New York City to San Francisco, where it connects to U.S. 101 and heads south.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Under the federal government’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.fhwa.dot.gov/programadmin/interstate.cfm\">Interstate highway numbering system\u003c/a>, there are two kinds of these branch routes, each designated with the three-digit numbers Martin mentions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The routes that begin with even numbers. like 280, 680, and 880 in the Bay Area, are rather arbitrarily considered to be full or partial belt routes. Those are highways that traditionally run around the circumference of a region. The best example I know of, a true belt route, is Interstate 495 around Washington, D.C. Arguably, Interstates 680 and 280 in our region are peripheral routes, but there’s no way in the world you could put Interstate 880, from Oakland to San José, in that category. At least in our learned opinion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The routes that begin with odd numbers are considered to be spur or radial routes and they connect other major routes. And so we have 380, 580, 780 and 980. Most of these routes are very short. I-980, just west of downtown Oakland, is just 2 miles long; 380, which connects 280 with U.S. 101 at San Francisco International Airport, measures a little over 3 miles, and 780, between 80 and 680 in Solano County, is 6.5 miles. But sometimes these routes are really, really long: Interstate 580 runs 75 miles from Interstate 5 in San Joaquin County all the way to U.S. 101 in Marin.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"E\">\u003c/a>The saga of the third lanes on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11971910\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11971910\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Traffic on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge on Jan. 8, 2024. \u003ccite>(Martin do Nascimento/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Listener Phil Narodick asks: \u003cem>There’s a third lane on the lower deck of the Richmond Bridge that’s seemingly opened and closed based on the vibes. No rhyme or reason provided. What’s going on and why do they sometimes not want you to drive in it?\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To answer that, maybe a little bridge history is in order.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge opened in 1956, both its upper, westbound deck and lower, eastbound deck were configured with three lanes of traffic. Twenty years later, nature intervened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>California suffered through one of its worst droughts in 1976 and 1977. It was so dry for so long that Marin County’s reservoirs threatened to dry up. To respond to that crisis, water officials worked out an agreement to build a water pipeline across the upper deck of the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge to help relieve Marin’s shortage. That arrangement took the right lane on the westbound desk out of service. As it turned out, the pipeline was used for less than a year because the rains returned in the fall of 1977. A few years later, the pipeline was removed. But the space it occupied was turned into a lane for breakdowns and maintenance crews.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>OK — that was the upper deck, and we’ll have more to say about that in a moment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the lower deck that Phil is asking about, something similar happened, only without the pipeline. In 1980, Caltrans decided to reduce traffic from three lanes to two and use the right lane for motorist emergencies and bridge maintenance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And there things stood until about a decade ago when Caltrans and other agencies came up with a proposal to restore that third lane of traffic on the lower, eastbound deck. The reason: Afternoon commute congestion had grown so acute that traffic was backing up not only across the bridge but back along Interstate 580 to U.S. 101 and to surface streets in San Rafael. By \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11648255/san-rafael-richmond-bridge-eastbound-lane\">opening up a third lane\u003c/a>, traffic engineers reasoned, congestion could be reduced. The plan was adopted, and the restored third lane opened in 2018. It turned out the traffic engineers were right: Opening that lane during the afternoon commute resulted in a dramatic reduction in congestion for the corridor, one that continues today in part because of reduced traffic in the wake of the pandemic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As to the operating hours for that third lane: The Metropolitan Transportation Commission’s John Goodwin said Caltrans opens the lane from 2 p.m. to 7 p.m. seven days a week. He adds that Caltrans can adjust third-lane operations based on real-time conditions, but said that has seldom happened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now let’s revisit the upper deck: As part of the same four-year pilot project proposal that restored the eastbound third lane, transportation agencies \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11786768/richmond-san-rafael-bridge-bike-walking-path\">installed a bike and pedestrian pathway\u003c/a> on the old right lane of the westbound upper deck. The upper deck path opened in 2019. With the exception of the Golden Gate Bridge, which is extremely popular with bike riders, the Richmond-San Rafael path has become the most used bridge crossing for cyclists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it’s also become \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11971935/richmond-bridge-bike-path-has-an-amazing-view-and-an-uncertain-future\">an object of controversy\u003c/a>. Critics of the lane contend that it’s the main culprit in the long backups that form most weekday mornings as westbound traffic makes its way through Richmond to the bridge. At the same time, \u003ca href=\"https://www.bcdc.ca.gov/wp-content/uploads/sites/354/2024/12/2025-03-20-Richmond-San-Rafael-Bridge-PATH-Study-Phase-II-Attachment-A.pdf\">a study by UC Berkeley researchers (PDF)\u003c/a> hired to analyze the path’s effect on traffic found it hasn’t had a major impact on congestion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The critics, including the Bay Area Council business group and the Marin County Board of Supervisors, have urged Caltrans and the Metropolitan Transportation Commission to take action to relieve the congestion. The resulting MTC plan would close the path four days a week and use it as a breakdown lane. Bike riders and pedestrians would get to use it from Friday through Sunday, the path’s most popular days.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The ultimate decision on whether that plan will go forward rests with the Bay Conservation and Development Commission, which will consider the issue on April 3.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"F\">\u003c/a>Why so many vanity license plates?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032191\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032191\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">49ers fan Bobbie Lince holds her license plate at a tailgate party outside Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara on Jan. 28, 2024, before an NFC Championship Game between the San Francisco 49ers and the Detroit Lions. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>And one final question for this episode, from Marissa in Oakland. She asks: Why are there so many vanity license plates in the Bay Area? I grew up in Connecticut and remember going on road trips hoping to find some on our route and never really saw any. But now that I’ve been in California for about 8 years, they’re literally everywhere I look.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To our surprise, someone actually did a national survey on this. That’s very helpful in terms of giving Marissa what looks and feels like a solid answer. However, the study, carried out by the American Association of Motor Vehicle Administrators and a vanity license plate site called LCNS2ROM.com, was done in 2007. So does it reflect \u003cem>current\u003c/em> reality? We can’t swear that it does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But what we can say is back then, one state stood out above all others for the popularity of personalized license plates: Virginia. \u003ca href=\"https://web.archive.org/web/20080727002335/http:/www.lcns2rom.com/vanityplatesurvey.htm\">The survey\u003c/a>, which we tracked down on the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine, found that 16.19% of all plates issued there, one in six, were personalized. Virginia was followed by New Hampshire, Illinois, Nevada, Montana, Maine, Connecticut, New Jersey, North Dakota and Vermont. That’s your top ten for vanity license plates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Where did California come in? Twenty-second, with about 3.5% of all plates issued.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We can offer at least a partial update for those California numbers. As of 2007, the old survey said, the state had issued about 1.1 million personalized license plates. The Department of Motor Vehicles said that number is now 1,650,184, a 50% increase over the last 18 years. With about 32 million vehicles on the road, that would mean about 5% are carrying personalized plates. What we don’t know is where California ranks now among the other 49 states.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"Transcript\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Hey everyone, Olivia Allen-Price here. And I want to take you back for a moment to April 2015, when you could have been scanning the radio …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(sounds of switching through the radio dial)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>And settled on 88.5 KQED to hear the very first airing of a Bay Curious story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Archival Tape of KQED’s Joshua Johnson: \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003cem>OK, time for something fun. Today, we’re launching a special series about local oddities, mysterious and curiosities. We’re calling it Bay Curious.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>It was about this old wrecked car that hikers pass often on Mount Tamalpais. Reporter/Producer, Katrina Schwartz, and I hiked out to the wreck to check it out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Olivia and Katrina in archival tape: \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003cem>Holy cow that’s it! What a piece of junk. That is really unexpected…\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>In some ways, that was the perfect story to kick off what is now nearly a 10-year-old journalism experiment. It took us through some Bay Area history. We learned about car manufacturing in the 1940s. We talked to some fascinating people. It was a story that had all the elements that I hope Bay Curious has come to be known for. And … it was about a \u003cem>car\u003c/em>. Which, really, isn’t that surprising. Because, over the years, more than 10,000 questions have poured in from you, our dear audience, and \u003cem>transportation\u003c/em> is one of the topics that we get the most questions about. Maybe it’s because getting around our region … has some pain points? I dunno.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Today, as we barrel toward our 10-year anniversary, we thought we’d answer a bunch of your transit questions that have been lingering in the Bay Curious inbox. Like “how much toll money gets collected on our bridges, and where does it go?” “Why has one toll booth been closed on the Bay Bridge for years?” And “Are there more vanity license plates in California than in other places?” It’s a transit lighting round, so hold on tight, and we will get going to pick up some answers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Start and rev engine in background)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>When a transit question strikes, KQED editor and reporter Dan Brekke is the person that I always go to to ask. He’s been covering transportation in the Bay Area for more than 20 years, and he’s, I think it’s fair to say, an OG transit nerd. Welcome, Dan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Hi Olivia\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So we have a pile of questions to get through this morning, but more than half of them have to do with our bridges. So I want to start there. Now, every time you cross one of our major bridges, you should probably hear a little ka-ching sound go off because they all come with a toll, usually somewhere in the vicinity of $8 to $10 … less if you’ve been smart enough to carpool. Now, multiply that by thousands of motorists crossing those bridges every hour, and a listener and longtime San Francisco resident, named Dani Robillard, has been seeing dollar signs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dani Robillard: \u003c/strong>Where does all that toll money from Bay Area bridges go? It’s got to be over $20 million a week, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>What do you know, Dan?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So that money goes to maintaining the bridges and to lots of other things. Your guess of $20 million a week isn’t too far off. There’s an organization called the Bay Area Toll Authority. And that’s an agency that was created to collect all the revenue from all the bridges — the seven state-owned bridges — and then to allocate it for various projects that we’ve agreed to as a region over the years. So they say that they bring in about $880 million in the current fiscal year, and that comes out to about $17 million a week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Can we dig in a little bit deeper because Dani wants us to break it down further…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dani Robillard: \u003c/strong>We have so many bridges and prices are increasing at an alarming rate. And I just really question, when I see the roads, and at times the conditions of our cities, where does all that money go?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I always thought the toll was to pay for the bridge. And once the bridge was paid off, the toll maybe go away. But that’s clearly not the case because some of these bridges have been around for decades and I imagine some of these bridges are paid off by now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well, the bridges themselves might be paid off. You know, the Bay Bridge opened nearly 90 years ago. Next year will be the 90th anniversary. But, you know, there are ongoing costs, right? You build something that big and complex, and you have many needs over the years just to keep it up, to pave it, to reconfigure it if you need to. And so when you look at the toll dollars we spend going into this fiscal year, the Bay Area Toll Authority said about 60% of the toll funds were going into bridge stuff, right, all the things that I was just talking about, but the other 40% goes to a bunch of things that have, on the surface may be little to do with the bridges themselves but are all very important to the Bay Area’s transportation network. And those are things that range from BART’s brand new fleet of cars, to bike and pedestrian paths around the Bay Area and everything in between. So how did we decide to apportion 40% of those funds that we’re paying at the toll booth for these other things that you don’t see on the bridge? Well, there have been a series of regional measures called, cleverly enough, regional measures one, two, and three that we passed in 1988, 2004, and 2018. Those measures did two things. They raised tolls over time, and they apportioned the money from the new tolls to all these other projects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>All right, so let’s move on to our next question. And we have a few about the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge specifically, which, again, not surprising, because, according to the Metropolitan Transportation Commission, the Bay Bridge carries more than a third of all the state-owned bridge traffic, something like 42 million cars or so crossed in 2022–2023 fiscal year. Let’s hear our first question about it!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Andrés: \u003c/strong>Hi my name is Andrés and I live in San Francisco. My question is why has that single lane at the toll plaza for the Bay Bridge been closed for years, and why won’t they open it again? Every time I’m passing, somebody’s always making a last second swerve to avoid the closed lane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well, that’s a tragic story, actually. But first, I want to say I know exactly what he’s talking about. When you’re approaching the Bay Bridge toll plaza, especially if it’s not super crowded, right? You’re approaching at some speed, and you’re kind of lining up what lane you’re in. And then all of a sudden, there’s this one lane that’s closed, and you might have to change out of that lane to get into one of the other ones. So what happened there was that toll booth was wrecked, and the toll taker inside was killed when a truck smashed into it in December 2017. And Caltrans afterward decided not to rebuild immediately. The damage was really extreme. And a construction project in the toll plaza brings a lot of complications with it. The toll booth was still not fixed at the beginning of the pandemic in early 2020. And there was a big change in how tolls were collected at that point. All the toll takers were removed from the plaza, as well as all the other toll bridges around the region, and toll collection became automated. So there was little need to replace that lane at that point, right? You still have 16 plus other lanes that drivers can use. And, you know, the pandemic started five years ago, and you would think, well, maybe there’s time to go in and do that work. Well, there’s actually a plan to replace the entire toll plaza. So that’s why it’s not getting done now. And what’s going to replace the toll plaza? Something called open road tolling. You can see how that’s going to work if you go to the north side of the toll plaza, where there are a couple of carpool lanes. They’re actually called high occupancy vehicle lanes for buses and carpools. And they’ve got overhead toll tag readers that you can drive through going 60 miles an hour, and your toll tags will be read automatically. And so this technology is going to come to the Bay Bridge and other Bay Area bridges in the next two or three years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>All right, let’s move on to our next question, which also has to do with a lane on the Bay Bridge, not too far away from the one we’ve been talking about. Listener Sam wrote in with this: “Outside rush hour, the right carpool lane westbound onto the Bay Bridge is labeled busses only, but there’s always a constant stream of cars. Do they not enforce that at all, even with photo tolls? Can I use it too?” Dan, what have you got on this?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So there are a couple parts to this question. I asked John Goodwin from the MTC what the story is with this lane, and he answered with a delightful email. I’m going to read from that. “Outside of weekday commute hours, that right-hand carpool lane can be lawfully used only by buses.” So, let’s stop there. Only by busses. Everybody else is not legal. So if you see cars over there, they’re actually breaking the law. He goes on to say, “Every one of the drivers in that constant stream of cars you cite is a scofflaw, a miscreant, and a scoundrel.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Burn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>OK burn, exactly. So it’s a little judgmental, but it is very clear. You can only use that lane during carpool hours. That’s part one of the answer. But Sam is also asking, is there any enforcement there? And the answer is yes. The CHP is under contract with the Metropolitan Transportation Commission to pull drivers over when they’re violating the toll pool regulations. If the CHP is there and they pull you over, yes, you’re gonna get a ticket and you’re gonna get hit with a several hundred dollar fine. So essentially you’re taking your chances if you do that. Sam asked about the photo enforcement that’s there. Well, the photo equipment that’s there is not there for any kind of enforcement. It’s there to collect your toll. So if you drive through there in a non-carpool hour, that equipment will see you, it will record your license plate and you will be charged a toll. That’s all that will happen there. But remember, once you get through that point, sure, you’ve paid your $8 toll on the Bay Bridge, watch out for the CHP just waiting for you down the road.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music transition\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This next question takes us across the bridge to the San Francisco side of things now, still on the Bay Bridge, though, and still in the westbound direction. On the upper deck, there are structures on both sides of the roadway, and they kind of look like shelters of some sort. They have sort of openings the size of garage doors. And we’ve had a few listeners write in asking what they were. Now, I actually dug into this question a few years ago and Caltrans told me that they were once bus stops back from the era when buses could stop on the bridge, and they haven’t been used since probably about the 1960s. Dan, I was hoping you could kind of take us back to this era of bus stops on the bridge and even commuter trains on the Bay Bridge. Just what did the Bay Bridge look like in the ’60s?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So to begin with, the bridge was configured to have two-way traffic on the top deck, three lanes going in each direction. You also had to pay a toll each way. So you’d pay a toll coming into San Francisco and you’d pay a toll when you got back to the East Bay. That sounds like a treat, doesn’t it? And on the lower deck, there were train tracks for commuter train: The Key System, the Sacramento Northern, and the interurban electric railways all ran into the old Transbay Terminal across those tracks. There were also lanes set aside for truck traffic. No truck traffic was allowed on the upper deck. When the Key System abandoned service in the late 1950s, 1958 to be exact, a big project was undertaken to reconfigure how the bridge worked. So those train tracks were removed from the lower deck, and the two decks were made one way. Westbound traffic on the upper deck, eastbound traffic on the lower deck, just the way we see it today. And there were all sorts of little differences to the way the bridge worked. So as you said, yes, there were bus stops at the beginning of the bridge, on both sides actually and those were done away with when the bridge was reconfigured in October 1963.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music transition\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Our next question comes from Martin Aguilera, and he wants to know: “Why do so many Bay Area freeways end with 80, i.e., 880, 680, 280, 580?” And I have to admit, as somebody who, you know, gets around our region by car quite a bit, all those 80s can be sort of confusing. It makes me think of how Olympian boxer George Foreman famously named all five of his sons George, and I’ve always wondered what it’s like to live in a house with five Georges, six Georges. So Dan, why all these 80s?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So, you know, we actually have encountered this topic before in the Bay Curious newsletter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Which I’ll gently remind listeners they can subscribe to at BayCurious.org. Halfway down the page, just look for the big pink box!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>The simple explanation for this numbering system, all those three-digit routes are considered to be branches of Interstate 80 in the Bay Area. So Interstate 80 is the main drag, right? That’s the one that goes all the way across the country to the George Washington Bridge in New York City. And it ends right there in San Francisco where U.S. 101 comes in and heads south. And all these other 80s, the 580, the 680, the 280, 780 in the North Bay, those are all considered to be branches of one type or another of Interstate 80. There are two kinds of these branch routes. The ones that begin with even numbers, like 280, 680, and 880, are considered to be loop routes that provide a way around the periphery of the region. And I’ll observe while I say those numbers that none of those are really loop routes in and of themselves. Although 280 and 680 kind of make a loop. 880 is really a straight shot from Oakland down to State Highway 17 and San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The ones that begin with odd numbers are considered to be spur or radial routes and they’re basically to connect busy routes. And so we have 380, 580, 780 and 980.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>OK, so we’re moving a bit north of the Bay Bridge now, on 580 I will add, to answer this question about the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Phil Narodick: \u003c/strong>Hi my name is Phil Narodick. I live in Berkeley and here’s my question: There’s a third lane on the eastbound span of the Richmond Bridge that’s seemingly opened and closed based on the vibes. No rhyme or reason provided. What’s going on and why do they sometimes not want you to drive in it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Now Dan, the answer for this one might benefit from a little bridge history first — because the third lane in both directions on that bridge has had a number of uses over the years. Can you take us back?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>This bridge opened in 1956 with three lanes in each direction, right? Upper deck, westbound, lower deck, eastbound. We had a really bad drought in 1976 and 1977. Marin was out of water. So where was it going to get water? An agreement was made for East Bay MUD to build a pipeline across the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. Where did they put it? They put it in the right-hand lane of the upper deck. So, that lane was taken away, and it went from a three-lane to a two-lane bridge right there. Now, the pipeline was sort of a desperation measure and was very useful, but it was only needed for less than a year. And then it was taken out five years later, but traffic was never restored to that right-hand lane on the upper deck. It just became kind of a breakdown lane. And then a few years after that, on the lower deck, for no reason that I can actually determine, Caltrans decided to close the right-hand lane on the lower deck as well. There’s no reason given for it, except for the fact there wasn’t enough traffic to justify it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That changed a few years ago when Caltrans and other agencies started a pilot project to restore a third lane of traffic on the lower deck, the eastbound deck that Phil is talking about. And the reasons for doing that were that there’s enough congestion in the afternoon commute headed back to Contra Costa County from the North Bay, that something had to be done about it and restoring that lane seemed to be a possible answer. So, there is a project to get that done. The lane opened, as I say, a few years ago. And the simple answer from the Metropolitan Transportation Commission is Caltrans operates that lane and they open it from 2 to 7 every day, including weekends. Those are the operational hours, period.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Why would you have a lane closed at other times of the day?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Oh yeah, well, the reason you would see the lane closed at some times of day is because that third lane could still be used for construction activities, right? There’s lots of maintenance that happens on the Richmond-San Rafael bridge, and so there are other things that that lane can be used for.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Now while we’re talking about this, the third lane on the upper deck has been in the news a lot lately, can you give us a quick update on what’s going on up there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>The upper deck is a focus of attention right now because there’s a bike and pedestrian path in that right-hand lane now that went into service in 2019 as part of a pilot project. And it’s proven to be, I mean, it depends on who you ask. Cyclists absolutely love it. It’s gotten more use than any of the other bridge bike paths in the Bay Area. But there are questions about whether it’s making congestion worse in the morning hours going from Contra Costa County into Marin. There’s a proposal that would actually remove that bike lane four days of the week and restore it as a breakdown lane so that if somebody has a problem up there they get flat tire, run out of gas, have a little collision, they can pull over to the side, and they don’t impede traffic in the other two lanes. That’s been a big problem up there. And I want to say, this is a hugely fraught topic. I mean, there have been studies done about whether that bike lane has affected traffic and the delay getting onto the bridge in the morning. And the conclusion is, it hasn’t made a lot of difference. But there are people who feel passionately that it is really screwing with their lives and they wanna see it change. So that’s what’s going on up there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music Cue\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>And we’ve reached the final question of this transit lightning round, and it’s about license plates. Now I’ve always had sort of the boring numbers and letters assembly that is randomly assigned, but all over our state, you will find vanity plates where people have paid a little extra to be able to choose what their license plate says. And one listener feels like they’re seeing more of these plates in California…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marissa: \u003c/strong>This is Marissa from Oakland, and I’m wondering why there are so many vanity license plates in the Bay Area? I grew up in Connecticut and remember going on road trips hoping to find some on our route and never really saw any. Living in Massachusetts for years after that, I didn’t see very many either. But now that I’ve been in California for about 8 years, they’re literally everywhere I look. If I’m walking down the street, if I’m in a car, and I was just wondering why that is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well there was actually a study about this. Done a while ago. It’s the only study I can find — a survey actually, let’s call it a survey. And it was done in 2007 and what it found was California at that time ranked 22nd of the 50 states in the number of personalized or vanity plates. The number one state was Virginia. 16% of the plates in Virginia were personalized plates. And then given Marissa’s question and her regional roots, this is kind of interesting because the top 10 includes several states in the Northeast. Including New Hampshire, Maine, Connecticut, I think she said that’s her home state. And New Jersey. So, they’re out there somewhere. Maybe they were all parked up when you were looking. Of course, this was a survey done a long time ago and we did reach out to the Department of Motor Vehicles to see if there were some updated statistics. And one thing they could tell us for sure is that there are more personalized plates on the road than there used to be. So, in 2007, California had 1.1 million personalized plates, it now has about 1.6 million, so that’s quite a bit more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> But it’s interesting if California’s vanity license plate incidence has grown since the study was done, that’s kind of a trend happening across the country. So it could just be that as time has gone on, more people are choosing to do vanity plates, maybe they’re just more fun. There’s more interest in customizing your vehicle or something along those lines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well I think that’s possible. I think something that you and I were talking about in casual conversation is how much people have to pay. Virginia is famous for charging very little for a personalized plate, I think they charge only $10. And in California to get one of those basic plates, it costs $53 to have it personalized. And then you have to pay $43 each year on an ongoing basis. If you want to get one of those specialized plates, like the ones for Yosemite National Park, it costs $103 and $83 on an ongoing basis, so you know that’s kind of steep for a lot people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Have you thought about what your vanity plate would be if you were to get one?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Um…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>TRNSIT NRD\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>TRNSIT NRD!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>TRNSIT NRD!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>I think that’s too many letters, actually.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Well, Dan Brekke, thank you so much for joining us today. I really appreciate you sharing all your knowledge with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well, thanks for having me, you know, I really love being here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Two reminders on the way out — first, we have a Bay Curious Trivia night coming up on April 1, so be sure to round up a date or a few friends, and grab your tickets for that. That can be done at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/live\">KQED.org/live\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Also, we are working on an episode about the best places to take kids in the Bay Area and we would love your help! Do you have a favorite playground? Or a restaurant that’s sneakily kid-friendly? Or maybe that business where you can take your kiddos to burn off some energy? If so, share the knowledge! Send a voice memo to \u003ca href=\"mailto:baycurious@kqed.org\">baycurious@kqed.org\u003c/a> and tell us — your name, the city where you live, and your tip! You can also call our hotline and leave a message… how retro! … the number is 415-553-3334.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Andrés:\u003c/strong> Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marissa: \u003c/strong>The show is produced by …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Christopher Beale:\u003c/strong> Christopher Beale\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Katrina Schwartz\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Additional support from\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Maha Sanad:\u003c/strong> Maha Sanad\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katie Sprenger: \u003c/strong>Katie Sprenger\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jen Chien: \u003c/strong>Jen Chien\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Alana Walker:\u003c/strong> Alana Walker\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Holly Kernan: \u003c/strong>Holly Kernan\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Phil: \u003c/strong>And everyone at Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> I’m your host Olivia Allen-Price. Be well, my friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "ever-wonder-why-the-water-at-golden-gate-parks-rainbow-falls-is-bright-green",
"title": "Why Is the Water at Golden Gate Park’s Rainbow Falls Bright Green?",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Golden Gate Park is one of those magical places where \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11915065/take-a-very-curious-golden-gate-park-walking-tour\">it’s possible to stumble upon something new\u003c/a>, even after visiting hundreds of times. \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11915008/golden-gate-park-was-once-miles-and-miles-of-sand-dunes\">It’s full of hidden trails\u003c/a>, tucked-away lakes and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11915788/healing-in-nature-at-the-aids-memorial-grove\">private dells\u003c/a>. And then, there are park features that are smack dab in the middle of everything but somehow become almost invisible in their ubiquity. That’s the case for a waterfall along John F Kennedy Promenade, just east of Crossover Drive. Hundreds of people jog, bike or stroll past Rainbow Falls daily, but few stop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The spot where the falls sit today used to be a small quarry, used to supply stone for a number of park projects. Many of the early roads in the park were made with stone from here. Later, it became a public dumping ground, so neighbors called on the city to build something beautiful. \u003ca href=\"https://www.tclf.org/pioneer/john-mclaren\">The superintendent at the time, John McLaren\u003c/a>, listened and oversaw the creation of the waterfall we see today. The falls opened in 1930 with a spectacular evening dedication that featured a multi-hued light display shining on the waterfall. That’s how the falls got their name — Rainbow Falls. No lights can be seen now, but look closely, and you can see the bronze light fixtures from near the top of the falls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Persie Nakonechny has definitely noticed this waterfall, but mostly because there’s something not quite right about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The water at Rainbow Falls and the creek that runs from it into Lloyd Lake is sometimes an alarming shade of green,” Nakonechny said. “I’m not sure if it’s algae or an attempt to stop people from being tempted to drink it or something else.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What’s going on with the almost fluorescent green hue the water takes on sometimes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030785\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030785\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ‘greenness’ of the waterfall fluctuates with the seasons, but Reddit user wopwopdoowop captured a particularly green moment. \u003ccite>(wopwopdoowop/Reddit)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The answer is actually fairly simple — it’s an algae bloom, said Dave Iribarne, superintendent of Golden Gate Park for the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department. He describes the color as “neon green with a hint of lime.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s just an alarming shade,” he said. “So it kind of freaks people out, but there’s really nothing harmful about it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The color changes throughout the year, he explained, depending on what’s going on with the algae and various efforts by San Francisco Recreation & Parks Department to control its growth. The water from the falls drops into a pool, then runs downhill next to the JFK promenade for several hundred feet until it drains into Lloyd Lake. From there, it is pumped back up to the top of the falls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To keep the algae at bay, Rec and Park has installed aeration in Lloyd Lake, and they add a powder to the water, called flocculant, that sticks to the algae and weighs it down to the bottom. On top of all that, they also introduce microbiotics to the water that eat the algae. Still, at certain times of year, the water is unmistakably green.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s so funny to me that it’s a natural substance,” question asker Persie Nakonechny said. “Nature’s weird.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029892\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 958px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029892\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"958\" height=\"738\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356.jpg 958w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356-800x616.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356-160x123.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 958px) 100vw, 958px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Golden Gate Park’s \u003ca href=\"https://opensfhistory.org/Display/wnp37.01750.jpg\">Rainbow Falls, San Francisco,\u003c/a> circa 1933. \u003ccite>(OpenSFHistory/wnp37.01750)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Hey everyone, I’m Olivia Allen-Price. And this is Bay Curious, the show that answers listener questions about the San Francisco Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today’s show takes us to the city of Richmond where something magical is happening within the small bayside neighborhood of Point Richmond. That’s where a Bay Curious listener, who also happens to be a KQED employee, Laura Benitez lives. She was on a stroll with her toddler, passing the local fire station when…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Next to the fire station, there was a tiny fairy house fire station. And it was just the cutest thing. And she played with it for like half an hour. And I then kind of heard from other people in the neighborhood that there was a whole series of fairy houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sprinkled all up and down Washington Street you’ll find more miniature homes and the public services to support them. They’re all brimming with the personality of their imaginary fairy inhabitants and highly detailed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The wee buildings have been dubbed “Little Point Richmond” and Laura loves them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> I appreciate all things whimsical and artistic and those little things that make life more meaningful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>But she wants to know: where did this little fairy amusement park come from? Who is behind it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today on the show we explore some of the hidden treasures you’ve been wondering about as you explore your neighborhoods. We’ll start in the tucked away community of Point Richmond in the East Bay and then make our way to Golden Gate Park in San Francisco to visit a very green waterfall. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sponsor break\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Scattered across the Point Richmond neighborhood are dozens of intricate fairy houses. KQED reporter Pauline Bartolone set out to discover who is behind them all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of kids running\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> “Oh I found something!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Every time my five year old daughter and I go to Little Point Richmond, there’s something new to explore. On a recent Saturday with one of her buddies it felt like we were on an easter egg hunt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Over here!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> At least thirty magical creations, in all shapes and colors, flank the sidewalks. Some are hidden under branches, others are on the ground in plain sight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1: \u003c/strong>Ahhh! Fairyhouse…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2: \u003c/strong>Ah… there’s too many of them…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They jut out from tree trunks, or perched on stumps and concrete walls. When found, they’re a total delight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> Another fairyhouse… Pretty…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Let’s go!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They’re like tiny dollhouses made of gourds, popsicle sticks, or sawed-off baskets. Each has their own theme.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> We gotta ring the bell!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>And there’s plenty to interact with… windchimes, marble slides…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> See how it goes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a bell ringing and a marble rolling down a shoot.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Open up a tiny door and you’ll peak into a miniature world of whimsy. Furniture crafted with found things, like a stool made with a bottle cap. You’ll find a one inch salmon dinner and thumbnail-sized mailboxes. The scenes make these preschoolers bust out into song.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1 singing: \u003c/strong>Go on the bench and go in your cozy fairy house and sit on your little chair. Close the fairy house house and you’re all ready now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Just a few minutes of playing with the wee dwellings inspire deep questions:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Who made these?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Neighbors say the fairy houses just pop up like mushrooms after a good rain. But there is indeed one artist behind them, who so far has been pretty elusive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I’ve been hiding for so long \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie Robinson. He’s a professional illustrator and successful comic book artist. He lives on the street with all the fairy houses, but he doesn’t sign his works. And this is the first time he’s publicly spoken about being the fairy house creator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Just here in the basement is my little workshop of sorts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Call it social anxiety, or maybe humility, Jimmie prefers the work space underneath his house over being seen outside with his creations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do not want the spotlight. This is true. I wanted people to see the fairy houses, but not see me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says this public art project, it all started about eight years ago. On a wall outside his own house. All the flowers had died in one of his planter boxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I put this little tiny garden shed, like a gnome garden shed there as if, you know, “Hey, I’m working on new flowers. Don’t worry.” And the flowers never came back, but I just kept building off of the garden shed. So made a little pathway for it. And then a house for the garden shed. People would stop and look at it and it was funny. That’s where it all started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Then he built one for his neighbor. And then another one. He’s friendly with people on the block so he knew enough about them to cater his creations to their specific jobs and interests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> So I already knew that Rosa was a librarian, that, you know, that Aveline was from France.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> He says some of his neighbors are touched when fairy houses pop up in their yards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>You know, Tien, she’s from Laos, she’s Laotian and when I did the Laotian flag and I researched how to make the numbers. And so I did them in their native language and they were just like, they’re bringing all their friends and neighbors and family over to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> But most of the time, he doesn’t see their reactions. Because he’s often putting the houses up at night, when no one is looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do get notes. I get letters. I get stuff left in the mailbox.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Little Point Richmond became more of a town for fairies a few years ago when Jimmie started crafting mini public services. There’s now a fire station, a post office, a school and a little library, with yes, miniature books and pages to turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes Jimmie about a month to craft a fairy dwelling. But each project is different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>And I’ll be down here six hours a day, all day, or barely at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says he’s always been a tinkerer, back to when he was growing up in Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I’m an only child. My mom’s very creative herself as a seamstress and so I didn’t have brothers and sisters to play with. I had to create worlds. I had to imagine my own places, uh, or build things that had a story as well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>He says building fairy houses is different from his two-dimensional work as an illustrator. With comic books, he completes the story for the reader. But fairy houses invite people to imagine their own stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Fairy houses are open ended. They’re, you know, open for interpretation and all that. There’s no figures. There’s just the house. You don’t know what it does, what lives there, how it lives, what it eats, what it does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Ooh, this one’s going to need some work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>On a walk down the fairy house street, Jimmie shows me all the things people add to the houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Oh, yeah. See somebody’s added a bunch of stuff here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>People leave a lot of fairy figurines, of course, but unexpected treasures show up too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Yeah, there’s salamanders and little glass rocks and pebbles and a candy wrapper. There’s a little nut back there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie has to make a lot of repairs to these little worlds…he checks on them once a week. But the way visitors interact with them gives him new ideas, too. …Like the marble slide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I was finding marbles, they were part of this little landscape and the thing was the kids would mess with them and the marbles would roll down the hill. And so that’s when I came up with making my own marble run.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie says, Little Point Richmond is all about inclusivity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>The houses aren’t just for fairies — gnomes and insects can live here too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And to be a fairy tourist, you don’t have to be a kid. In fact, lately, people of all ages come by the bus load. It’s on Google Maps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> My intention with the fairy houses is to make an environment that you can walk into an interactive experience. That’s what I want. I don’t care if it’s a kid or adult or whatever or my neighbors. It is you’re walking into an area that’s now Little Point Richmond.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The latest addition to the neighborhood? A mini Louvre, as in the French national art museum, where visitors can contribute bite-sized works of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED reporter Pauline Bartalone. She first reported on the fairy houses for Craftsmanship Magazine. Thanks also to Eli Rosenberg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those fairy homes are quite the draw for kids. We’re currently working on an episode about other kid-friendly places and activities in the Bay Area and we want to hear from you. If you have kids in your life, what are some of your favorite places to have fun? Whether it’s a business, outdoor space, cultural center or an offbeat hidden gem — we want to hear about it and why you love it. Use your phone to send a voice memo to \u003ca href=\"mailto:baycurious@kqed.org\">baycurious@kqed.org\u003c/a> or leave us a voicemail. Just call 415-553-3334.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next up we’re heading across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park where another listener question is waiting for us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> I’ve lived in San Francisco for over 30 years but my husband and I moved to the Richmond district a couple of years ago and during COVID, it was awesome to get out into the park and be around other people, but at a distance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This is Persie Nakonechny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> That’s when we really took a closer look at a lot of the little hollows, the museums, the little areas that are made, you know, just for people to enjoy and hang out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>There’s one particular feature in Golden Gate Park that Persie has wondered about whenever she passes it. Rainbow Falls… a man-made waterfall on John F. Kennedy Promenade near Crossover Drive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> the water at Rainbow Falls and the creek that runs from it into Lloyd Lake is sometimes an alarming shade of green. with a weird foam. I’m not sure if it’s algae or an attempt to stop people from being tempted to drink it or something else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>We passed this one along to KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a stream gurgling, birds singing, wind\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I had to see this green waterfall for myself. Even though it’s man-made, the area is serene with trees, tall grasses and bushes bordering the lake. I even saw a few ducks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Time to hang out with the ducks. \u003cem>(Sounds of wings flapping) \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>This spot used to be a quarry. Many of the original roads in Golden Gate Park were built with rock from here. When the quarry closed, neighbors wanted something beautiful and Park Superintendent John McLaren listened. The Falls opened in 1930. General Electric lit up the water with multicolored lights for the dedication, thus the name “Rainbow Falls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lights don’t work nowadays, but both the waterfall and the pool below it are green, bright green. I talked to someone who can tell me why.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>My name is Dave Iribarne. I’m the superintendent of Golden Gate Park for the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> What color would you call this green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>I would say it’s definitely neon green with a hint of lime.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>What causes water in this lake and the corresponding falls to be this shade of green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> Basically, it’s just a natural algae bloom. it’s just an alarming shade. So it kind of freaks people out, but there’s really nothing harmful about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Dave tells me that the shade of green changes depending on what’s going on with the algae, and today when I arrive, I see that he and his crew are draining the falls for maintenance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> We’re right now in the process of, uh, installing aeration in Lloyd Lake, which feeds Rainbow Falls. And then we’re going to put some flocculant. It’s like a powder that gets poured in, and it actually grabs onto the algae and weighs it down and sinks it down to the bottom so that it can’t keep reproducing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> To help control algae growth, they also add in some microbiotics, which are living organisms that actually feed on the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> And then we put in a dye, like a green dye. It’s pretty unnatural looking. We have it in many of our lakes in the park. But the dye prevents the sunlight from feeding the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Okay, but it is like for sure for sure it’s the algae that causes this color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> 100 percent it’s the algae that causes the color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> That’s so interesting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>Yeah, we’re actually getting ready for St. Patrick’s Day. So, you know, we just dye it green. Just kidding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I take all this info back to Persie to see what she thinks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> So that’s natural. And maybe the change in the color would make sense to that, like in the summer, when there’s more sunlight that it’s growing more, and that’s why it turns that fluorescent green. It’s so funny to me that it’s a natural substance. But nature’s weird.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Indeed, it is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That was KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Senad, Alana Walker, Holly Kernan and everyone at team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"title": "Why Is the Water at Golden Gate Park’s Rainbow Falls Bright Green? | KQED",
"description": "San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park has some seriously weird water sometimes. Rainbow Falls, off of JFK Promenade, often has neon green-colored water. Here’s why.",
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"headline": "Why Is the Water at Golden Gate Park’s Rainbow Falls Bright Green?",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Golden Gate Park is one of those magical places where \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11915065/take-a-very-curious-golden-gate-park-walking-tour\">it’s possible to stumble upon something new\u003c/a>, even after visiting hundreds of times. \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11915008/golden-gate-park-was-once-miles-and-miles-of-sand-dunes\">It’s full of hidden trails\u003c/a>, tucked-away lakes and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11915788/healing-in-nature-at-the-aids-memorial-grove\">private dells\u003c/a>. And then, there are park features that are smack dab in the middle of everything but somehow become almost invisible in their ubiquity. That’s the case for a waterfall along John F Kennedy Promenade, just east of Crossover Drive. Hundreds of people jog, bike or stroll past Rainbow Falls daily, but few stop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The spot where the falls sit today used to be a small quarry, used to supply stone for a number of park projects. Many of the early roads in the park were made with stone from here. Later, it became a public dumping ground, so neighbors called on the city to build something beautiful. \u003ca href=\"https://www.tclf.org/pioneer/john-mclaren\">The superintendent at the time, John McLaren\u003c/a>, listened and oversaw the creation of the waterfall we see today. The falls opened in 1930 with a spectacular evening dedication that featured a multi-hued light display shining on the waterfall. That’s how the falls got their name — Rainbow Falls. No lights can be seen now, but look closely, and you can see the bronze light fixtures from near the top of the falls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Persie Nakonechny has definitely noticed this waterfall, but mostly because there’s something not quite right about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The water at Rainbow Falls and the creek that runs from it into Lloyd Lake is sometimes an alarming shade of green,” Nakonechny said. “I’m not sure if it’s algae or an attempt to stop people from being tempted to drink it or something else.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What’s going on with the almost fluorescent green hue the water takes on sometimes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030785\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030785\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ‘greenness’ of the waterfall fluctuates with the seasons, but Reddit user wopwopdoowop captured a particularly green moment. \u003ccite>(wopwopdoowop/Reddit)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The answer is actually fairly simple — it’s an algae bloom, said Dave Iribarne, superintendent of Golden Gate Park for the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department. He describes the color as “neon green with a hint of lime.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s just an alarming shade,” he said. “So it kind of freaks people out, but there’s really nothing harmful about it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The color changes throughout the year, he explained, depending on what’s going on with the algae and various efforts by San Francisco Recreation & Parks Department to control its growth. The water from the falls drops into a pool, then runs downhill next to the JFK promenade for several hundred feet until it drains into Lloyd Lake. From there, it is pumped back up to the top of the falls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To keep the algae at bay, Rec and Park has installed aeration in Lloyd Lake, and they add a powder to the water, called flocculant, that sticks to the algae and weighs it down to the bottom. On top of all that, they also introduce microbiotics to the water that eat the algae. Still, at certain times of year, the water is unmistakably green.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s so funny to me that it’s a natural substance,” question asker Persie Nakonechny said. “Nature’s weird.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029892\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 958px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029892\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"958\" height=\"738\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356.jpg 958w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356-800x616.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356-160x123.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 958px) 100vw, 958px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Golden Gate Park’s \u003ca href=\"https://opensfhistory.org/Display/wnp37.01750.jpg\">Rainbow Falls, San Francisco,\u003c/a> circa 1933. \u003ccite>(OpenSFHistory/wnp37.01750)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Hey everyone, I’m Olivia Allen-Price. And this is Bay Curious, the show that answers listener questions about the San Francisco Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today’s show takes us to the city of Richmond where something magical is happening within the small bayside neighborhood of Point Richmond. That’s where a Bay Curious listener, who also happens to be a KQED employee, Laura Benitez lives. She was on a stroll with her toddler, passing the local fire station when…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Next to the fire station, there was a tiny fairy house fire station. And it was just the cutest thing. And she played with it for like half an hour. And I then kind of heard from other people in the neighborhood that there was a whole series of fairy houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sprinkled all up and down Washington Street you’ll find more miniature homes and the public services to support them. They’re all brimming with the personality of their imaginary fairy inhabitants and highly detailed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The wee buildings have been dubbed “Little Point Richmond” and Laura loves them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> I appreciate all things whimsical and artistic and those little things that make life more meaningful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>But she wants to know: where did this little fairy amusement park come from? Who is behind it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today on the show we explore some of the hidden treasures you’ve been wondering about as you explore your neighborhoods. We’ll start in the tucked away community of Point Richmond in the East Bay and then make our way to Golden Gate Park in San Francisco to visit a very green waterfall. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sponsor break\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Scattered across the Point Richmond neighborhood are dozens of intricate fairy houses. KQED reporter Pauline Bartolone set out to discover who is behind them all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of kids running\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> “Oh I found something!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Every time my five year old daughter and I go to Little Point Richmond, there’s something new to explore. On a recent Saturday with one of her buddies it felt like we were on an easter egg hunt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Over here!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> At least thirty magical creations, in all shapes and colors, flank the sidewalks. Some are hidden under branches, others are on the ground in plain sight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1: \u003c/strong>Ahhh! Fairyhouse…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2: \u003c/strong>Ah… there’s too many of them…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They jut out from tree trunks, or perched on stumps and concrete walls. When found, they’re a total delight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> Another fairyhouse… Pretty…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Let’s go!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They’re like tiny dollhouses made of gourds, popsicle sticks, or sawed-off baskets. Each has their own theme.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> We gotta ring the bell!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>And there’s plenty to interact with… windchimes, marble slides…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> See how it goes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a bell ringing and a marble rolling down a shoot.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Open up a tiny door and you’ll peak into a miniature world of whimsy. Furniture crafted with found things, like a stool made with a bottle cap. You’ll find a one inch salmon dinner and thumbnail-sized mailboxes. The scenes make these preschoolers bust out into song.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1 singing: \u003c/strong>Go on the bench and go in your cozy fairy house and sit on your little chair. Close the fairy house house and you’re all ready now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Just a few minutes of playing with the wee dwellings inspire deep questions:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Who made these?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Neighbors say the fairy houses just pop up like mushrooms after a good rain. But there is indeed one artist behind them, who so far has been pretty elusive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I’ve been hiding for so long \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie Robinson. He’s a professional illustrator and successful comic book artist. He lives on the street with all the fairy houses, but he doesn’t sign his works. And this is the first time he’s publicly spoken about being the fairy house creator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Just here in the basement is my little workshop of sorts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Call it social anxiety, or maybe humility, Jimmie prefers the work space underneath his house over being seen outside with his creations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do not want the spotlight. This is true. I wanted people to see the fairy houses, but not see me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says this public art project, it all started about eight years ago. On a wall outside his own house. All the flowers had died in one of his planter boxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I put this little tiny garden shed, like a gnome garden shed there as if, you know, “Hey, I’m working on new flowers. Don’t worry.” And the flowers never came back, but I just kept building off of the garden shed. So made a little pathway for it. And then a house for the garden shed. People would stop and look at it and it was funny. That’s where it all started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Then he built one for his neighbor. And then another one. He’s friendly with people on the block so he knew enough about them to cater his creations to their specific jobs and interests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> So I already knew that Rosa was a librarian, that, you know, that Aveline was from France.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> He says some of his neighbors are touched when fairy houses pop up in their yards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>You know, Tien, she’s from Laos, she’s Laotian and when I did the Laotian flag and I researched how to make the numbers. And so I did them in their native language and they were just like, they’re bringing all their friends and neighbors and family over to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> But most of the time, he doesn’t see their reactions. Because he’s often putting the houses up at night, when no one is looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do get notes. I get letters. I get stuff left in the mailbox.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Little Point Richmond became more of a town for fairies a few years ago when Jimmie started crafting mini public services. There’s now a fire station, a post office, a school and a little library, with yes, miniature books and pages to turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes Jimmie about a month to craft a fairy dwelling. But each project is different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>And I’ll be down here six hours a day, all day, or barely at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says he’s always been a tinkerer, back to when he was growing up in Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I’m an only child. My mom’s very creative herself as a seamstress and so I didn’t have brothers and sisters to play with. I had to create worlds. I had to imagine my own places, uh, or build things that had a story as well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>He says building fairy houses is different from his two-dimensional work as an illustrator. With comic books, he completes the story for the reader. But fairy houses invite people to imagine their own stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Fairy houses are open ended. They’re, you know, open for interpretation and all that. There’s no figures. There’s just the house. You don’t know what it does, what lives there, how it lives, what it eats, what it does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Ooh, this one’s going to need some work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>On a walk down the fairy house street, Jimmie shows me all the things people add to the houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Oh, yeah. See somebody’s added a bunch of stuff here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>People leave a lot of fairy figurines, of course, but unexpected treasures show up too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Yeah, there’s salamanders and little glass rocks and pebbles and a candy wrapper. There’s a little nut back there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie has to make a lot of repairs to these little worlds…he checks on them once a week. But the way visitors interact with them gives him new ideas, too. …Like the marble slide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I was finding marbles, they were part of this little landscape and the thing was the kids would mess with them and the marbles would roll down the hill. And so that’s when I came up with making my own marble run.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie says, Little Point Richmond is all about inclusivity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>The houses aren’t just for fairies — gnomes and insects can live here too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And to be a fairy tourist, you don’t have to be a kid. In fact, lately, people of all ages come by the bus load. It’s on Google Maps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> My intention with the fairy houses is to make an environment that you can walk into an interactive experience. That’s what I want. I don’t care if it’s a kid or adult or whatever or my neighbors. It is you’re walking into an area that’s now Little Point Richmond.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The latest addition to the neighborhood? A mini Louvre, as in the French national art museum, where visitors can contribute bite-sized works of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED reporter Pauline Bartalone. She first reported on the fairy houses for Craftsmanship Magazine. Thanks also to Eli Rosenberg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those fairy homes are quite the draw for kids. We’re currently working on an episode about other kid-friendly places and activities in the Bay Area and we want to hear from you. If you have kids in your life, what are some of your favorite places to have fun? Whether it’s a business, outdoor space, cultural center or an offbeat hidden gem — we want to hear about it and why you love it. Use your phone to send a voice memo to \u003ca href=\"mailto:baycurious@kqed.org\">baycurious@kqed.org\u003c/a> or leave us a voicemail. Just call 415-553-3334.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next up we’re heading across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park where another listener question is waiting for us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> I’ve lived in San Francisco for over 30 years but my husband and I moved to the Richmond district a couple of years ago and during COVID, it was awesome to get out into the park and be around other people, but at a distance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This is Persie Nakonechny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> That’s when we really took a closer look at a lot of the little hollows, the museums, the little areas that are made, you know, just for people to enjoy and hang out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>There’s one particular feature in Golden Gate Park that Persie has wondered about whenever she passes it. Rainbow Falls… a man-made waterfall on John F. Kennedy Promenade near Crossover Drive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> the water at Rainbow Falls and the creek that runs from it into Lloyd Lake is sometimes an alarming shade of green. with a weird foam. I’m not sure if it’s algae or an attempt to stop people from being tempted to drink it or something else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>We passed this one along to KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a stream gurgling, birds singing, wind\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I had to see this green waterfall for myself. Even though it’s man-made, the area is serene with trees, tall grasses and bushes bordering the lake. I even saw a few ducks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Time to hang out with the ducks. \u003cem>(Sounds of wings flapping) \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>This spot used to be a quarry. Many of the original roads in Golden Gate Park were built with rock from here. When the quarry closed, neighbors wanted something beautiful and Park Superintendent John McLaren listened. The Falls opened in 1930. General Electric lit up the water with multicolored lights for the dedication, thus the name “Rainbow Falls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lights don’t work nowadays, but both the waterfall and the pool below it are green, bright green. I talked to someone who can tell me why.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>My name is Dave Iribarne. I’m the superintendent of Golden Gate Park for the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> What color would you call this green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>I would say it’s definitely neon green with a hint of lime.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>What causes water in this lake and the corresponding falls to be this shade of green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> Basically, it’s just a natural algae bloom. it’s just an alarming shade. So it kind of freaks people out, but there’s really nothing harmful about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Dave tells me that the shade of green changes depending on what’s going on with the algae, and today when I arrive, I see that he and his crew are draining the falls for maintenance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> We’re right now in the process of, uh, installing aeration in Lloyd Lake, which feeds Rainbow Falls. And then we’re going to put some flocculant. It’s like a powder that gets poured in, and it actually grabs onto the algae and weighs it down and sinks it down to the bottom so that it can’t keep reproducing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> To help control algae growth, they also add in some microbiotics, which are living organisms that actually feed on the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> And then we put in a dye, like a green dye. It’s pretty unnatural looking. We have it in many of our lakes in the park. But the dye prevents the sunlight from feeding the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Okay, but it is like for sure for sure it’s the algae that causes this color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> 100 percent it’s the algae that causes the color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> That’s so interesting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>Yeah, we’re actually getting ready for St. Patrick’s Day. So, you know, we just dye it green. Just kidding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I take all this info back to Persie to see what she thinks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> So that’s natural. And maybe the change in the color would make sense to that, like in the summer, when there’s more sunlight that it’s growing more, and that’s why it turns that fluorescent green. It’s so funny to me that it’s a natural substance. But nature’s weird.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Indeed, it is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That was KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Senad, Alana Walker, Holly Kernan and everyone at team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "Fairy Houses Enchant Point Richmond With Miniature Worlds of Whimsy",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Residents of the artsy East Bay neighborhood of Point Richmond have at least 30 fun reasons to take a walk around their neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dozens of little fairy dwellings are scattered along three blocks of Washington Avenue, inviting pedestrians to delight in their magical worlds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Laura Benitez’s toddler spotted one right after they moved to the area a few years ago. During a stroll downtown, her daughter noticed a wee fire station right outside the building for human firefighters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was just the cutest thing,” Benitez said. “She played with it for like half an hour.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028902\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028902\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Fairy Fire Department fairy installation on Washington Avenue, on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030373\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030373\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Marc’s Arts fairy house on Washington Avenue. Right: The ‘Little Louvre,’ a newly built fairy museum, also on Washington Avenue. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Benitez soon learned that the fire station was part of an entire village of miniature fairy houses nearby. Ever since, she’s been taking her daughter to “Little Point Richmond,” the stretch of small dollhouse-like dwellings made of gourds, popsicle sticks and sawed-off baskets.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Benitez was curious about this fairy amusement park that had been such a treat to her and her daughter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I would love to know where the idea came from\u003cem>,” \u003c/em>Benitez said. “I appreciate all things whimsical and artistic.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030372\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030372\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A fairy installation with a ‘Little Point Richmond’ welcome billboard. \u003ccite>(Pauline Bartolone/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Popping up like mushrooms after a good rain\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Taking a stroll down Washington Street feels like going on an easter egg hunt. Foot-high fairy dwellings flank the sidewalk. Some are hidden under branches, others are in plain sight, resting on a tree stump or a concrete wall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Each house opens up into a miniature world of whimsy. There’s a 1-inch salmon dinner, a stool made out of a bottle cap, and thumbnail-sized mailboxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Neighbors say the magical dwellings just appear like mushrooms after a good rain. But there is indeed one artist behind them who often works when no one is looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028904\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028904\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jimmie Robinson installs the ‘Little Louvre’ at a neighbor’s house on Washington Avenue in Richmond on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>His name is Jimmie Robinson. He’s a professional illustrator and \u003ca href=\"https://imagecomics.com/creators/jimmie-robinson\">comic book artist\u003c/a> who lives with the humans in “Little Point Richmond.” And he’s been making the houses for about eight years now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’ve been hiding for so long,” Robinson said with a laugh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Due to some social anxiety, and a little humility, Jimmie hasn’t wanted attention for his creations. He likes surprising his neighbors with each new addition to the neighborhood. He puts the houses up at night or in the early hours of the morning so people don’t see him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I do not want the spotlight,” Jimmie said. “I wanted people to see the fairy houses but not see me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028907\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028907\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jimmie Robinson poses for a photo at his home in Richmond on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030722\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030722\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Robinson works on a fairy house in his workshop. Right: Robinson looks at the site where he installed fairy houses on Washington Avenue. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The public art project started on a whim, he said, when all the flowers had died in one of the planter boxes outside his home. To temporarily fill the void, Robinson put a tiny gnome-sized garden shed there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The flowers never came back, but I just kept building off of the garden shed,” Jimmie said. He added a pathway for the shed that connects to a house — the inaugural fairy house. “People would stop and look at it, and it was funny,” Robinson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soon after that, he built a tiny house for his neighbor. And then another neighbor. He’s friendly with people on his block, so he caters his creations to their specific jobs and interests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I already knew that Rosa was a librarian, that Eveline was from France,” he said. “It just kept going and going.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030439\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030439\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The inside of Robinson’s Little Point School of Magic. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When the daughter of a neighbor joined the Air Force, Jimmie installed a hanging toy helicopter outside their house. The real estate agents on the block got a modern tiny — tiny — home with a realtor sign. And when he included a sign in Lao script for his Laotian neighbor, she was so excited that she brought all her friends and neighbors over to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes Jimmie about a month to craft each structure. He often works late into the night when he’s especially into a project.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Little Point Richmond became more of a \u003cem>fairy village\u003c/em> when Jimmie started crafting mini-public services. There’s now a fire station, a post office, a school and a little library with, yes, miniature books and pages to turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030436\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030436\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The miniature fairy book created by Robinson. \u003ccite>(Pauline Bartolone/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030739\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030739\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1234\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-800x494.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-1020x629.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-1536x948.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-1920x1185.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A fairy clothesline built by Robinson on Washington Avenue. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>A different type of creative work\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Robinson grew up in Oakland. His mother was a seamstress and infused creativity into his life. He said, growing up, he was always tinkering with something. And as an only child, his imagination was everything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t have brothers and sisters to play with. I had to create worlds,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Building fairy houses is different from his two-dimensional illustration work, he said. With comic books, he completes the story for the reader. But fairy houses invite people to create their own stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Fairy houses are open-ended,” he said. “There’s no figures. There’s just the house. You don’t know what it does; what lives there, how it lives, what it eats.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030440\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030440\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The Little Point School of Magic. Right: A fairy house under repair. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Repairing little worlds \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>About once a week, Jimmie checks on the houses to make repairs. Weather and grabby hands cause wear and tear. So sometimes, he needs to glue a sign back on, refasten a door, or fix a broken ladder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s public art … these things happen,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sometimes, his creations are dismantled or stolen. But people contribute as well, leaving offerings of fairy figurines and less desirable pebbles and candy wrappers. Other times, he finds a stranger has added a whole other structure to a cluster of fairy houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030442\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030442\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A miniature map to Little Point Richmond. \u003ccite>(Pauline Bartolone/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The way people interact with the art inspires Jimmie, too. He created a marble slide when he learned that glass balls were rolling down the sidewalk when kids played with one of his toy landscapes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Jimmie’s world isn’t just for children. He wants everyone to feel they’re walking into an “interactive experience.” And busloads of fairy tourists are coming for it. The Little Point Richmond fairy houses are on Google Maps now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028910\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028910\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fairy houses that Robinson built and installed on a tree on Washington Avenue on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030730\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030730\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fairy houses by Robinson along Washington Avenue on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Pauline Bartolone first reported on the Point Richmond fairy houses for Craftsmanship Magazine.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Hey everyone, I’m Olivia Allen-Price. And this is Bay Curious, the show that answers listener questions about the San Francisco Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today’s show takes us to the city of Richmond where something magical is happening within the small bayside neighborhood of Point Richmond. That’s where a Bay Curious listener, who also happens to be a KQED employee, Laura Benitez lives. She was on a stroll with her toddler, passing the local fire station when…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Next to the fire station, there was a tiny fairy house fire station. And it was just the cutest thing. And she played with it for like half an hour. And I then kind of heard from other people in the neighborhood that there was a whole series of fairy houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sprinkled all up and down Washington Street you’ll find more miniature homes and the public services to support them. They’re all brimming with the personality of their imaginary fairy inhabitants and highly detailed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The wee buildings have been dubbed “Little Point Richmond” and Laura loves them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> I appreciate all things whimsical and artistic and those little things that make life more meaningful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>But she wants to know: where did this little fairy amusement park come from? Who is behind it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today on the show we explore some of the hidden treasures you’ve been wondering about as you explore your neighborhoods. We’ll start in the tucked away community of Point Richmond in the East Bay and then make our way to Golden Gate Park in San Francisco to visit a very green waterfall. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sponsor break\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Scattered across the Point Richmond neighborhood are dozens of intricate fairy houses. KQED reporter Pauline Bartolone set out to discover who is behind them all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of kids running\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> “Oh I found something!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Every time my five year old daughter and I go to Little Point Richmond, there’s something new to explore. On a recent Saturday with one of her buddies it felt like we were on an easter egg hunt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Over here!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> At least thirty magical creations, in all shapes and colors, flank the sidewalks. Some are hidden under branches, others are on the ground in plain sight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1: \u003c/strong>Ahhh! Fairyhouse…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2: \u003c/strong>Ah… there’s too many of them…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They jut out from tree trunks, or perched on stumps and concrete walls. When found, they’re a total delight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> Another fairyhouse… Pretty…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Let’s go!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They’re like tiny dollhouses made of gourds, popsicle sticks, or sawed-off baskets. Each has their own theme.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> We gotta ring the bell!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>And there’s plenty to interact with… windchimes, marble slides…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> See how it goes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a bell ringing and a marble rolling down a shoot.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Open up a tiny door and you’ll peak into a miniature world of whimsy. Furniture crafted with found things, like a stool made with a bottle cap. You’ll find a one inch salmon dinner and thumbnail-sized mailboxes. The scenes make these preschoolers bust out into song.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1 singing: \u003c/strong>Go on the bench and go in your cozy fairy house and sit on your little chair. Close the fairy house house and you’re all ready now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Just a few minutes of playing with the wee dwellings inspire deep questions:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Who made these?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Neighbors say the fairy houses just pop up like mushrooms after a good rain. But there is indeed one artist behind them, who so far has been pretty elusive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I’ve been hiding for so long \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie Robinson. He’s a professional illustrator and successful comic book artist. He lives on the street with all the fairy houses, but he doesn’t sign his works. And this is the first time he’s publicly spoken about being the fairy house creator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Just here in the basement is my little workshop of sorts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Call it social anxiety, or maybe humility, Jimmie prefers the work space underneath his house over being seen outside with his creations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do not want the spotlight. This is true. I wanted people to see the fairy houses, but not see me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says this public art project, it all started about eight years ago. On a wall outside his own house. All the flowers had died in one of his planter boxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I put this little tiny garden shed, like a gnome garden shed there as if, you know, “Hey, I’m working on new flowers. Don’t worry.” And the flowers never came back, but I just kept building off of the garden shed. So made a little pathway for it. And then a house for the garden shed. People would stop and look at it and it was funny. That’s where it all started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Then he built one for his neighbor. And then another one. He’s friendly with people on the block so he knew enough about them to cater his creations to their specific jobs and interests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> So I already knew that Rosa was a librarian, that, you know, that Aveline was from France.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> He says some of his neighbors are touched when fairy houses pop up in their yards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>You know, Tien, she’s from Laos, she’s Laotian and when I did the Laotian flag and I researched how to make the numbers. And so I did them in their native language and they were just like, they’re bringing all their friends and neighbors and family over to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> But most of the time, he doesn’t see their reactions. Because he’s often putting the houses up at night, when no one is looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do get notes. I get letters. I get stuff left in the mailbox.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Little Point Richmond became more of a town for fairies a few years ago when Jimmie started crafting mini public services. There’s now a fire station, a post office, a school and a little library, with yes, miniature books and pages to turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes Jimmie about a month to craft a fairy dwelling. But each project is different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>And I’ll be down here six hours a day, all day, or barely at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says he’s always been a tinkerer, back to when he was growing up in Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I’m an only child. My mom’s very creative herself as a seamstress and so I didn’t have brothers and sisters to play with. I had to create worlds. I had to imagine my own places, uh, or build things that had a story as well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>He says building fairy houses is different from his two-dimensional work as an illustrator. With comic books, he completes the story for the reader. But fairy houses invite people to imagine their own stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Fairy houses are open ended. They’re, you know, open for interpretation and all that. There’s no figures. There’s just the house. You don’t know what it does, what lives there, how it lives, what it eats, what it does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Ooh, this one’s going to need some work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>On a walk down the fairy house street, Jimmie shows me all the things people add to the houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Oh, yeah. See somebody’s added a bunch of stuff here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>People leave a lot of fairy figurines, of course, but unexpected treasures show up too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Yeah, there’s salamanders and little glass rocks and pebbles and a candy wrapper. There’s a little nut back there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie has to make a lot of repairs to these little worlds…he checks on them once a week. But the way visitors interact with them gives him new ideas, too. …Like the marble slide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I was finding marbles, they were part of this little landscape and the thing was the kids would mess with them and the marbles would roll down the hill. And so that’s when I came up with making my own marble run.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie says, Little Point Richmond is all about inclusivity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>The houses aren’t just for fairies — gnomes and insects can live here too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And to be a fairy tourist, you don’t have to be a kid. In fact, lately, people of all ages come by the bus load. It’s on Google Maps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> My intention with the fairy houses is to make an environment that you can walk into an interactive experience. That’s what I want. I don’t care if it’s a kid or adult or whatever or my neighbors. It is you’re walking into an area that’s now Little Point Richmond.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The latest addition to the neighborhood? A mini Louvre, as in the French national art museum, where visitors can contribute bite-sized works of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED reporter Pauline Bartalone. She first reported on the fairy houses for Craftsmanship Magazine. Thanks also to Eli Rosenberg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those fairy homes are quite the draw for kids. We’re currently working on an episode about other kid-friendly places and activities in the Bay Area and we want to hear from you. If you have kids in your life, what are some of your favorite places to have fun? Whether it’s a business, outdoor space, cultural center or an offbeat hidden gem — we want to hear about it and why you love it. Use your phone to send a voice memo to \u003ca href=\"mailto:baycurious@kqed.org\">baycurious@kqed.org\u003c/a> or leave us a voicemail. Just call 415-553-3334.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next up we’re heading across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park where another listener question is waiting for us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> I’ve lived in San Francisco for over 30 years but my husband and I moved to the Richmond district a couple of years ago and during COVID, it was awesome to get out into the park and be around other people, but at a distance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This is Persie Nakonechny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> That’s when we really took a closer look at a lot of the little hollows, the museums, the little areas that are made, you know, just for people to enjoy and hang out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>There’s one particular feature in Golden Gate Park that Persie has wondered about whenever she passes it. Rainbow Falls… a man-made waterfall on John F. Kennedy Promenade near Crossover Drive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> the water at Rainbow Falls and the creek that runs from it into Lloyd Lake is sometimes an alarming shade of green. with a weird foam. I’m not sure if it’s algae or an attempt to stop people from being tempted to drink it or something else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>We passed this one along to KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a stream gurgling, birds singing, wind\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I had to see this green waterfall for myself. Even though it’s man-made, the area is serene with trees, tall grasses and bushes bordering the lake. I even saw a few ducks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Time to hang out with the ducks. \u003cem>(Sounds of wings flapping) \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>This spot used to be a quarry. Many of the original roads in Golden Gate Park were built with rock from here. When the quarry closed, neighbors wanted something beautiful and Park Superintendent John McLaren listened. The Falls opened in 1930. General Electric lit up the water with multicolored lights for the dedication, thus the name “Rainbow Falls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lights don’t work nowadays, but both the waterfall and the pool below it are green, bright green. I talked to someone who can tell me why.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>My name is Dave Iribarne. I’m the superintendent of Golden Gate Park for the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> What color would you call this green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>I would say it’s definitely neon green with a hint of lime.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>What causes water in this lake and the corresponding falls to be this shade of green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> Basically, it’s just a natural algae bloom. it’s just an alarming shade. So it kind of freaks people out, but there’s really nothing harmful about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Dave tells me that the shade of green changes depending on what’s going on with the algae, and today when I arrive, I see that he and his crew are draining the falls for maintenance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> We’re right now in the process of, uh, installing aeration in Lloyd Lake, which feeds Rainbow Falls. And then we’re going to put some flocculant. It’s like a powder that gets poured in, and it actually grabs onto the algae and weighs it down and sinks it down to the bottom so that it can’t keep reproducing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> To help control algae growth, they also add in some microbiotics, which are living organisms that actually feed on the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> And then we put in a dye, like a green dye. It’s pretty unnatural looking. We have it in many of our lakes in the park. But the dye prevents the sunlight from feeding the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Okay, but it is like for sure for sure it’s the algae that causes this color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> 100 percent it’s the algae that causes the color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> That’s so interesting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>Yeah, we’re actually getting ready for St. Patrick’s Day. So, you know, we just dye it green. Just kidding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I take all this info back to Persie to see what she thinks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> So that’s natural. And maybe the change in the color would make sense to that, like in the summer, when there’s more sunlight that it’s growing more, and that’s why it turns that fluorescent green. It’s so funny to me that it’s a natural substance. But nature’s weird.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Indeed, it is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That was KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Senad, Alana Walker, Holly Kernan and everyone at team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "A Bay Area artist in Richmond has been stealthily building and placing fairy houses around his neighborhood. His creations bring 'endless fun and fascination' to the East Bay town.",
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"title": "Fairy Houses Enchant Point Richmond With Miniature Worlds of Whimsy | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Residents of the artsy East Bay neighborhood of Point Richmond have at least 30 fun reasons to take a walk around their neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dozens of little fairy dwellings are scattered along three blocks of Washington Avenue, inviting pedestrians to delight in their magical worlds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Laura Benitez’s toddler spotted one right after they moved to the area a few years ago. During a stroll downtown, her daughter noticed a wee fire station right outside the building for human firefighters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was just the cutest thing,” Benitez said. “She played with it for like half an hour.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028902\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028902\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Fairy Fire Department fairy installation on Washington Avenue, on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030373\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030373\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Marc’s Arts fairy house on Washington Avenue. Right: The ‘Little Louvre,’ a newly built fairy museum, also on Washington Avenue. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Benitez soon learned that the fire station was part of an entire village of miniature fairy houses nearby. Ever since, she’s been taking her daughter to “Little Point Richmond,” the stretch of small dollhouse-like dwellings made of gourds, popsicle sticks and sawed-off baskets.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Benitez was curious about this fairy amusement park that had been such a treat to her and her daughter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I would love to know where the idea came from\u003cem>,” \u003c/em>Benitez said. “I appreciate all things whimsical and artistic.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030372\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030372\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A fairy installation with a ‘Little Point Richmond’ welcome billboard. \u003ccite>(Pauline Bartolone/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Popping up like mushrooms after a good rain\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Taking a stroll down Washington Street feels like going on an easter egg hunt. Foot-high fairy dwellings flank the sidewalk. Some are hidden under branches, others are in plain sight, resting on a tree stump or a concrete wall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Each house opens up into a miniature world of whimsy. There’s a 1-inch salmon dinner, a stool made out of a bottle cap, and thumbnail-sized mailboxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Neighbors say the magical dwellings just appear like mushrooms after a good rain. But there is indeed one artist behind them who often works when no one is looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028904\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028904\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jimmie Robinson installs the ‘Little Louvre’ at a neighbor’s house on Washington Avenue in Richmond on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>His name is Jimmie Robinson. He’s a professional illustrator and \u003ca href=\"https://imagecomics.com/creators/jimmie-robinson\">comic book artist\u003c/a> who lives with the humans in “Little Point Richmond.” And he’s been making the houses for about eight years now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’ve been hiding for so long,” Robinson said with a laugh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Due to some social anxiety, and a little humility, Jimmie hasn’t wanted attention for his creations. He likes surprising his neighbors with each new addition to the neighborhood. He puts the houses up at night or in the early hours of the morning so people don’t see him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I do not want the spotlight,” Jimmie said. “I wanted people to see the fairy houses but not see me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028907\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028907\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jimmie Robinson poses for a photo at his home in Richmond on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030722\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030722\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Robinson works on a fairy house in his workshop. Right: Robinson looks at the site where he installed fairy houses on Washington Avenue. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The public art project started on a whim, he said, when all the flowers had died in one of the planter boxes outside his home. To temporarily fill the void, Robinson put a tiny gnome-sized garden shed there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The flowers never came back, but I just kept building off of the garden shed,” Jimmie said. He added a pathway for the shed that connects to a house — the inaugural fairy house. “People would stop and look at it, and it was funny,” Robinson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soon after that, he built a tiny house for his neighbor. And then another neighbor. He’s friendly with people on his block, so he caters his creations to their specific jobs and interests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I already knew that Rosa was a librarian, that Eveline was from France,” he said. “It just kept going and going.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030439\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030439\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The inside of Robinson’s Little Point School of Magic. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When the daughter of a neighbor joined the Air Force, Jimmie installed a hanging toy helicopter outside their house. The real estate agents on the block got a modern tiny — tiny — home with a realtor sign. And when he included a sign in Lao script for his Laotian neighbor, she was so excited that she brought all her friends and neighbors over to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes Jimmie about a month to craft each structure. He often works late into the night when he’s especially into a project.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Little Point Richmond became more of a \u003cem>fairy village\u003c/em> when Jimmie started crafting mini-public services. There’s now a fire station, a post office, a school and a little library with, yes, miniature books and pages to turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030436\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030436\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The miniature fairy book created by Robinson. \u003ccite>(Pauline Bartolone/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030739\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030739\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1234\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-800x494.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-1020x629.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-1536x948.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-1920x1185.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A fairy clothesline built by Robinson on Washington Avenue. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>A different type of creative work\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Robinson grew up in Oakland. His mother was a seamstress and infused creativity into his life. He said, growing up, he was always tinkering with something. And as an only child, his imagination was everything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t have brothers and sisters to play with. I had to create worlds,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Building fairy houses is different from his two-dimensional illustration work, he said. With comic books, he completes the story for the reader. But fairy houses invite people to create their own stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Fairy houses are open-ended,” he said. “There’s no figures. There’s just the house. You don’t know what it does; what lives there, how it lives, what it eats.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030440\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030440\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The Little Point School of Magic. Right: A fairy house under repair. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Repairing little worlds \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>About once a week, Jimmie checks on the houses to make repairs. Weather and grabby hands cause wear and tear. So sometimes, he needs to glue a sign back on, refasten a door, or fix a broken ladder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s public art … these things happen,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sometimes, his creations are dismantled or stolen. But people contribute as well, leaving offerings of fairy figurines and less desirable pebbles and candy wrappers. Other times, he finds a stranger has added a whole other structure to a cluster of fairy houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030442\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030442\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A miniature map to Little Point Richmond. \u003ccite>(Pauline Bartolone/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The way people interact with the art inspires Jimmie, too. He created a marble slide when he learned that glass balls were rolling down the sidewalk when kids played with one of his toy landscapes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Jimmie’s world isn’t just for children. He wants everyone to feel they’re walking into an “interactive experience.” And busloads of fairy tourists are coming for it. The Little Point Richmond fairy houses are on Google Maps now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028910\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028910\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fairy houses that Robinson built and installed on a tree on Washington Avenue on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030730\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030730\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fairy houses by Robinson along Washington Avenue on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Pauline Bartolone first reported on the Point Richmond fairy houses for Craftsmanship Magazine.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Hey everyone, I’m Olivia Allen-Price. And this is Bay Curious, the show that answers listener questions about the San Francisco Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today’s show takes us to the city of Richmond where something magical is happening within the small bayside neighborhood of Point Richmond. That’s where a Bay Curious listener, who also happens to be a KQED employee, Laura Benitez lives. She was on a stroll with her toddler, passing the local fire station when…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Next to the fire station, there was a tiny fairy house fire station. And it was just the cutest thing. And she played with it for like half an hour. And I then kind of heard from other people in the neighborhood that there was a whole series of fairy houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sprinkled all up and down Washington Street you’ll find more miniature homes and the public services to support them. They’re all brimming with the personality of their imaginary fairy inhabitants and highly detailed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The wee buildings have been dubbed “Little Point Richmond” and Laura loves them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> I appreciate all things whimsical and artistic and those little things that make life more meaningful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>But she wants to know: where did this little fairy amusement park come from? Who is behind it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today on the show we explore some of the hidden treasures you’ve been wondering about as you explore your neighborhoods. We’ll start in the tucked away community of Point Richmond in the East Bay and then make our way to Golden Gate Park in San Francisco to visit a very green waterfall. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sponsor break\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Scattered across the Point Richmond neighborhood are dozens of intricate fairy houses. KQED reporter Pauline Bartolone set out to discover who is behind them all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of kids running\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> “Oh I found something!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Every time my five year old daughter and I go to Little Point Richmond, there’s something new to explore. On a recent Saturday with one of her buddies it felt like we were on an easter egg hunt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Over here!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> At least thirty magical creations, in all shapes and colors, flank the sidewalks. Some are hidden under branches, others are on the ground in plain sight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1: \u003c/strong>Ahhh! Fairyhouse…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2: \u003c/strong>Ah… there’s too many of them…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They jut out from tree trunks, or perched on stumps and concrete walls. When found, they’re a total delight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> Another fairyhouse… Pretty…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Let’s go!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They’re like tiny dollhouses made of gourds, popsicle sticks, or sawed-off baskets. Each has their own theme.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> We gotta ring the bell!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>And there’s plenty to interact with… windchimes, marble slides…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> See how it goes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a bell ringing and a marble rolling down a shoot.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Open up a tiny door and you’ll peak into a miniature world of whimsy. Furniture crafted with found things, like a stool made with a bottle cap. You’ll find a one inch salmon dinner and thumbnail-sized mailboxes. The scenes make these preschoolers bust out into song.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1 singing: \u003c/strong>Go on the bench and go in your cozy fairy house and sit on your little chair. Close the fairy house house and you’re all ready now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Just a few minutes of playing with the wee dwellings inspire deep questions:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Who made these?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Neighbors say the fairy houses just pop up like mushrooms after a good rain. But there is indeed one artist behind them, who so far has been pretty elusive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I’ve been hiding for so long \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie Robinson. He’s a professional illustrator and successful comic book artist. He lives on the street with all the fairy houses, but he doesn’t sign his works. And this is the first time he’s publicly spoken about being the fairy house creator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Just here in the basement is my little workshop of sorts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Call it social anxiety, or maybe humility, Jimmie prefers the work space underneath his house over being seen outside with his creations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do not want the spotlight. This is true. I wanted people to see the fairy houses, but not see me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says this public art project, it all started about eight years ago. On a wall outside his own house. All the flowers had died in one of his planter boxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I put this little tiny garden shed, like a gnome garden shed there as if, you know, “Hey, I’m working on new flowers. Don’t worry.” And the flowers never came back, but I just kept building off of the garden shed. So made a little pathway for it. And then a house for the garden shed. People would stop and look at it and it was funny. That’s where it all started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Then he built one for his neighbor. And then another one. He’s friendly with people on the block so he knew enough about them to cater his creations to their specific jobs and interests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> So I already knew that Rosa was a librarian, that, you know, that Aveline was from France.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> He says some of his neighbors are touched when fairy houses pop up in their yards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>You know, Tien, she’s from Laos, she’s Laotian and when I did the Laotian flag and I researched how to make the numbers. And so I did them in their native language and they were just like, they’re bringing all their friends and neighbors and family over to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> But most of the time, he doesn’t see their reactions. Because he’s often putting the houses up at night, when no one is looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do get notes. I get letters. I get stuff left in the mailbox.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Little Point Richmond became more of a town for fairies a few years ago when Jimmie started crafting mini public services. There’s now a fire station, a post office, a school and a little library, with yes, miniature books and pages to turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes Jimmie about a month to craft a fairy dwelling. But each project is different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>And I’ll be down here six hours a day, all day, or barely at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says he’s always been a tinkerer, back to when he was growing up in Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I’m an only child. My mom’s very creative herself as a seamstress and so I didn’t have brothers and sisters to play with. I had to create worlds. I had to imagine my own places, uh, or build things that had a story as well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>He says building fairy houses is different from his two-dimensional work as an illustrator. With comic books, he completes the story for the reader. But fairy houses invite people to imagine their own stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Fairy houses are open ended. They’re, you know, open for interpretation and all that. There’s no figures. There’s just the house. You don’t know what it does, what lives there, how it lives, what it eats, what it does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Ooh, this one’s going to need some work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>On a walk down the fairy house street, Jimmie shows me all the things people add to the houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Oh, yeah. See somebody’s added a bunch of stuff here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>People leave a lot of fairy figurines, of course, but unexpected treasures show up too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Yeah, there’s salamanders and little glass rocks and pebbles and a candy wrapper. There’s a little nut back there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie has to make a lot of repairs to these little worlds…he checks on them once a week. But the way visitors interact with them gives him new ideas, too. …Like the marble slide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I was finding marbles, they were part of this little landscape and the thing was the kids would mess with them and the marbles would roll down the hill. And so that’s when I came up with making my own marble run.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie says, Little Point Richmond is all about inclusivity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>The houses aren’t just for fairies — gnomes and insects can live here too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And to be a fairy tourist, you don’t have to be a kid. In fact, lately, people of all ages come by the bus load. It’s on Google Maps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> My intention with the fairy houses is to make an environment that you can walk into an interactive experience. That’s what I want. I don’t care if it’s a kid or adult or whatever or my neighbors. It is you’re walking into an area that’s now Little Point Richmond.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The latest addition to the neighborhood? A mini Louvre, as in the French national art museum, where visitors can contribute bite-sized works of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED reporter Pauline Bartalone. She first reported on the fairy houses for Craftsmanship Magazine. Thanks also to Eli Rosenberg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those fairy homes are quite the draw for kids. We’re currently working on an episode about other kid-friendly places and activities in the Bay Area and we want to hear from you. If you have kids in your life, what are some of your favorite places to have fun? Whether it’s a business, outdoor space, cultural center or an offbeat hidden gem — we want to hear about it and why you love it. Use your phone to send a voice memo to \u003ca href=\"mailto:baycurious@kqed.org\">baycurious@kqed.org\u003c/a> or leave us a voicemail. Just call 415-553-3334.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next up we’re heading across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park where another listener question is waiting for us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> I’ve lived in San Francisco for over 30 years but my husband and I moved to the Richmond district a couple of years ago and during COVID, it was awesome to get out into the park and be around other people, but at a distance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This is Persie Nakonechny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> That’s when we really took a closer look at a lot of the little hollows, the museums, the little areas that are made, you know, just for people to enjoy and hang out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>There’s one particular feature in Golden Gate Park that Persie has wondered about whenever she passes it. Rainbow Falls… a man-made waterfall on John F. Kennedy Promenade near Crossover Drive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> the water at Rainbow Falls and the creek that runs from it into Lloyd Lake is sometimes an alarming shade of green. with a weird foam. I’m not sure if it’s algae or an attempt to stop people from being tempted to drink it or something else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>We passed this one along to KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a stream gurgling, birds singing, wind\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I had to see this green waterfall for myself. Even though it’s man-made, the area is serene with trees, tall grasses and bushes bordering the lake. I even saw a few ducks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Time to hang out with the ducks. \u003cem>(Sounds of wings flapping) \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>This spot used to be a quarry. Many of the original roads in Golden Gate Park were built with rock from here. When the quarry closed, neighbors wanted something beautiful and Park Superintendent John McLaren listened. The Falls opened in 1930. General Electric lit up the water with multicolored lights for the dedication, thus the name “Rainbow Falls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lights don’t work nowadays, but both the waterfall and the pool below it are green, bright green. I talked to someone who can tell me why.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>My name is Dave Iribarne. I’m the superintendent of Golden Gate Park for the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> What color would you call this green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>I would say it’s definitely neon green with a hint of lime.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>What causes water in this lake and the corresponding falls to be this shade of green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> Basically, it’s just a natural algae bloom. it’s just an alarming shade. So it kind of freaks people out, but there’s really nothing harmful about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Dave tells me that the shade of green changes depending on what’s going on with the algae, and today when I arrive, I see that he and his crew are draining the falls for maintenance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> We’re right now in the process of, uh, installing aeration in Lloyd Lake, which feeds Rainbow Falls. And then we’re going to put some flocculant. It’s like a powder that gets poured in, and it actually grabs onto the algae and weighs it down and sinks it down to the bottom so that it can’t keep reproducing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> To help control algae growth, they also add in some microbiotics, which are living organisms that actually feed on the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> And then we put in a dye, like a green dye. It’s pretty unnatural looking. We have it in many of our lakes in the park. But the dye prevents the sunlight from feeding the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Okay, but it is like for sure for sure it’s the algae that causes this color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> 100 percent it’s the algae that causes the color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> That’s so interesting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>Yeah, we’re actually getting ready for St. Patrick’s Day. So, you know, we just dye it green. Just kidding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I take all this info back to Persie to see what she thinks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> So that’s natural. And maybe the change in the color would make sense to that, like in the summer, when there’s more sunlight that it’s growing more, and that’s why it turns that fluorescent green. It’s so funny to me that it’s a natural substance. But nature’s weird.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Indeed, it is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That was KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Senad, Alana Walker, Holly Kernan and everyone at team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "san-franciscos-oldest-lesbian-bar-has-been-a-safe-space-for-more-than-60-years",
"title": "San Francisco’s Oldest Lesbian Bar Has Been a Safe Space for More Than 60 Years",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>San Francisco has long been an epicenter for lesbian life and culture. Even back in the 1930s, spots like Mona’s 440 Club were known as hubs for lesbians to enjoy drag king performances and socialize. But in the past 30 years, the number of lesbian bars all over the country has seen \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101895055/why-are-there-so-few-lesbian-bars\">a steep decline\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of the few remaining lesbian bars in San Francisco, there’s one spot that stands out for its longevity. The Wild Side West has been a staple of lesbian culture in the city for the past 63 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Located in the Bernal Heights neighborhood of San Francisco, The Wild Side West is an iconic spot. Inside, the bar feels like it’s always been this way, with women playing pool, kegs lining the walls, and paintings of nude women hanging from the ceiling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And if there is one person who knows this bar well, it’s Timotha Doane, an 80-year-old lesbian who has been a regular at the bar since she was 24. When she walks into the bar, everyone seems to know her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029582\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029582\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bartender Heather Dunham works at the Wild Side West on Feb. 6, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029585\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029585\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The exterior of The Wild Side West. Right: Timotha Doane talks with fellow patrons at the Wild Side West on Jan. 28, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I come here almost every day,” Doane said with a laugh. “Sometimes I take a break. I don’t want to encourage too much drinking.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Doane said she’s had some wild nights here over the decades. She remembers when Janis Joplin was a regular and had stories to tell about many past girlfriends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s just so much history [here],” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Originally called The Wild Side, Pat Ramseyer and Nancy White were lesbian partners who founded this bar in North Oakland in 1962. Shortly after opening, they relocated the business to San Francisco and became The Wild Side \u003cem>West\u003c/em>, laying down roots in the North Beach neighborhood on Broadway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029588\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029588\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Paintings hang on the wall at The Wild Side West. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>While San Francisco at the time was already becoming a cultural hub for the LGBTQ community, queerness during the early 1960s was still marked by policing, discrimination and violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even in the most progressive cities, the dominant narrative around LGBTQ was that homosexuality was a sickness, a problem that needed to be handled. Doane remembers one time in New York City in the ’60s when she was targeted for her lesbian identity and masculine presentation. Several young men beat her up in broad daylight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the time The Wild Side West opened, consensual acts between same-sex individuals were still criminalized in California, and it was illegal to employ women bartenders. In San Francisco, well-known gay and lesbian watering holes were often raided by police. Officers would arrest patrons and were known to extort money from bar and club owners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029589\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029589\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Patrons play pool at Wild Side West on Jan. 28, 2025. Right: The wall behind a pool table is filled with posters and photos at The Wild Side West. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In this climate, a bar owned by lesbians, catering to the lesbian community, was bold.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wild Side West quickly became a space of joy and community for many women. It was a place where dancers from the nearby strip clubs gathered, where lesbians could find safety, and where an eccentric crowd of artists drank.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s hard to express what it means to find a refuge and respect,” Doane said. “A place where you can have fun and not worry about being attacked.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But anti-gay sentiment was still alive in San Francisco just outside the doors of the bar.[aside postID=forum_2010101906556 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/43/2024/07/M6A1369_qed-1020x680.jpg']When The Wild Side West moved to its current Bernal Heights location in 1976, some neighbors weren’t happy about it. It was not uncommon for trash, broken toilets, and bathtubs to be dumped against the door of the bar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“On a very, very regular basis, [Pat and Nancy] would have to move all of those things in order to get the bar open,” said long-time regular Mimi Caesar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pat Ramseyer and Nancy White would drag the broken sinks and bathtubs to the back of the bar and turn them into art pieces or planters. Decades later, those pieces make unique seating areas for patrons, adorned with vines and surrounded by eclectic statues.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029593\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029593\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The bar opens to a sculpture-filled garden at The Wild Side West. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In recent years, many lesbian establishments across San Francisco\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929998/historic-lesbian-bars-san-francisco-mauds-pegs-front-anns-monas-440-tommy-vasu\"> have closed\u003c/a>, but it’s hard to know exactly why. Some people think that the rise of dating apps has made it easier to meet romantic partners, rendering physical lesbian bars less necessary. Some former lesbian bar owners cite gentrification as a root cause. Or, it could be that in a city as expensive as San Francisco, it’s hard for bars to stay afloat if they cater exclusively to women — especially gay women, many of whom have\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101895055/why-are-there-so-few-lesbian-bars\"> faced discrimination in the workplace \u003c/a>for both gender and sexuality, which can lower earnings and limit spending power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But The Wild Side West has managed to stay open. One reason it has survived is the committed clientele. Some people have been consistently coming to the bar for 10, 20, or even 50 years, like Timotha Doane. It might also be that in recent years, more men have started going to the bar. Either way, The Wild Side West has continued to be a refuge for lesbians in a time where the LGBTQ community faces a new wave of attacks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Women come here, and they feel safe to be whoever they are, however they want to be,” Doane said. “And to me, that is a treasure that cannot be praised highly enough.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Maybe you’ve seen this iconic picture of San Francisco history — two women, walking proudly in San Francisco’s gay freedom parade in 1979.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a parade\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>They’re holding up a huge banner that says: “A day without lesbians is like a day without sunshine.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area has long been known as an epicenter for queer life — and queer women have been building community in San Francisco for almost \u003cem>100 years\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>1930s era music starts playing\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even way back in the 1930’s San Francisco already had places like Mona’s 440 Club.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> It was known as the first lesbian night club in San Francisco and it was \u003cem>the \u003c/em>destination for genderfluid lesbians. At Mona’s, drag king performances were front and center, and the club was advertised as a place “Where girls can be boys.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since then, San Francisco has seen a lot of lesbian establishments come and go. But, there is one spot that has survived the longest — The Wild Side West.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This week on Bay Curious, we’re heading to the Bernal Heights bar that has been serving lesbians since 1962. We meet a longtime patron who has seen the culture of the city and the lesbian community transform over the decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[SPONSOR MESSAGE]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>To tell us about lesbian history in San Francisco, we’re passing it to our very own queer reporter Ana De Almeida Amaral.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>The Wild Side West has been around for over 60 years. And while so much has changed in the decades since it opened, the inside of the bar feels like it’s always been this way. Kegs lined up against the wall, old portraits of nude women hanging from the ceiling. But the\u003cem> defining\u003c/em> characteristic of the Wild Side West is the garden. To get there you walk through the bar, out the back door and down a steep flight of wooden stairs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral in tape: \u003c/strong>So there’s a sign that says Pat’s magical garden. And there is just already so many really odd pieces of art. A lot of frog statues … quite a few mannequin limbs. And then over here, there’s like an old bathtub that has been turned into a planter and it has a bunch of plants growing out of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>People sit and chat among a maze of greenery and statues. The space feels whimsical and intimate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wild Side West is located in the Bernal Heights neighborhood of San Francisco, which for a while was known as a lesbian enclave. And while today, some may consider it to be a neighborhood dive bar, the identity of this place and the commitment of its patrons make it an institution.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And if there is anyone who can tell us about the history and spirit of this bar, it is Timotha Doane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>I am talking to you in the oldest lesbian bar in San Francisco, and I’m the oldest lesbian in it \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Timotha is 80 years old and has been coming to this bar for 57 years. The original owners of The Wild Side West have passed away, so Timotha is one of few people who have been coming here since its very early days. She’s someone who can talk about what it was like to be a lesbian at the time this bar was founded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I met Timotha at the bar on a weekday afternoon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music and sounds of the bar start \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>I come here almost every day. Sometimes I take a break. I don’t want to encourage too much drinking \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>We sit down next to a painting of a topless woman and she starts telling me about herself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>I came out when I was 18, in 1962.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>She says there were moments when being as open as she is made her a target for violence\u003cem>. \u003c/em>She told me about one instance in New York City, when she was in college in the 60’s, just a short time after she came out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane:\u003c/strong> I don’t know why this is coming up in my mind right now, but it is — walking down MacDougal Street and me and my butch self, I’ve got two women, one on each arm. On the other side of the street is a group of men my same age, 18, 19 years old. And they came across the street, got in my face. You think you don’t need a man, bitch? And beat the shit out of me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Timotha says this was a pivotal moment of awakening for her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>So that was the beginning of it. And I just felt like I need to make being a lesbian a safe, reasonable, honest thing to do.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of the bar fade out\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Being openly lesbian, like Timotha, was still a radical act in the 1960s. And even in the most progressive cities like New York and San Francisco, queer people faced discrimination and violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Cascade of archival news tape\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip 1: \u003c/strong>During the year 1964, we arrested 3,000 homosexuals. Don’t think you won’t get caught because this is one thing you will not get away with. And the rest of your life will be a living hell.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip 2: \u003c/strong>The problem of homosexuality …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip 3: \u003c/strong>We do not employ homosexuals and if we discover homosexuals in our department, we discharge them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>The dominant narrative around gay people was that they were sick or a problem to be dealt with. And it was in this climate, in 1962, that Pat Ramseyer and Nancy White opened The Wild Side in North Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A few years later it moved to San Francisco and became the Wild Side West. Pat and Nancy were lesbians and life partners who managed to open the bar during a time when it was still illegal to employ women as bartenders in California. They’ve both since passed away, but Timotha remembers them fondly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>They were wild women, but they were also good business women. And we respected them for that. And at the time, having places for women only took courage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music fades out\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>When the bar set up shop on Broadway in North Beach, the relationship between the LGBT community and the city was … complicated. On one hand, San Francisco had already been established as a capital for gay life. But even here, the policing of queer life was pervasive and consensual acts between same-sex adults were criminalized. The police were known to extort money from gay and lesbian establishments and often raided them to arrest patrons. All of this was part of a playbook to keep queer people from freely socializing. So a bar owned by lesbians, catering to lesbians was bold.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During this era, Timotha moved to SF and found The Wild Side West.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>And I started coming to this bar when I was 24 years old. I was working as a stripper on Broadway. Just two doors up the street. So on my breaks, I would put a trench coat on over my G-string and trot on up the street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Since then, Wild Side West has been a place of joy and community for her. It’s where dancers gathered, where lesbians could flirt and hang out, and where an eccentric crowd of artists drank with friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music posts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane:\u003c/strong> It’s hard to express what it means to find a refuge. And respect and a place where you can have fun and not worry about being attacked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>But anti-gay sentiment was still-alive just outside the doors of the bar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>In 1976, the bar moved to its current Bernal Heights location and some neighbors weren’t happy about it. Mimi, a long-time regular, remembers this era.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Mimi: \u003c/strong>The folks up there who did not want a lesbian bar, would pretty much show up every morning before opening and put toilet bowls and bathtubs and sinks up against the door so that they couldn’t open it. And on a very, very regular basis, they would have to move all of those things in order to get the bar open.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Nancy and Pat would lug the toilets and broken sinks to the backyard and transform them into planters, becoming the first pieces in their eccentric backyard collection.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today, The Wild Side West is one of three dedicated lesbian bars in San Francisco. But there used to be many more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here’s Mimi again:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Mimi: \u003c/strong>When I first got here, there were 10 or 11, seven-day-a-week lesbian bars. And one by one by one drifted. But almost every neighborhood in this city had them, and they all had a different flavor. But that did change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>It’s hard to know why lesbian bars have been going out of business over the last 20 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people think dating apps have made it easier to meet romantic partners, making physical lesbian bars less necessary. Others say our culture has changed and lots of spaces now feel safe to queer folks. Or, it could be that in a city as expensive as San Francisco, it’s hard for bars to stay afloat if they cater exclusively to women.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the Wild Side West has endured despite the odds. One obvious explanation is the committed clientele. I mean, there are regulars who’ve been coming here 10, 20 … even 50 years … like Timotha. And in more recent years, it’s also not uncommon to see men here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music fades out\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>At the time I started coming here there weren’t any men. But economically, the dyke community couldn’t have supported it to become what it is now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Either way, the gritty and tough spirit of this bar perseveres.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wild Side West is a staple of lesbian history in San Francisco and it’s the oldest, still standing lesbian bar in the city. Lesbians have gathered here for decades. It’s always been a refuge from the violence and discrimination of the outside world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>Women come here and they feel safe. And to me, that is a treasure that cannot be praised highly enough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>As the LGBT community faces a new wave of attacks, regulars like Timotha are once again reminded of how powerful a sanctuary like this can be. They hope the Wild Side West remains a safe place for generations of lesbians to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED’s Ana De Almeida Amaral.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Special thanks to Caroline Smith, who collected tape for this episode.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Individual support from our audience means more than ever right now. If you’d like to help keep shows like Bay Curious going, head to \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>. Every bit does help. Thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is made by: Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Additional engineering this week by Brian Douglas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Special thanks to those in the KQED podcasting department: Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Alana Wilson, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan, and everyone on Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>San Francisco has long been an epicenter for lesbian life and culture. Even back in the 1930s, spots like Mona’s 440 Club were known as hubs for lesbians to enjoy drag king performances and socialize. But in the past 30 years, the number of lesbian bars all over the country has seen \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101895055/why-are-there-so-few-lesbian-bars\">a steep decline\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of the few remaining lesbian bars in San Francisco, there’s one spot that stands out for its longevity. The Wild Side West has been a staple of lesbian culture in the city for the past 63 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Located in the Bernal Heights neighborhood of San Francisco, The Wild Side West is an iconic spot. Inside, the bar feels like it’s always been this way, with women playing pool, kegs lining the walls, and paintings of nude women hanging from the ceiling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And if there is one person who knows this bar well, it’s Timotha Doane, an 80-year-old lesbian who has been a regular at the bar since she was 24. When she walks into the bar, everyone seems to know her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029582\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029582\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bartender Heather Dunham works at the Wild Side West on Feb. 6, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029585\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029585\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The exterior of The Wild Side West. Right: Timotha Doane talks with fellow patrons at the Wild Side West on Jan. 28, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I come here almost every day,” Doane said with a laugh. “Sometimes I take a break. I don’t want to encourage too much drinking.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Doane said she’s had some wild nights here over the decades. She remembers when Janis Joplin was a regular and had stories to tell about many past girlfriends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s just so much history [here],” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Originally called The Wild Side, Pat Ramseyer and Nancy White were lesbian partners who founded this bar in North Oakland in 1962. Shortly after opening, they relocated the business to San Francisco and became The Wild Side \u003cem>West\u003c/em>, laying down roots in the North Beach neighborhood on Broadway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029588\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029588\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Paintings hang on the wall at The Wild Side West. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>While San Francisco at the time was already becoming a cultural hub for the LGBTQ community, queerness during the early 1960s was still marked by policing, discrimination and violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even in the most progressive cities, the dominant narrative around LGBTQ was that homosexuality was a sickness, a problem that needed to be handled. Doane remembers one time in New York City in the ’60s when she was targeted for her lesbian identity and masculine presentation. Several young men beat her up in broad daylight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the time The Wild Side West opened, consensual acts between same-sex individuals were still criminalized in California, and it was illegal to employ women bartenders. In San Francisco, well-known gay and lesbian watering holes were often raided by police. Officers would arrest patrons and were known to extort money from bar and club owners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029589\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029589\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Patrons play pool at Wild Side West on Jan. 28, 2025. Right: The wall behind a pool table is filled with posters and photos at The Wild Side West. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In this climate, a bar owned by lesbians, catering to the lesbian community, was bold.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wild Side West quickly became a space of joy and community for many women. It was a place where dancers from the nearby strip clubs gathered, where lesbians could find safety, and where an eccentric crowd of artists drank.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s hard to express what it means to find a refuge and respect,” Doane said. “A place where you can have fun and not worry about being attacked.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But anti-gay sentiment was still alive in San Francisco just outside the doors of the bar.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>When The Wild Side West moved to its current Bernal Heights location in 1976, some neighbors weren’t happy about it. It was not uncommon for trash, broken toilets, and bathtubs to be dumped against the door of the bar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“On a very, very regular basis, [Pat and Nancy] would have to move all of those things in order to get the bar open,” said long-time regular Mimi Caesar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pat Ramseyer and Nancy White would drag the broken sinks and bathtubs to the back of the bar and turn them into art pieces or planters. Decades later, those pieces make unique seating areas for patrons, adorned with vines and surrounded by eclectic statues.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029593\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029593\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The bar opens to a sculpture-filled garden at The Wild Side West. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In recent years, many lesbian establishments across San Francisco\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929998/historic-lesbian-bars-san-francisco-mauds-pegs-front-anns-monas-440-tommy-vasu\"> have closed\u003c/a>, but it’s hard to know exactly why. Some people think that the rise of dating apps has made it easier to meet romantic partners, rendering physical lesbian bars less necessary. Some former lesbian bar owners cite gentrification as a root cause. Or, it could be that in a city as expensive as San Francisco, it’s hard for bars to stay afloat if they cater exclusively to women — especially gay women, many of whom have\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101895055/why-are-there-so-few-lesbian-bars\"> faced discrimination in the workplace \u003c/a>for both gender and sexuality, which can lower earnings and limit spending power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But The Wild Side West has managed to stay open. One reason it has survived is the committed clientele. Some people have been consistently coming to the bar for 10, 20, or even 50 years, like Timotha Doane. It might also be that in recent years, more men have started going to the bar. Either way, The Wild Side West has continued to be a refuge for lesbians in a time where the LGBTQ community faces a new wave of attacks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Women come here, and they feel safe to be whoever they are, however they want to be,” Doane said. “And to me, that is a treasure that cannot be praised highly enough.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Maybe you’ve seen this iconic picture of San Francisco history — two women, walking proudly in San Francisco’s gay freedom parade in 1979.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a parade\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>They’re holding up a huge banner that says: “A day without lesbians is like a day without sunshine.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area has long been known as an epicenter for queer life — and queer women have been building community in San Francisco for almost \u003cem>100 years\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>1930s era music starts playing\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even way back in the 1930’s San Francisco already had places like Mona’s 440 Club.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> It was known as the first lesbian night club in San Francisco and it was \u003cem>the \u003c/em>destination for genderfluid lesbians. At Mona’s, drag king performances were front and center, and the club was advertised as a place “Where girls can be boys.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since then, San Francisco has seen a lot of lesbian establishments come and go. But, there is one spot that has survived the longest — The Wild Side West.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This week on Bay Curious, we’re heading to the Bernal Heights bar that has been serving lesbians since 1962. We meet a longtime patron who has seen the culture of the city and the lesbian community transform over the decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[SPONSOR MESSAGE]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>To tell us about lesbian history in San Francisco, we’re passing it to our very own queer reporter Ana De Almeida Amaral.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>The Wild Side West has been around for over 60 years. And while so much has changed in the decades since it opened, the inside of the bar feels like it’s always been this way. Kegs lined up against the wall, old portraits of nude women hanging from the ceiling. But the\u003cem> defining\u003c/em> characteristic of the Wild Side West is the garden. To get there you walk through the bar, out the back door and down a steep flight of wooden stairs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral in tape: \u003c/strong>So there’s a sign that says Pat’s magical garden. And there is just already so many really odd pieces of art. A lot of frog statues … quite a few mannequin limbs. And then over here, there’s like an old bathtub that has been turned into a planter and it has a bunch of plants growing out of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>People sit and chat among a maze of greenery and statues. The space feels whimsical and intimate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wild Side West is located in the Bernal Heights neighborhood of San Francisco, which for a while was known as a lesbian enclave. And while today, some may consider it to be a neighborhood dive bar, the identity of this place and the commitment of its patrons make it an institution.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And if there is anyone who can tell us about the history and spirit of this bar, it is Timotha Doane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>I am talking to you in the oldest lesbian bar in San Francisco, and I’m the oldest lesbian in it \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Timotha is 80 years old and has been coming to this bar for 57 years. The original owners of The Wild Side West have passed away, so Timotha is one of few people who have been coming here since its very early days. She’s someone who can talk about what it was like to be a lesbian at the time this bar was founded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I met Timotha at the bar on a weekday afternoon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music and sounds of the bar start \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>I come here almost every day. Sometimes I take a break. I don’t want to encourage too much drinking \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>We sit down next to a painting of a topless woman and she starts telling me about herself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>I came out when I was 18, in 1962.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>She says there were moments when being as open as she is made her a target for violence\u003cem>. \u003c/em>She told me about one instance in New York City, when she was in college in the 60’s, just a short time after she came out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane:\u003c/strong> I don’t know why this is coming up in my mind right now, but it is — walking down MacDougal Street and me and my butch self, I’ve got two women, one on each arm. On the other side of the street is a group of men my same age, 18, 19 years old. And they came across the street, got in my face. You think you don’t need a man, bitch? And beat the shit out of me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Timotha says this was a pivotal moment of awakening for her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>So that was the beginning of it. And I just felt like I need to make being a lesbian a safe, reasonable, honest thing to do.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of the bar fade out\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Being openly lesbian, like Timotha, was still a radical act in the 1960s. And even in the most progressive cities like New York and San Francisco, queer people faced discrimination and violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Cascade of archival news tape\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip 1: \u003c/strong>During the year 1964, we arrested 3,000 homosexuals. Don’t think you won’t get caught because this is one thing you will not get away with. And the rest of your life will be a living hell.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip 2: \u003c/strong>The problem of homosexuality …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip 3: \u003c/strong>We do not employ homosexuals and if we discover homosexuals in our department, we discharge them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>The dominant narrative around gay people was that they were sick or a problem to be dealt with. And it was in this climate, in 1962, that Pat Ramseyer and Nancy White opened The Wild Side in North Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A few years later it moved to San Francisco and became the Wild Side West. Pat and Nancy were lesbians and life partners who managed to open the bar during a time when it was still illegal to employ women as bartenders in California. They’ve both since passed away, but Timotha remembers them fondly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>They were wild women, but they were also good business women. And we respected them for that. And at the time, having places for women only took courage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music fades out\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>When the bar set up shop on Broadway in North Beach, the relationship between the LGBT community and the city was … complicated. On one hand, San Francisco had already been established as a capital for gay life. But even here, the policing of queer life was pervasive and consensual acts between same-sex adults were criminalized. The police were known to extort money from gay and lesbian establishments and often raided them to arrest patrons. All of this was part of a playbook to keep queer people from freely socializing. So a bar owned by lesbians, catering to lesbians was bold.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During this era, Timotha moved to SF and found The Wild Side West.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>And I started coming to this bar when I was 24 years old. I was working as a stripper on Broadway. Just two doors up the street. So on my breaks, I would put a trench coat on over my G-string and trot on up the street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Since then, Wild Side West has been a place of joy and community for her. It’s where dancers gathered, where lesbians could flirt and hang out, and where an eccentric crowd of artists drank with friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music posts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane:\u003c/strong> It’s hard to express what it means to find a refuge. And respect and a place where you can have fun and not worry about being attacked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>But anti-gay sentiment was still-alive just outside the doors of the bar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>In 1976, the bar moved to its current Bernal Heights location and some neighbors weren’t happy about it. Mimi, a long-time regular, remembers this era.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Mimi: \u003c/strong>The folks up there who did not want a lesbian bar, would pretty much show up every morning before opening and put toilet bowls and bathtubs and sinks up against the door so that they couldn’t open it. And on a very, very regular basis, they would have to move all of those things in order to get the bar open.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Nancy and Pat would lug the toilets and broken sinks to the backyard and transform them into planters, becoming the first pieces in their eccentric backyard collection.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today, The Wild Side West is one of three dedicated lesbian bars in San Francisco. But there used to be many more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here’s Mimi again:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Mimi: \u003c/strong>When I first got here, there were 10 or 11, seven-day-a-week lesbian bars. And one by one by one drifted. But almost every neighborhood in this city had them, and they all had a different flavor. But that did change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>It’s hard to know why lesbian bars have been going out of business over the last 20 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people think dating apps have made it easier to meet romantic partners, making physical lesbian bars less necessary. Others say our culture has changed and lots of spaces now feel safe to queer folks. Or, it could be that in a city as expensive as San Francisco, it’s hard for bars to stay afloat if they cater exclusively to women.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the Wild Side West has endured despite the odds. One obvious explanation is the committed clientele. I mean, there are regulars who’ve been coming here 10, 20 … even 50 years … like Timotha. And in more recent years, it’s also not uncommon to see men here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music fades out\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>At the time I started coming here there weren’t any men. But economically, the dyke community couldn’t have supported it to become what it is now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Either way, the gritty and tough spirit of this bar perseveres.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wild Side West is a staple of lesbian history in San Francisco and it’s the oldest, still standing lesbian bar in the city. Lesbians have gathered here for decades. It’s always been a refuge from the violence and discrimination of the outside world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>Women come here and they feel safe. And to me, that is a treasure that cannot be praised highly enough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>As the LGBT community faces a new wave of attacks, regulars like Timotha are once again reminded of how powerful a sanctuary like this can be. They hope the Wild Side West remains a safe place for generations of lesbians to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED’s Ana De Almeida Amaral.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Special thanks to Caroline Smith, who collected tape for this episode.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Individual support from our audience means more than ever right now. If you’d like to help keep shows like Bay Curious going, head to \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>. Every bit does help. Thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is made by: Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Additional engineering this week by Brian Douglas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Special thanks to those in the KQED podcasting department: Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Alana Wilson, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan, and everyone on Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "ever-heard-of-a-frisco-biscuit-neither-had-many-maritime-historians",
"title": "Ever Heard of a 'Frisco Biscuit'? Neither Had Many Maritime Historians",
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"headTitle": "Ever Heard of a ‘Frisco Biscuit’? Neither Had Many Maritime Historians | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Carl Merritt is a history buff. He doesn’t just watch YouTube videos about World War II, he reads the comments. This time around, he was watching a video about the evacuation of Dunkirk when he came across a fascinating character: Charles Lightoller.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]Lightoller was a retired Royal Navy Commander who rescued troops from the beaches of Dunkirk on his private yacht. And, Merritt discovered, he was also the most senior officer to survive the sinking of the Titanic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Merritt was intrigued, so he went out and found Lightoller’s autobiography, \u003cem>Titanic and Other Ships\u003c/em>. In it, Merritt learned that Lightoller had visited San Francisco in the 1880s when he was a teenager. That experience left a lasting impression:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>What a strange mixture we found in that city of mushroom growth. Beautiful broad streets and magnificent buildings, but almost entirely without law or order, – unless you could pay for it.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>San Francisco’s port at the time was a chaotic, dangerous place. And in his autobiography, Lightoller doesn’t skimp on the details:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>‘Frisco at this time, had the honour of bearing the worst reputation of any sea port in the world for lawlessness, not excepting New York. It was bad enough for the landsman to be on the streets at night, if it was even suspected that he was carrying more than a very few dollars. Even in broad daylight it was no uncommon thing for a man to be sandbagged and robbed.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028796\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1519px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028796\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1519\" height=\"2064\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052.jpg 1519w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052-800x1087.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052-1020x1386.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052-160x217.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052-1130x1536.jpg 1130w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052-1507x2048.jpg 1507w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1519px) 100vw, 1519px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Commander Charles Herbert Lightoller, right, and his son Lieutenant F. R. Lightoller, who both helped in the evacuation from Dunkirk in 1940. \u003ccite>(Daily Mirror/Mirrorpix via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Maritime Research Center at San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park houses a vast collection documenting the port’s tumultuous history. Reference librarian Gina Bardi knows this time period well. According to Bardi, there are “lots of stories of people… walking down the street and somebody offering them a drink or conking them on the crown.” Next thing they know, Gina said, “They wake up, and they’re on a ship halfway out to sea.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This practice, known as shanghaiing, was common at San Francisco’s port. Crimping — aka kidnapping sailors, forcing them onto ships, and stealing their wages — was also widespread. Lightoller describes it all firsthand:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>The water front of ‘Frisco was held and run by a lot of soulless crimps. These human vultures didn’t wait for a man to get as far as the Shipping Office; in fact they were indifferent as to whether a man was even paying off or not. All they wanted was his body, and they would fight amongst themselves for possession.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>“There’s even stories of people supplying dead sailors,” Bardi said, “and just saying he’s drunk, but he was actually dead and getting the money for that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028793\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2246px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028793\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2246\" height=\"820\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo.jpg 2246w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo-800x292.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo-1020x372.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo-160x58.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo-1536x561.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo-2048x748.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo-1920x701.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2246px) 100vw, 2246px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(left) A photograph of Green Street Wharf in San Francisco, Calif., circa 1894. (right) The docks of San Francisco’s port circa 1885. \u003ccite>(U.S. National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For Lightoller, the best part of San Francisco was leaving it. The only other notable positive? The “‘Frisco biscuits.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>The only good thing about ‘Frisco as far as I, a first voyager with an eternal hunger, could see, was the biscuits. ‘”‘Frisco biscuits’” are known the world over. Big, crisp and eatable. A good six inches across, and even the ship’s margarine could not altogether spoil their flavour… In fact, the outstanding feature of my first voyage seems to have been the state of semi-starvation we boys lived in, until we got the ‘Frisco biscuits.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>For something “known the world over,” tracking down a definition proved surprisingly difficult.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I went through all my maritime dictionaries,” Bardi said. “I went through a bunch of cookbooks that we have… and I have just not come across it anywhere.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028778\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028778\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Katherine Hijar (left), park historian, and Gina Bardi, reference librarian, pose for a portrait on the Balclutha at the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park on Feb. 26, 2025. The Balclutha is a historic three-masted, steel-hulled sailing ship built in 1886, now preserved as a museum at the park. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But Bardi did have a few educated guesses. Theory number one: maybe the biscuits had something to do with sourdough? Theory number two: maybe, in Lightoller’s British English, he was actually referring to a cookie? Theory number three: ‘Frisco biscuits were a form of hardtack.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since sourdough wouldn’t have been a good long-term provision and there was no evidence for the cookie theory, hardtack seemed like the most likely answer.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>What is hardtack?\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Also known as ship’s biscuits, hardtack was a staple in a sailor’s diet. It is essentially a flour and water cracker baked to a crisp. When ships were provisioned in port, this nonperishable staple was an essential item.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The flavor of hardtack is somewhere in between sand and cardboard. You can’t even bite it with your front teeth; you have to gnaw. The biscuits were so durable in fact, that sailors sometimes wrote messages on them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028771\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1280px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028771\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/Hardtack-MaritimeMuseum.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1280\" height=\"1211\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/Hardtack-MaritimeMuseum.jpg 1280w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/Hardtack-MaritimeMuseum-800x757.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/Hardtack-MaritimeMuseum-1020x965.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/Hardtack-MaritimeMuseum-160x151.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1280px) 100vw, 1280px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ship’s biscuit with message: “Betsy Dunnet, given to her by her true love, Thomas Hart, January 4th, in the year of 1842.” \u003ccite>(National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The London-based National Maritime Museum has a handful of biscuits dating back as far as the 1700s. In 2018, \u003ca href=\"https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/buy-an-old-biscuit\">a 212-year old British biscuit — still uncracked — went on auction for $3,580\u003c/a>. While not exactly appetizing, a starving sailor might beg to differ. And a few actually did.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Evidence for the hardtack theory\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To check Bardi’s hardtack theory, I headed over to the San Francisco Maritime Museum, right on the water at Aquatic Park. It looks like a cruise ship that ran aground, threw in the towel, and decided it’d be easier to call itself a building. Katherine Hijar, the resident historian, found two additional references to the biscuits in the biographies of British sailors. Lightoller finally had company.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In \u003cem>Knocking Around\u003c/em>, by Frank H. Shaw, he recalls “nibbling rare, palatable ‘Frisco biscuits lavishly smeared with real salt butter out of \u003cem>bona fide\u003c/em> tins.” His boat was anchored off the coast of Chile at the time. For something provisioned in California to stay edible all the way to Chile, it has to be nonperishable. For Hijar, that was a point for the hardtack theory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028780\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028780\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Katherine Hijar (left) and Gina Bardi sample a plate of ‘Frisco Biscuits on the Balclutha in San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In \u003cem>Round The Horn and Before The Mast\u003c/em>, Hijar found yet another biscuit reference. The author, A. Basil Lubbock, begins by describing running out of “Kobe biscuits, which are nearly all rice.” He then remembers how relieved he was to receive “splendid American hardtack… I don’t think I have ever eaten better biscuit than this Frisco bread.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With the evidence mounting, Hijar offered her final conclusion: \u003cem>A ‘Frisco biscuit was hardtack provisioned at San Francisco’s port\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘Known the world over?’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>For something “known the world over,” ‘Frisco biscuits proved fairly elusive. Several maritime historians had never heard of a ‘Frisco biscuit, and Hijar had to really dig to find a few sources.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The most likely explanation for the biscuit’s obscurity? Sailor slang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Sailors] had their own language… words that you and I would never understand because they were particular to this world of sailors at sea,” Hijar said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like so many forgotten pieces of history, it comes down to who gets to tell the story. Most sailors in the 1880s didn’t have typewriters or book deals. Their version of events was rarely recorded, and for those of us who love some good slang, that’s a big loss.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lightoller’s biography is full of sailor lingo. Reading it taught our question asker, Carl Merritt, some new vocabulary — like crocodile pearls. (It’s a much more exciting way to say… avocados.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If Merritt’s question has got you hankering to try some hardtack, \u003ca href=\"https://www.rmg.co.uk/stories/blog/how-make-ships-biscuit\">here’s a recipe so you can whip up your very own batch of ‘Frisco biscuits\u003c/a>. Or, you could imagine yourself a sailor at sea on ship’s rations, indulging in biscuit-based delicacies like “Dandy Funk” and “Cracker Hash.” You’re welcome.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: Hey everyone, Olivia Allen-Price here, and you’re listening to Bay Curious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here’s a thing about me: I love a good biscuit. I grew up in North Carolina, where biscuits are a point of pride. It seems like everyone has a grandma who makes a good one, but don’t bother asking for the recipe because there isn’t one. It’s all done by feel — eyeballing the flour in the bowl, the texture of the dough between your fingers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So when a biscuit question arrived in our Bay Curious mailbox, it grabbed my attention right away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carl Merritt\u003c/strong>: Frisco biscuits? I need your help on that one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: This is Carl Merritt — our question-asker this week. A while back, he was reading the biography of a storied sailor when he came across the term Frisco Biscuit. It left him feeling stumped.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carl Merritt\u003c/strong>: He describes it as crispy and six inches in diameter. He says it’s known the world over. So, so I was hoping maybe you can find something.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: But for something known the world over, a quick internet search didn’t turn much up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carl Merritt\u003c/strong>: Well, I’m glad I threw you a curveball. That’s great news.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: When I passed off the question to one of our Bay Curious reporters, I was secretly hoping they’d crack the code quickly, get some local chefs to give the recipe a whirl — And give me a taste test.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But turns out my dream of a flaky, buttery, crispy San Francisco-made biscuit was destined to remain a dream.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Bay Curious theme music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This week — a culinary, history, maritime mystery. What is a Frisco Biscuit?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s all coming up! Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Theme music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: To help us answer Carl’s question — what is a Frisco Biscuit? — we’ve put Bay Curious reporter Gabriela Glueck on the job. Her first step? Find the source in question — the book where ‘Frisco Biscuit’ makes its appearance — and get to know a bit more about the guy who wrote it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A man by the name of Charles Lightoller.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Charles Lightoller was a sailor, as true a seaman at heart as it is possible to be. And in his biography, he tells his story of life on the water. Born in England in the late 1800s and effectively orphaned at age 13, ships were all he’d really ever know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While you might not recognize his name, you’re probably more familiar with him than you think.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Charles Lightoller\u003c/strong>: Several of us scrambled up onto the slippery bottom of the raft. And it was from there I saw the Titanic sink. It was from there I saw the Titanic sink.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: That’s Lightoller, recounting the sinking of the Titanic in a BBC radio interview following the disaster. He was the most senior officer to survive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Charles Lightoller\u003c/strong>: As she vanished, everyone around me on the upturned boat, as though they could hardly believe it, just said, she’s gone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Lightoller waited on the Titanic until it was nearly under, shepherding others onto the remaining lifeboats before he himself took a seat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But even a shipwreck — perhaps the world’s most infamous one — couldn’t keep him away from the sea for too long. He tells all this in his life story, his book, “Titanic and Other Ships.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When a seaman like that mentions a “Frisco Biscuit” and calls it, quote, “known the world over,” you kinda take his word for it. But tracking down the term was actually a bit of a challenge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We will get to the biscuit, I promise, but first, just a little more context. We know the man we’re working with. Step two is understanding the place he’s talking about: The port of San Francisco in the 1880s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In his book, Lightoller sets the scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice Over for Lightoller\u003c/strong>: What a strange mixture we found in that city of mushroom growth. Beautiful broad streets and magnificent buildings, but almost entirely without law or order, unless you could pay for it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sounds of waves, seagulls, shipbuilding sounds, wind\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: Here are some men just hanging out on the wharf. You would have seen a lot of people hanging out on the wharf looking for work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: That’s Gina Bardi. She’s a reference librarian at San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park Research Center. I met up with her to get a better sense of what the port was like back in the day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: You would have seen a lot of smoke… It was very dirty and dusty. You would have seen insurance agents, merchants, everybody buying and selling wares, so it would have been really vibrant, loud… there was um, ships being built, ships being torn apart, so all, all sounds and noises associated with that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela\u003c/strong> \u003cstrong>Glueck\u003c/strong>: Lightoller was just a teenager when he arrived in the city, but San Francisco made a lasting impression on him. Safe to say, not a very positive one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice Over for Lightoller\u003c/strong>: ‘Frisco, at this time, had the honor of bearing the worst reputation of any seaport in the world for lawlessness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Gina told me that a sailor coming into port around that time was likely to have a tough go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: People being kidnapped is absolutely true. There’s news reports of it. We have lots of stories of people being, you know, walking down the street and somebody offering them a drink or conking them on the crown, and the next thing they know, they wake up, and they’re on a ship halfway up to sea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: It was a place that Lightoller was, quite frankly, delighted to leave when the time came.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice Over for Lightoller\u003c/strong>: Hard, bitter hard, though ship life often was, yet we were glad to see the Golden Gates, with all they stood for, fading away and finally disappearing below the horizon. At least the sea was clean.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Harsh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice Over for Lightoller\u003c/strong>: The only good thing about ‘Frisco, as far as I, a first voyager with an eternal hunger, could see, was the biscuits. “‘Frisco biscuits” are known the world over. Big, crisp and eatable. A good six inches across, and even the ship’s margarine could not altogether spoil their flavor… In fact, the outstanding feature of my first voyage seems to have been the state of semi-starvation we boys lived in, until we got the ‘Frisco biscuits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: So, what is a Frisco biscuit?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: I have no idea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: That’s reference librarian Gina Bardi again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: I went through all my maritime dictionaries that I have. I went through a bunch of cookbooks that we have, food ways studies that we have, and I have just not come across it anywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Gina and I were stumped. Searching for Frisco Biscuits wasn’t getting us anywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But, ship’s biscuits, also known as hardtack, were one of the main staples of a sailor’s diet. It’s basically a flour and water cracker, dried out in the oven for so long that it’s nonperishable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With this clue in mind, we started tossing around theories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our first hypothesis: Frisco Biscuits were hardtack provisioned at San Francisco’s port.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Theory number two: these biscuits had something to do with sourdough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Theory number three: Maybe, in Lightoller’s British English, he was actually referring to a cookie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thing is, sourdough wouldn’t have made a good long-term provision. And there just wasn’t any evidence for the cookie angle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The hardtack hypothesis seemed like our best bet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, we went down the rabbit hole.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To help us test our theory — to see if hardtack could be considered big, crisp, and eatable — Gina pulled out an archival recipe and whipped up a batch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: You have to have upper arm strength. My poor rolling pin, I was like standing on my tiptoes. I was like mushing with all my strength, trying to get it down.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Then, she invited all her colleagues to join us for a taste test.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: This is the fruits of my labor. Then the recipe also said I should encase it in a wooden cask. But I had no wooden casks at home, so I just put it in a zip lock and bought it here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of people eating something very crunchy\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: Don’t bite in with your front teeth because I don’t think that’ll work. Maybe gnaw on the side a little bit and then dip.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Taste tester #1\u003c/strong>: Oh, my God, I think I just lost a tooth. (sounds of chewing)\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Test tester #2\u003c/strong>: Cardboard, a little taste, a little hint of cardboard. It just tastes like flour. It tastes like dry. That’s what it tastes like, like a mouthful of sand.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Taste tester #3\u003c/strong>: I’m not gonna lie, I would eat this. It does not have much of a flavor, but I kind of just like gnawing on it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Fair enough. Maybe San Francisco was such a miserable time that something so bad ended up being the best part. Or maybe to a starving sailor, Frisco biscuits were just a little bit tastier than average.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those seemed like solid guesses, but still just guesses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gina and I felt like we needed to do a bit more digging. Her suggestion? Turn it over to the big guns. AKA, the center’s maritime historian, Katherine Hijar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck in tape\u003c/strong>: First thing I want to ask you is, did you figure it out?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Hijar\u003c/strong>: I think I did. Yes, I think I did. As you probably know already, sea biscuits, ships biscuits, Frisco biscuits, hardtack those are all the same thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: After scouring the archives, Katherine told me she’d finally found something. Two additional references to Frisco biscuits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Again, in the biographies and diaries of British sailors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Hijar\u003c/strong>: Describing a journey from San Francisco to Europe, it was before the Panama Canal, so that it was around Cape Horn off the coast of Chile, uh, they spent some time on a ship called the Star of Italy. On that ship, Frank Shaw and some of his fellow sailors ate, quote, rare palatable Frisco biscuits lavishly smeared with real salt butter out of bona fide tins.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: For something provisioned in California to stay edible all the way to Chile, it’s gotta be nonperishable. That’s a point for the hardtack theory. Plus, hardtack was very often stored away in tins.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The next clue came from another sailor’s diary dated September 1899.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Hijar\u003c/strong>: He wrote, today, we came to an end of the Kobe biscuits, which are nearly all rice. So, Kobe biscuits, one thing we get from that right away, is that they have provisioned in Japan, possibly the biscuits came from Kobe. They’ve probably loaded in boxes and boxes of these. And these rice flour-based biscuits are now done. And he’s not a fan. He says, At last, we have got the splendid American hardtack served out to us. I don’t think I have ever eaten better biscuit than this Frisco bread.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Sailors often referred to hardtack as their daily bread, so don’t let that throw you off. This clue is pivotal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It puts it all in simple terms, when ships provision at ports, they buy the local version of hardtack. Kobe biscuits from Kobe, Frisco biscuits from Frisco. A 1 to 1.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>American hardtack, Frisco bread. Another 1 to 1.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of that, Katherine had convinced me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But why does Lightoller claim that Frisco biscuits are, quote, “known the world over?” From what I can tell, they’re hardly known at all. Several maritime experts I spoke with hadn’t heard of them. And Katherine had to do some serious digging to find even a few mentions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Hijar\u003c/strong>: Definitely slang, absolutely yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Katherine’s best guess — “Frisco biscuit” is sailor speak.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Hijar\u003c/strong>: They had their own language, different words that you and I, even if we could get in a time machine, and go back to the 19th-century words that you and I would never understand because they were particular to this world of sailors at sea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: And within the sailor community, Frisco Biscuits might have been known the world over. But sailors at sea in the 1800s weren’t the ones with typewriters and publishing deals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Hijar\u003c/strong>: So many of the absences and the silences in history have to do with who had the ability to actually leave a permanent record. So when we’re talking about life at sea and the life of sailors, we’re talking about a population that is mostly very poor at best, their working class, and those are just not the people who whose experiences were considered important at the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: Reporter Gabriela Glueck, thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Thank you. It was quite a fun mystery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: Big thanks to our question-asker, Carl Merritt, for sending us on this winding adventure. His question was chosen by listeners in a public voting round at BayCurious.org. There’s a new one up now, so head on over and cast your vote for what you’d like us to cover next.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carl Merritt\u003c/strong>: Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: Did you know: KQED relies on your financial support to keep shows like Bay Curious going? More than half of KQED’s budget comes from donations from our audience. It is truly journalism made for the public, powered by the public, which is just the way we like it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re in a position to give, please visit \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>. There are options for one-time gifts, or you can level up and become a sustaining member by giving each month. Your support keeps local news in the Bay Area alive at a time when it is under threat. Again, head to \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a> to give. And from all us at Bay Curious, a deep, heartfelt thank you.\u003cbr>\nOur show is produced by…\u003cbr>\nKatrina Schwartz\u003cbr>\nChristopher Beale\u003cbr>\nAnd me, Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Additional Support From:\u003cbr>\nMaha Sanad\u003cbr>\nKatie Springer\u003cbr>\nJen Chien\u003cbr>\nAlana Walker\u003cbr>\nHolly Kernan\u003cbr>\nAnd everyone on Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a great week. And if you try making a Frisco biscuit of your own, don’t break a tooth!\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Carl Merritt is a history buff. He doesn’t just watch YouTube videos about World War II, he reads the comments. This time around, he was watching a video about the evacuation of Dunkirk when he came across a fascinating character: Charles Lightoller.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>Lightoller was a retired Royal Navy Commander who rescued troops from the beaches of Dunkirk on his private yacht. And, Merritt discovered, he was also the most senior officer to survive the sinking of the Titanic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Merritt was intrigued, so he went out and found Lightoller’s autobiography, \u003cem>Titanic and Other Ships\u003c/em>. In it, Merritt learned that Lightoller had visited San Francisco in the 1880s when he was a teenager. That experience left a lasting impression:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>What a strange mixture we found in that city of mushroom growth. Beautiful broad streets and magnificent buildings, but almost entirely without law or order, – unless you could pay for it.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>San Francisco’s port at the time was a chaotic, dangerous place. And in his autobiography, Lightoller doesn’t skimp on the details:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>‘Frisco at this time, had the honour of bearing the worst reputation of any sea port in the world for lawlessness, not excepting New York. It was bad enough for the landsman to be on the streets at night, if it was even suspected that he was carrying more than a very few dollars. Even in broad daylight it was no uncommon thing for a man to be sandbagged and robbed.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028796\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1519px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028796\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1519\" height=\"2064\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052.jpg 1519w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052-800x1087.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052-1020x1386.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052-160x217.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052-1130x1536.jpg 1130w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/GettyImages-1450430052-1507x2048.jpg 1507w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1519px) 100vw, 1519px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Commander Charles Herbert Lightoller, right, and his son Lieutenant F. R. Lightoller, who both helped in the evacuation from Dunkirk in 1940. \u003ccite>(Daily Mirror/Mirrorpix via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Maritime Research Center at San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park houses a vast collection documenting the port’s tumultuous history. Reference librarian Gina Bardi knows this time period well. According to Bardi, there are “lots of stories of people… walking down the street and somebody offering them a drink or conking them on the crown.” Next thing they know, Gina said, “They wake up, and they’re on a ship halfway out to sea.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This practice, known as shanghaiing, was common at San Francisco’s port. Crimping — aka kidnapping sailors, forcing them onto ships, and stealing their wages — was also widespread. Lightoller describes it all firsthand:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>The water front of ‘Frisco was held and run by a lot of soulless crimps. These human vultures didn’t wait for a man to get as far as the Shipping Office; in fact they were indifferent as to whether a man was even paying off or not. All they wanted was his body, and they would fight amongst themselves for possession.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>“There’s even stories of people supplying dead sailors,” Bardi said, “and just saying he’s drunk, but he was actually dead and getting the money for that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028793\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2246px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028793\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2246\" height=\"820\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo.jpg 2246w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo-800x292.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo-1020x372.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo-160x58.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo-1536x561.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo-2048x748.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/San-Francisco-docks_duo-1920x701.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2246px) 100vw, 2246px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(left) A photograph of Green Street Wharf in San Francisco, Calif., circa 1894. (right) The docks of San Francisco’s port circa 1885. \u003ccite>(U.S. National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For Lightoller, the best part of San Francisco was leaving it. The only other notable positive? The “‘Frisco biscuits.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>The only good thing about ‘Frisco as far as I, a first voyager with an eternal hunger, could see, was the biscuits. ‘”‘Frisco biscuits’” are known the world over. Big, crisp and eatable. A good six inches across, and even the ship’s margarine could not altogether spoil their flavour… In fact, the outstanding feature of my first voyage seems to have been the state of semi-starvation we boys lived in, until we got the ‘Frisco biscuits.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>For something “known the world over,” tracking down a definition proved surprisingly difficult.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I went through all my maritime dictionaries,” Bardi said. “I went through a bunch of cookbooks that we have… and I have just not come across it anywhere.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028778\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028778\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-06-BL-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Katherine Hijar (left), park historian, and Gina Bardi, reference librarian, pose for a portrait on the Balclutha at the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park on Feb. 26, 2025. The Balclutha is a historic three-masted, steel-hulled sailing ship built in 1886, now preserved as a museum at the park. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But Bardi did have a few educated guesses. Theory number one: maybe the biscuits had something to do with sourdough? Theory number two: maybe, in Lightoller’s British English, he was actually referring to a cookie? Theory number three: ‘Frisco biscuits were a form of hardtack.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since sourdough wouldn’t have been a good long-term provision and there was no evidence for the cookie theory, hardtack seemed like the most likely answer.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>What is hardtack?\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Also known as ship’s biscuits, hardtack was a staple in a sailor’s diet. It is essentially a flour and water cracker baked to a crisp. When ships were provisioned in port, this nonperishable staple was an essential item.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The flavor of hardtack is somewhere in between sand and cardboard. You can’t even bite it with your front teeth; you have to gnaw. The biscuits were so durable in fact, that sailors sometimes wrote messages on them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028771\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1280px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028771\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/Hardtack-MaritimeMuseum.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1280\" height=\"1211\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/Hardtack-MaritimeMuseum.jpg 1280w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/Hardtack-MaritimeMuseum-800x757.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/Hardtack-MaritimeMuseum-1020x965.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/Hardtack-MaritimeMuseum-160x151.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1280px) 100vw, 1280px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ship’s biscuit with message: “Betsy Dunnet, given to her by her true love, Thomas Hart, January 4th, in the year of 1842.” \u003ccite>(National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The London-based National Maritime Museum has a handful of biscuits dating back as far as the 1700s. In 2018, \u003ca href=\"https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/buy-an-old-biscuit\">a 212-year old British biscuit — still uncracked — went on auction for $3,580\u003c/a>. While not exactly appetizing, a starving sailor might beg to differ. And a few actually did.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Evidence for the hardtack theory\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To check Bardi’s hardtack theory, I headed over to the San Francisco Maritime Museum, right on the water at Aquatic Park. It looks like a cruise ship that ran aground, threw in the towel, and decided it’d be easier to call itself a building. Katherine Hijar, the resident historian, found two additional references to the biscuits in the biographies of British sailors. Lightoller finally had company.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In \u003cem>Knocking Around\u003c/em>, by Frank H. Shaw, he recalls “nibbling rare, palatable ‘Frisco biscuits lavishly smeared with real salt butter out of \u003cem>bona fide\u003c/em> tins.” His boat was anchored off the coast of Chile at the time. For something provisioned in California to stay edible all the way to Chile, it has to be nonperishable. For Hijar, that was a point for the hardtack theory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028780\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028780\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250226-FriscoBiscuits-22-BL-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Katherine Hijar (left) and Gina Bardi sample a plate of ‘Frisco Biscuits on the Balclutha in San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In \u003cem>Round The Horn and Before The Mast\u003c/em>, Hijar found yet another biscuit reference. The author, A. Basil Lubbock, begins by describing running out of “Kobe biscuits, which are nearly all rice.” He then remembers how relieved he was to receive “splendid American hardtack… I don’t think I have ever eaten better biscuit than this Frisco bread.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With the evidence mounting, Hijar offered her final conclusion: \u003cem>A ‘Frisco biscuit was hardtack provisioned at San Francisco’s port\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘Known the world over?’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>For something “known the world over,” ‘Frisco biscuits proved fairly elusive. Several maritime historians had never heard of a ‘Frisco biscuit, and Hijar had to really dig to find a few sources.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The most likely explanation for the biscuit’s obscurity? Sailor slang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Sailors] had their own language… words that you and I would never understand because they were particular to this world of sailors at sea,” Hijar said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like so many forgotten pieces of history, it comes down to who gets to tell the story. Most sailors in the 1880s didn’t have typewriters or book deals. Their version of events was rarely recorded, and for those of us who love some good slang, that’s a big loss.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lightoller’s biography is full of sailor lingo. Reading it taught our question asker, Carl Merritt, some new vocabulary — like crocodile pearls. (It’s a much more exciting way to say… avocados.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If Merritt’s question has got you hankering to try some hardtack, \u003ca href=\"https://www.rmg.co.uk/stories/blog/how-make-ships-biscuit\">here’s a recipe so you can whip up your very own batch of ‘Frisco biscuits\u003c/a>. Or, you could imagine yourself a sailor at sea on ship’s rations, indulging in biscuit-based delicacies like “Dandy Funk” and “Cracker Hash.” You’re welcome.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: Hey everyone, Olivia Allen-Price here, and you’re listening to Bay Curious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here’s a thing about me: I love a good biscuit. I grew up in North Carolina, where biscuits are a point of pride. It seems like everyone has a grandma who makes a good one, but don’t bother asking for the recipe because there isn’t one. It’s all done by feel — eyeballing the flour in the bowl, the texture of the dough between your fingers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So when a biscuit question arrived in our Bay Curious mailbox, it grabbed my attention right away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carl Merritt\u003c/strong>: Frisco biscuits? I need your help on that one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: This is Carl Merritt — our question-asker this week. A while back, he was reading the biography of a storied sailor when he came across the term Frisco Biscuit. It left him feeling stumped.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carl Merritt\u003c/strong>: He describes it as crispy and six inches in diameter. He says it’s known the world over. So, so I was hoping maybe you can find something.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: But for something known the world over, a quick internet search didn’t turn much up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carl Merritt\u003c/strong>: Well, I’m glad I threw you a curveball. That’s great news.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: When I passed off the question to one of our Bay Curious reporters, I was secretly hoping they’d crack the code quickly, get some local chefs to give the recipe a whirl — And give me a taste test.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But turns out my dream of a flaky, buttery, crispy San Francisco-made biscuit was destined to remain a dream.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Bay Curious theme music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This week — a culinary, history, maritime mystery. What is a Frisco Biscuit?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s all coming up! Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Theme music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: To help us answer Carl’s question — what is a Frisco Biscuit? — we’ve put Bay Curious reporter Gabriela Glueck on the job. Her first step? Find the source in question — the book where ‘Frisco Biscuit’ makes its appearance — and get to know a bit more about the guy who wrote it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A man by the name of Charles Lightoller.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Charles Lightoller was a sailor, as true a seaman at heart as it is possible to be. And in his biography, he tells his story of life on the water. Born in England in the late 1800s and effectively orphaned at age 13, ships were all he’d really ever know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While you might not recognize his name, you’re probably more familiar with him than you think.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Charles Lightoller\u003c/strong>: Several of us scrambled up onto the slippery bottom of the raft. And it was from there I saw the Titanic sink. It was from there I saw the Titanic sink.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: That’s Lightoller, recounting the sinking of the Titanic in a BBC radio interview following the disaster. He was the most senior officer to survive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Charles Lightoller\u003c/strong>: As she vanished, everyone around me on the upturned boat, as though they could hardly believe it, just said, she’s gone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Lightoller waited on the Titanic until it was nearly under, shepherding others onto the remaining lifeboats before he himself took a seat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But even a shipwreck — perhaps the world’s most infamous one — couldn’t keep him away from the sea for too long. He tells all this in his life story, his book, “Titanic and Other Ships.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When a seaman like that mentions a “Frisco Biscuit” and calls it, quote, “known the world over,” you kinda take his word for it. But tracking down the term was actually a bit of a challenge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We will get to the biscuit, I promise, but first, just a little more context. We know the man we’re working with. Step two is understanding the place he’s talking about: The port of San Francisco in the 1880s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In his book, Lightoller sets the scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice Over for Lightoller\u003c/strong>: What a strange mixture we found in that city of mushroom growth. Beautiful broad streets and magnificent buildings, but almost entirely without law or order, unless you could pay for it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sounds of waves, seagulls, shipbuilding sounds, wind\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: Here are some men just hanging out on the wharf. You would have seen a lot of people hanging out on the wharf looking for work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: That’s Gina Bardi. She’s a reference librarian at San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park Research Center. I met up with her to get a better sense of what the port was like back in the day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: You would have seen a lot of smoke… It was very dirty and dusty. You would have seen insurance agents, merchants, everybody buying and selling wares, so it would have been really vibrant, loud… there was um, ships being built, ships being torn apart, so all, all sounds and noises associated with that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela\u003c/strong> \u003cstrong>Glueck\u003c/strong>: Lightoller was just a teenager when he arrived in the city, but San Francisco made a lasting impression on him. Safe to say, not a very positive one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice Over for Lightoller\u003c/strong>: ‘Frisco, at this time, had the honor of bearing the worst reputation of any seaport in the world for lawlessness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Gina told me that a sailor coming into port around that time was likely to have a tough go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: People being kidnapped is absolutely true. There’s news reports of it. We have lots of stories of people being, you know, walking down the street and somebody offering them a drink or conking them on the crown, and the next thing they know, they wake up, and they’re on a ship halfway up to sea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: It was a place that Lightoller was, quite frankly, delighted to leave when the time came.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice Over for Lightoller\u003c/strong>: Hard, bitter hard, though ship life often was, yet we were glad to see the Golden Gates, with all they stood for, fading away and finally disappearing below the horizon. At least the sea was clean.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Harsh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice Over for Lightoller\u003c/strong>: The only good thing about ‘Frisco, as far as I, a first voyager with an eternal hunger, could see, was the biscuits. “‘Frisco biscuits” are known the world over. Big, crisp and eatable. A good six inches across, and even the ship’s margarine could not altogether spoil their flavor… In fact, the outstanding feature of my first voyage seems to have been the state of semi-starvation we boys lived in, until we got the ‘Frisco biscuits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: So, what is a Frisco biscuit?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: I have no idea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: That’s reference librarian Gina Bardi again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: I went through all my maritime dictionaries that I have. I went through a bunch of cookbooks that we have, food ways studies that we have, and I have just not come across it anywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Gina and I were stumped. Searching for Frisco Biscuits wasn’t getting us anywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But, ship’s biscuits, also known as hardtack, were one of the main staples of a sailor’s diet. It’s basically a flour and water cracker, dried out in the oven for so long that it’s nonperishable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With this clue in mind, we started tossing around theories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our first hypothesis: Frisco Biscuits were hardtack provisioned at San Francisco’s port.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Theory number two: these biscuits had something to do with sourdough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Theory number three: Maybe, in Lightoller’s British English, he was actually referring to a cookie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thing is, sourdough wouldn’t have made a good long-term provision. And there just wasn’t any evidence for the cookie angle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The hardtack hypothesis seemed like our best bet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, we went down the rabbit hole.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To help us test our theory — to see if hardtack could be considered big, crisp, and eatable — Gina pulled out an archival recipe and whipped up a batch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: You have to have upper arm strength. My poor rolling pin, I was like standing on my tiptoes. I was like mushing with all my strength, trying to get it down.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Then, she invited all her colleagues to join us for a taste test.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: This is the fruits of my labor. Then the recipe also said I should encase it in a wooden cask. But I had no wooden casks at home, so I just put it in a zip lock and bought it here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of people eating something very crunchy\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gina Bardi\u003c/strong>: Don’t bite in with your front teeth because I don’t think that’ll work. Maybe gnaw on the side a little bit and then dip.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Taste tester #1\u003c/strong>: Oh, my God, I think I just lost a tooth. (sounds of chewing)\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Test tester #2\u003c/strong>: Cardboard, a little taste, a little hint of cardboard. It just tastes like flour. It tastes like dry. That’s what it tastes like, like a mouthful of sand.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Taste tester #3\u003c/strong>: I’m not gonna lie, I would eat this. It does not have much of a flavor, but I kind of just like gnawing on it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Fair enough. Maybe San Francisco was such a miserable time that something so bad ended up being the best part. Or maybe to a starving sailor, Frisco biscuits were just a little bit tastier than average.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those seemed like solid guesses, but still just guesses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gina and I felt like we needed to do a bit more digging. Her suggestion? Turn it over to the big guns. AKA, the center’s maritime historian, Katherine Hijar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck in tape\u003c/strong>: First thing I want to ask you is, did you figure it out?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Hijar\u003c/strong>: I think I did. Yes, I think I did. As you probably know already, sea biscuits, ships biscuits, Frisco biscuits, hardtack those are all the same thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: After scouring the archives, Katherine told me she’d finally found something. Two additional references to Frisco biscuits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Again, in the biographies and diaries of British sailors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Hijar\u003c/strong>: Describing a journey from San Francisco to Europe, it was before the Panama Canal, so that it was around Cape Horn off the coast of Chile, uh, they spent some time on a ship called the Star of Italy. On that ship, Frank Shaw and some of his fellow sailors ate, quote, rare palatable Frisco biscuits lavishly smeared with real salt butter out of bona fide tins.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: For something provisioned in California to stay edible all the way to Chile, it’s gotta be nonperishable. That’s a point for the hardtack theory. Plus, hardtack was very often stored away in tins.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The next clue came from another sailor’s diary dated September 1899.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Hijar\u003c/strong>: He wrote, today, we came to an end of the Kobe biscuits, which are nearly all rice. So, Kobe biscuits, one thing we get from that right away, is that they have provisioned in Japan, possibly the biscuits came from Kobe. They’ve probably loaded in boxes and boxes of these. And these rice flour-based biscuits are now done. And he’s not a fan. He says, At last, we have got the splendid American hardtack served out to us. I don’t think I have ever eaten better biscuit than this Frisco bread.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Sailors often referred to hardtack as their daily bread, so don’t let that throw you off. This clue is pivotal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It puts it all in simple terms, when ships provision at ports, they buy the local version of hardtack. Kobe biscuits from Kobe, Frisco biscuits from Frisco. A 1 to 1.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>American hardtack, Frisco bread. Another 1 to 1.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of that, Katherine had convinced me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But why does Lightoller claim that Frisco biscuits are, quote, “known the world over?” From what I can tell, they’re hardly known at all. Several maritime experts I spoke with hadn’t heard of them. And Katherine had to do some serious digging to find even a few mentions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Hijar\u003c/strong>: Definitely slang, absolutely yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Katherine’s best guess — “Frisco biscuit” is sailor speak.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Hijar\u003c/strong>: They had their own language, different words that you and I, even if we could get in a time machine, and go back to the 19th-century words that you and I would never understand because they were particular to this world of sailors at sea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: And within the sailor community, Frisco Biscuits might have been known the world over. But sailors at sea in the 1800s weren’t the ones with typewriters and publishing deals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Hijar\u003c/strong>: So many of the absences and the silences in history have to do with who had the ability to actually leave a permanent record. So when we’re talking about life at sea and the life of sailors, we’re talking about a population that is mostly very poor at best, their working class, and those are just not the people who whose experiences were considered important at the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: Reporter Gabriela Glueck, thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck\u003c/strong>: Thank you. It was quite a fun mystery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: Big thanks to our question-asker, Carl Merritt, for sending us on this winding adventure. His question was chosen by listeners in a public voting round at BayCurious.org. There’s a new one up now, so head on over and cast your vote for what you’d like us to cover next.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carl Merritt\u003c/strong>: Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/strong>: Did you know: KQED relies on your financial support to keep shows like Bay Curious going? More than half of KQED’s budget comes from donations from our audience. It is truly journalism made for the public, powered by the public, which is just the way we like it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re in a position to give, please visit \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>. There are options for one-time gifts, or you can level up and become a sustaining member by giving each month. Your support keeps local news in the Bay Area alive at a time when it is under threat. Again, head to \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a> to give. And from all us at Bay Curious, a deep, heartfelt thank you.\u003cbr>\nOur show is produced by…\u003cbr>\nKatrina Schwartz\u003cbr>\nChristopher Beale\u003cbr>\nAnd me, Olivia Allen-Price\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Additional Support From:\u003cbr>\nMaha Sanad\u003cbr>\nKatie Springer\u003cbr>\nJen Chien\u003cbr>\nAlana Walker\u003cbr>\nHolly Kernan\u003cbr>\nAnd everyone on Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a great week. And if you try making a Frisco biscuit of your own, don’t break a tooth!\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>"
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"content": "\u003cp>A few weeks back we shared a call out from another KQED podcast, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/program/the-bay\">The Bay\u003c/a>. They were wanting to hear about your experiences of dating in the Bay Area … and let’s just say you \u003cem>really\u003c/em> delivered. This week on Bay Curious, we share their episode featuring your stories. We’ll meet some daters from all around the region and hear how they’re navigating the highs and lows of the Bay Area dating scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC6905794791&light=true\" width=\"100%\" height=\"200\" frameborder=\"0\" scrolling=\"no\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003cbr>\n\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> I’m Olivia Allen-Price, and this is Bay Curious, the podcast that answers questions about the Bay Area, including it’s people and culture…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today, we’re tackling a topic I know a lot of you are wading through right now: dating in the Bay Area. A few weeks back we shared a call out from another KQED podcast, The Bay. They were wanting to hear about your experiences of dating here… and let’s just say you really delivered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 1:\u003c/strong> It just seems like men are kind of sleeping with everyone and have a very short attention span. It doesn’t really seem worth it to be honest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 2:\u003c/strong> I met someone who was online, it ended up getting so bad. Contracted three STDs from the guy, when he said he was monogamous and STD free. And then I ended up taking him to court after we had broken up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 3:\u003c/strong> My last decent dinner date was 1997.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 4:\u003c/strong> Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, OK Cupid, Coffee Meets Bagel..\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 5:\u003c/strong> I started with dating websites, it evolved into several dating apps. I finally met my husband in Golden Gate Park where we were walking our dogs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> From navigating the apps to trying to meet people in real life, we heard a lot about the highs and lows of the Bay Area dating scene. Today, we’re sharing The Bay’s episode to dig a little deeper into what it takes to find love here. That’s all just ahead after this quick break.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor Message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Alright, let’s talk dating. I’m handing the baton off to The Bay’s Jessica Kariisa, in conversation with KQED’s community engagement reporter Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa: \u003c/strong>Hey, Carlos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Hi, Jessica.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa: \u003c/strong>I’m so excited to talk to you today. Can you maybe start by telling us a bit about the people that you spoke to?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> For this story, I spoke to folks all over the Bay Area. We wanted to make sure that we understood the experiences of what it’s like to be single, of what it’s like to date. Most of the folks we spoke to were born and raised in the Bay Area. I also spoke to a couple of folks who had moved from other places and loved the Bay, but they told me that, hey, this little region that we call home has a very particular energy that sometimes takes a while to get used to.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> Sounds like we got a lot of really great perspectives and also there’s you, Carlos. You’re a dater in the Bay Area. Can you tell us a little bit about yourself?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí\u003c/strong>: 5’8, deep dark brown eyes, melanated and marinated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa: \u003c/strong>There you go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> I started using the apps, specifically Tinder, since I was able to. You know at that age, I was trying to figure out, like, hey, do I like girls, and I was like, oh, wait, I like both. And San Francisco is a place where I felt very comfortable and just being able to tell people that. I’ve met a lot of characters, a lot, a lot of characters, and I’m sure many of them can say the same about me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> Speaking of the apps, you mentioned the apps, and honestly, that’s the first thing I think of when I think of dating, especially in the past five, 10 years. And I’m curious, what’s your experience been like on the apps?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> I’m a very spontaneous, instinctual person, and over time, I’ve learned that they’re tools, they’re helpful tools, but they’re also imperfect tools. But also, they make it really hard to just accurately express what you’re feeling, the energy, and also understand the other person. And also, it’s, you know, six, seven photos with maybe like two or three sentences. Right, right. How much are you going to get out of that?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> Like you said, the apps are a tool. There’s good experiences to be had. There’s also not so great experiences to be had. But it seems like it’s just kind of an inevitable part of dating. And I want to get into the story of someone you talk to named Brenda. Can you tell me who she is and what her story is?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Brenda B is a teacher. For privacy reasons, we’re only going to be using the first letter of her last name. She is from Walnut Creek. She’s in her late 30s. She’s been in the apps and online dating for about 20 years, since she was 15.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brenda B:\u003c/strong> So that’s mostly how I’ve been able to meet people. And I also like make sure, like on my profile, that I say exactly like what I’m looking for.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> What did she tell you about what her overall experience has been like on the apps?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> You know, one of the issues that comes up for her is that a lot of the guys she talks to, it’s just that they either don’t know what they want or they don’t want what she wants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brenda B:\u003c/strong> A lot of people are interested in polyamory and/or non-monogamy. And so at my age and then wanting monogamy is really hard to find. I think in particular, that’s a unique trait of this area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa: \u003c/strong>Wow, I mean, I didn’t realize monogamy was out of style. Maybe I’m out of touch. But I’m curious, you know, when Brenda does meet people who are also interested in monogamy, has she had good experiences?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> She puts the best of herself out there. She’s very intentional. And she reminds me a lot of my female besties who go out to meet someone and they are putting so much thought into where the date’s gonna be, what they’re gonna wear, what they’re gonna talk about. And then they leave the house so excited and then a few hours later they come back and they’re like, the guy just didn’t measure up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brenda B:\u003c/strong> Single guys in the bay, I feel like if you put in a little bit of effort, it will be appreciated. Don’t waste people’s time. If you’re not interested in dating anyone, just delete your app, please.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Something else that bothers her is that she might go out with someone three, four, five times, start building a bit of a connection with them and then the guy’s like, “Wait a minute. This is not something I was ready for. I don’t know what I want. Let’s just stop seeing each other.” Brenda said it very clear. “Hey, it’s okay if you don’t wanna date or if you don’t want something serious, but communicate that from the beginning. The other person might be cool with that. But just don’t lead them along.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> People obviously resort to the apps because meeting people in real life is hard. I mean, even just making friends in real life is hard. But people are still managing to meet people IRL and I’m curious, based on the people you spoke to, what did you hear about that?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> I spoke to Bri Fritz. She’s from Napa, works at a community college and dates queer people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bri Fritz:\u003c/strong> There are a couple queer people out here but it is very slim picking. For me, what I have found really successful is I joined sports leagues. Now, I’m not a sporty person. I had never played soccer, never played sports, but I went and they were so welcoming and through that, I met other people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> She’s been able to form really cool networks of queer women and she’s been really intentional about this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa: \u003c/strong>I really wish I was a sporty girl, but I would get so intimidated. I would definitely be the worst on the team. How did Bri choose sports?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> These kind of spaces work really well for Bri because she’s not a drinker. She tries not to drink and wants to seek out spaces where drinking isn’t the center of what people are doing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bri Fritz:\u003c/strong> The thing with the queer community is there’s a lot of focus on drinking and going to the bars and that’s not really my scene. I don’t like to just randomly approach people. I get pretty nervous.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> There’s a lot of really fun sports leagues for queer women, queer men, trans and non-binary folks all over the Bay Area and it can make meeting people a lot less daunting and even if you don’t meet someone that you’re romantically interested in, you’re now just gonna have a bigger network of people, of friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> I mean, it honestly sounds like a win -win. You know, she’s doing, she’s being active. She’s, you know, doing these fun activities. She’s meeting super cool people. I wonder, is Brie running into any challenges? Yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> The Bay Area is a huge place. It’s nine counties. But what that means is like, you know, you can meet someone at a bar or an app or something that might tell you, oh yeah, I live in the Bay too. And you might live in Marin and they’re like, and I live in San Jose. So you’re like, okay, how am I gonna make this work? Especially if you’re interested in them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bri Fritz:\u003c/strong> I met actually somebody who’s originally from Napa, lived in Walnut Creek and then moved to Fremont and they were asking if I was okay with the commute. Luckily, I love to drive. I have a little Honda Fit. And so for me, that commute was okay. We would sometimes meet halfway but it was kind of difficult.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> I feel the commuting pain point. I live in San Jose. I obviously work here in San Francisco. I feel like I’m in a long distance relationship with the rest of the Bay team. But I’m curious, you know, besides joining a sports league which is super cool. What are some other good ways you heard from the people that you spoke to about meeting people in real life?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Yeah, I spoke about that with Tim Huey. He’s in his 30s, living in Oakland and working as an organizer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tim Huey:\u003c/strong> When it comes to meeting people in real life that’s certainly something that is maybe a little bit of a lost art. And so for myself, one of those spaces is kind of within community organizing, activism and advocacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí: \u003c/strong>Something that’s really important to Tim are the values, what the other person believes. Tim mentioned is that it helps you build trust with that person. That’s, I mean, in any relationship if you already have that, that makes things a lot stronger.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tim Huey:\u003c/strong> You’re sitting in city hall for five hours for a meeting and you’re trying to wait for your turn to speak to you and making friends with people around you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa: \u003c/strong>Has this worked out romantically for Tim as well?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí: \u003c/strong>In his case, it hasn’t worked out just because with the folks he’s met they mentioned that it’s best to not date within the movements.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tim Huey:\u003c/strong> A lot of these spaces are very close -knit doing a lot of important and stressful work. So adding romantic relationships into that element can and has in some cases been a little bit more drama than maybe it’s worth to some people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> Yeah, like dating within a particular community if it’s small or if it overlaps with your work like it definitely sounds like there are some real pitfalls there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Yeah, no, it makes things messy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> Just to wrap up, Carlos, I know you asked each of these daters for their best advice and I’m curious, what did they tell you?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> I loved asking folks this question because what they told me it just made me smile. Like Bri, she actually printed out little business cards with her Instagram, funny facts, cool things about her that when she meets someone at a bar she’ll actually pass this card to them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bri Fritz:\u003c/strong> It’s such a power move to be like, oh yeah, here, contact me. Everybody I’ve ever given one to they say that their friends think it’s so funny. It’s such a power move.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> I love that. I might take that idea, honestly. Business cards, we need to bring those back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Me too! Me too. Me too. And other folks had kind of like bigger suggestions. Brenda, she really recommends to other women to be clear about what you want from the beginning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brenda B:\u003c/strong> I think women in particular have been taught to like kind of just smile and be happy and that we’re like too much and I think I bought into that and I’ve learned as I’ve dated more and as I’ve matured and gone to therapy that no, it’s really important to say like, hey, this is bothering me or this is something I’ve noticed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> She mentioned that sometimes if you say, “Hey, I want something serious” or “I want kids” or “I don’t want kids” at the beginning it might be daunting because you’re like, hey, is the other person going to be turned off by that or are they just going to leave? But she pointed out that if they leave or they step away once you mention what you want, that’s just how it’s meant to be, right? You don’t want to be with someone who’s not interested in the same things or doesn’t have the same goal in mind as you are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> That’s all such great advice. What about advice for the general dating pool? Were there any no-nos, anything that we should be leaving behind in 2025?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Yeah, I really, really like what Tim said, that we need to get better at closure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tim Huey: \u003c/strong>Especially in this day and age with social media and digital communication or it can be seen as disposable or really ready to kind of move on to the next thing. There’s something to be said for messaging. Some may say I’m just not feeling it but I wish you the best on finding your person. Something simple like that rather than just ghosting. I think that’s the big thing that a lot of people have either experienced or have done themselves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> You don’t have to be besties with everyone who you date, right? But at least in my case, I do appreciate when someone lets me know what they’re thinking and they’re honest that it’s not going to work out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> Carlos, what is your takeaway from all these conversations, would you say?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Every person I spoke to has a completely different background experience than I do. But hearing someone who lives in Walnut Creek is a teacher or lives in Napa or is an organizer but has gone through similar things as I have that has been ghosted or has dated someone who turned out to be in a committed relationship and didn’t communicate that to you or where you’ve been maybe not the good person. I think that’s really good to know that someone out there here in the Bay is going exactly through something that you’re going through right now. I mean, it’s not just affirming, but it’s like, okay, whoa, it’s not just about me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> I love that so much and I’ve really, really loved this conversation. Thank you so much, Carlos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Thank you, Jessica.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> That was Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí, a community reporter for KQED. This conversation was cut down and edited by our intern Mel Velasquez. Dana Cronin added all the music and the tape. Alan Montecillo is our editor. Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by the Screen Actors Guild American Federation of Television and Radio Artists San Francisco, Northern California Local. Music courtesy of Audio Network and Blue Dot Sessions. Funding for The Bay is provided in part by the Osher Production Fund. Engineering support from Brian Douglas. I’m Jessica Kariisa, in for Erica Cruz Guevarra. Thanks for listening!\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>A few weeks back we shared a call out from another KQED podcast, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/program/the-bay\">The Bay\u003c/a>. They were wanting to hear about your experiences of dating in the Bay Area … and let’s just say you \u003cem>really\u003c/em> delivered. This week on Bay Curious, we share their episode featuring your stories. We’ll meet some daters from all around the region and hear how they’re navigating the highs and lows of the Bay Area dating scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC6905794791&light=true\" width=\"100%\" height=\"200\" frameborder=\"0\" scrolling=\"no\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003cbr>\n\u003c/em>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> I’m Olivia Allen-Price, and this is Bay Curious, the podcast that answers questions about the Bay Area, including it’s people and culture…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today, we’re tackling a topic I know a lot of you are wading through right now: dating in the Bay Area. A few weeks back we shared a call out from another KQED podcast, The Bay. They were wanting to hear about your experiences of dating here… and let’s just say you really delivered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 1:\u003c/strong> It just seems like men are kind of sleeping with everyone and have a very short attention span. It doesn’t really seem worth it to be honest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 2:\u003c/strong> I met someone who was online, it ended up getting so bad. Contracted three STDs from the guy, when he said he was monogamous and STD free. And then I ended up taking him to court after we had broken up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 3:\u003c/strong> My last decent dinner date was 1997.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 4:\u003c/strong> Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, OK Cupid, Coffee Meets Bagel..\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 5:\u003c/strong> I started with dating websites, it evolved into several dating apps. I finally met my husband in Golden Gate Park where we were walking our dogs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> From navigating the apps to trying to meet people in real life, we heard a lot about the highs and lows of the Bay Area dating scene. Today, we’re sharing The Bay’s episode to dig a little deeper into what it takes to find love here. That’s all just ahead after this quick break.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor Message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Alright, let’s talk dating. I’m handing the baton off to The Bay’s Jessica Kariisa, in conversation with KQED’s community engagement reporter Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa: \u003c/strong>Hey, Carlos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Hi, Jessica.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa: \u003c/strong>I’m so excited to talk to you today. Can you maybe start by telling us a bit about the people that you spoke to?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> For this story, I spoke to folks all over the Bay Area. We wanted to make sure that we understood the experiences of what it’s like to be single, of what it’s like to date. Most of the folks we spoke to were born and raised in the Bay Area. I also spoke to a couple of folks who had moved from other places and loved the Bay, but they told me that, hey, this little region that we call home has a very particular energy that sometimes takes a while to get used to.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> Sounds like we got a lot of really great perspectives and also there’s you, Carlos. You’re a dater in the Bay Area. Can you tell us a little bit about yourself?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí\u003c/strong>: 5’8, deep dark brown eyes, melanated and marinated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa: \u003c/strong>There you go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> I started using the apps, specifically Tinder, since I was able to. You know at that age, I was trying to figure out, like, hey, do I like girls, and I was like, oh, wait, I like both. And San Francisco is a place where I felt very comfortable and just being able to tell people that. I’ve met a lot of characters, a lot, a lot of characters, and I’m sure many of them can say the same about me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> Speaking of the apps, you mentioned the apps, and honestly, that’s the first thing I think of when I think of dating, especially in the past five, 10 years. And I’m curious, what’s your experience been like on the apps?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> I’m a very spontaneous, instinctual person, and over time, I’ve learned that they’re tools, they’re helpful tools, but they’re also imperfect tools. But also, they make it really hard to just accurately express what you’re feeling, the energy, and also understand the other person. And also, it’s, you know, six, seven photos with maybe like two or three sentences. Right, right. How much are you going to get out of that?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> Like you said, the apps are a tool. There’s good experiences to be had. There’s also not so great experiences to be had. But it seems like it’s just kind of an inevitable part of dating. And I want to get into the story of someone you talk to named Brenda. Can you tell me who she is and what her story is?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Brenda B is a teacher. For privacy reasons, we’re only going to be using the first letter of her last name. She is from Walnut Creek. She’s in her late 30s. She’s been in the apps and online dating for about 20 years, since she was 15.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brenda B:\u003c/strong> So that’s mostly how I’ve been able to meet people. And I also like make sure, like on my profile, that I say exactly like what I’m looking for.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> What did she tell you about what her overall experience has been like on the apps?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> You know, one of the issues that comes up for her is that a lot of the guys she talks to, it’s just that they either don’t know what they want or they don’t want what she wants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brenda B:\u003c/strong> A lot of people are interested in polyamory and/or non-monogamy. And so at my age and then wanting monogamy is really hard to find. I think in particular, that’s a unique trait of this area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa: \u003c/strong>Wow, I mean, I didn’t realize monogamy was out of style. Maybe I’m out of touch. But I’m curious, you know, when Brenda does meet people who are also interested in monogamy, has she had good experiences?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> She puts the best of herself out there. She’s very intentional. And she reminds me a lot of my female besties who go out to meet someone and they are putting so much thought into where the date’s gonna be, what they’re gonna wear, what they’re gonna talk about. And then they leave the house so excited and then a few hours later they come back and they’re like, the guy just didn’t measure up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brenda B:\u003c/strong> Single guys in the bay, I feel like if you put in a little bit of effort, it will be appreciated. Don’t waste people’s time. If you’re not interested in dating anyone, just delete your app, please.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Something else that bothers her is that she might go out with someone three, four, five times, start building a bit of a connection with them and then the guy’s like, “Wait a minute. This is not something I was ready for. I don’t know what I want. Let’s just stop seeing each other.” Brenda said it very clear. “Hey, it’s okay if you don’t wanna date or if you don’t want something serious, but communicate that from the beginning. The other person might be cool with that. But just don’t lead them along.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> People obviously resort to the apps because meeting people in real life is hard. I mean, even just making friends in real life is hard. But people are still managing to meet people IRL and I’m curious, based on the people you spoke to, what did you hear about that?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> I spoke to Bri Fritz. She’s from Napa, works at a community college and dates queer people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bri Fritz:\u003c/strong> There are a couple queer people out here but it is very slim picking. For me, what I have found really successful is I joined sports leagues. Now, I’m not a sporty person. I had never played soccer, never played sports, but I went and they were so welcoming and through that, I met other people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> She’s been able to form really cool networks of queer women and she’s been really intentional about this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa: \u003c/strong>I really wish I was a sporty girl, but I would get so intimidated. I would definitely be the worst on the team. How did Bri choose sports?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> These kind of spaces work really well for Bri because she’s not a drinker. She tries not to drink and wants to seek out spaces where drinking isn’t the center of what people are doing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bri Fritz:\u003c/strong> The thing with the queer community is there’s a lot of focus on drinking and going to the bars and that’s not really my scene. I don’t like to just randomly approach people. I get pretty nervous.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> There’s a lot of really fun sports leagues for queer women, queer men, trans and non-binary folks all over the Bay Area and it can make meeting people a lot less daunting and even if you don’t meet someone that you’re romantically interested in, you’re now just gonna have a bigger network of people, of friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> I mean, it honestly sounds like a win -win. You know, she’s doing, she’s being active. She’s, you know, doing these fun activities. She’s meeting super cool people. I wonder, is Brie running into any challenges? Yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> The Bay Area is a huge place. It’s nine counties. But what that means is like, you know, you can meet someone at a bar or an app or something that might tell you, oh yeah, I live in the Bay too. And you might live in Marin and they’re like, and I live in San Jose. So you’re like, okay, how am I gonna make this work? Especially if you’re interested in them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bri Fritz:\u003c/strong> I met actually somebody who’s originally from Napa, lived in Walnut Creek and then moved to Fremont and they were asking if I was okay with the commute. Luckily, I love to drive. I have a little Honda Fit. And so for me, that commute was okay. We would sometimes meet halfway but it was kind of difficult.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> I feel the commuting pain point. I live in San Jose. I obviously work here in San Francisco. I feel like I’m in a long distance relationship with the rest of the Bay team. But I’m curious, you know, besides joining a sports league which is super cool. What are some other good ways you heard from the people that you spoke to about meeting people in real life?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Yeah, I spoke about that with Tim Huey. He’s in his 30s, living in Oakland and working as an organizer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tim Huey:\u003c/strong> When it comes to meeting people in real life that’s certainly something that is maybe a little bit of a lost art. And so for myself, one of those spaces is kind of within community organizing, activism and advocacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí: \u003c/strong>Something that’s really important to Tim are the values, what the other person believes. Tim mentioned is that it helps you build trust with that person. That’s, I mean, in any relationship if you already have that, that makes things a lot stronger.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tim Huey:\u003c/strong> You’re sitting in city hall for five hours for a meeting and you’re trying to wait for your turn to speak to you and making friends with people around you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa: \u003c/strong>Has this worked out romantically for Tim as well?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí: \u003c/strong>In his case, it hasn’t worked out just because with the folks he’s met they mentioned that it’s best to not date within the movements.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tim Huey:\u003c/strong> A lot of these spaces are very close -knit doing a lot of important and stressful work. So adding romantic relationships into that element can and has in some cases been a little bit more drama than maybe it’s worth to some people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> Yeah, like dating within a particular community if it’s small or if it overlaps with your work like it definitely sounds like there are some real pitfalls there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Yeah, no, it makes things messy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> Just to wrap up, Carlos, I know you asked each of these daters for their best advice and I’m curious, what did they tell you?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> I loved asking folks this question because what they told me it just made me smile. Like Bri, she actually printed out little business cards with her Instagram, funny facts, cool things about her that when she meets someone at a bar she’ll actually pass this card to them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bri Fritz:\u003c/strong> It’s such a power move to be like, oh yeah, here, contact me. Everybody I’ve ever given one to they say that their friends think it’s so funny. It’s such a power move.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> I love that. I might take that idea, honestly. Business cards, we need to bring those back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Me too! Me too. Me too. And other folks had kind of like bigger suggestions. Brenda, she really recommends to other women to be clear about what you want from the beginning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brenda B:\u003c/strong> I think women in particular have been taught to like kind of just smile and be happy and that we’re like too much and I think I bought into that and I’ve learned as I’ve dated more and as I’ve matured and gone to therapy that no, it’s really important to say like, hey, this is bothering me or this is something I’ve noticed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> She mentioned that sometimes if you say, “Hey, I want something serious” or “I want kids” or “I don’t want kids” at the beginning it might be daunting because you’re like, hey, is the other person going to be turned off by that or are they just going to leave? But she pointed out that if they leave or they step away once you mention what you want, that’s just how it’s meant to be, right? You don’t want to be with someone who’s not interested in the same things or doesn’t have the same goal in mind as you are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> That’s all such great advice. What about advice for the general dating pool? Were there any no-nos, anything that we should be leaving behind in 2025?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Yeah, I really, really like what Tim said, that we need to get better at closure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tim Huey: \u003c/strong>Especially in this day and age with social media and digital communication or it can be seen as disposable or really ready to kind of move on to the next thing. There’s something to be said for messaging. Some may say I’m just not feeling it but I wish you the best on finding your person. Something simple like that rather than just ghosting. I think that’s the big thing that a lot of people have either experienced or have done themselves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> You don’t have to be besties with everyone who you date, right? But at least in my case, I do appreciate when someone lets me know what they’re thinking and they’re honest that it’s not going to work out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> Carlos, what is your takeaway from all these conversations, would you say?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Every person I spoke to has a completely different background experience than I do. But hearing someone who lives in Walnut Creek is a teacher or lives in Napa or is an organizer but has gone through similar things as I have that has been ghosted or has dated someone who turned out to be in a committed relationship and didn’t communicate that to you or where you’ve been maybe not the good person. I think that’s really good to know that someone out there here in the Bay is going exactly through something that you’re going through right now. I mean, it’s not just affirming, but it’s like, okay, whoa, it’s not just about me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> I love that so much and I’ve really, really loved this conversation. Thank you so much, Carlos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí:\u003c/strong> Thank you, Jessica.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jessica Kariisa:\u003c/strong> That was Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí, a community reporter for KQED. This conversation was cut down and edited by our intern Mel Velasquez. Dana Cronin added all the music and the tape. Alan Montecillo is our editor. Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by the Screen Actors Guild American Federation of Television and Radio Artists San Francisco, Northern California Local. Music courtesy of Audio Network and Blue Dot Sessions. Funding for The Bay is provided in part by the Osher Production Fund. Engineering support from Brian Douglas. I’m Jessica Kariisa, in for Erica Cruz Guevarra. Thanks for listening!\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>"
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"title": "How Oakland's 16th Street Train Station Helped Build West Oakland and the Modern Civil Rights Movement",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript. \u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cem>This story was first published on April 14, 2022, and updated on Feb. 13, 2025.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re in Oakland, take 16th Street west from downtown like you’re heading to the freeway. As you travel, single-family homes will give way to vacant lots, industrial warehouses and shiny new condominiums. Pretty soon you’ll see the 880 freeway roaring above you. You’ve hit a dead end, and you’ll be staring up at Oakland’s 16th Street Station.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a massive, 40-foot-high stone structure covered in terra-cotta tiles. Designed in the Beaux Arts style, it’s elegant, with three large arched windows over the main door. There’s a wide parking lot, an old control tower and what looks like the skeleton of an elevated train line.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For all its grandeur, it clearly has been left to the slow decay of time. Local graffiti artists have covered its once bright walls, the perimeter is encircled by cyclone fencing and weeds grow everywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It definitely could have been cared for better,” says Tadd Williams, our question asker. He drives by the station on 880 every day and often wonders about the lives it has lived. “What’s the deal with the 16th Street station?” he wanted to know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As it happens, the 16th Street station played a crucial role in the Bay Area’s transportation infrastructure during the golden age of rail travel, helped establish a working-class Black community in West Oakland and was a major organizing force behind America’s first Black union.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The golden age of rail travel\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The 16th Street station opened in 1912. Trains were the way to get around, and Oakland soon became a major hub for the Southern Pacific Railroad, which operated a rail yard there. In the decades following its opening, the station boomed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11910937\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-11910937\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Busy_scene_on_the_Southern_Pacific_RR_Oakland_Pier_San_Francisco_CJ_Allen_Steel_Highway_1928-800x479.jpeg\" alt=\"Black and white photo of multiple rail lines and trains exiting a busy train station.\" width=\"800\" height=\"479\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Busy_scene_on_the_Southern_Pacific_RR_Oakland_Pier_San_Francisco_CJ_Allen_Steel_Highway_1928-800x479.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Busy_scene_on_the_Southern_Pacific_RR_Oakland_Pier_San_Francisco_CJ_Allen_Steel_Highway_1928-160x96.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Busy_scene_on_the_Southern_Pacific_RR_Oakland_Pier_San_Francisco_CJ_Allen_Steel_Highway_1928.jpeg 803w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Southern Pacific lines approaching Oakland Pier Terminal in 1928. \u003ccite>(\u003ca href=\"https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c6/Busy_scene_on_the_Southern_Pacific_RR%2C_Oakland_Pier%2C_San_Francisco_%28CJ_Allen%2C_Steel_Highway%2C_1928%29.jpg\">Wikimedia Commons\u003c/a>)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It was like an airport is today,” said Mitchell Schwarzer, a professor at California College of the Arts and author of the book “\u003ca href=\"https://www.ucpress.edu/book/9780520391536/hella-town\">Hella Town: Oakland’s History of Development and Disruption\u003c/a>.” “Back in the day, there would have been 50 or more trains coming into the station from long distances every day.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hundreds of interurban trains would pass through from all over the East Bay, as would hundreds more street cars. Some trains ran on the first elevated train tracks to be constructed west of the Mississippi.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Bridge wasn’t constructed until 1936, so for many years the 16th Street station was a passthrough for travelers headed to San Francisco. Trains took passengers out onto “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zXbicSxD0_g\">moles\u003c/a>” — essentially, wooden piers built far out into the bay. Riders then would transfer to a ferry for the final leg of their journey.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11910936\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1600px\">\u003ca href=\"https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Key_Route_Pier_postcard_(3).jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11910936\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Key_Route_Pier_postcard_3.jpeg\" alt=\"A color drawing shows ferries and other boats out in the Bay with a long stretch of rail tracks connecting back to the mainland.\" width=\"1600\" height=\"1002\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Key_Route_Pier_postcard_3.jpeg 1600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Key_Route_Pier_postcard_3-800x501.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Key_Route_Pier_postcard_3-1020x639.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Key_Route_Pier_postcard_3-160x100.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Key_Route_Pier_postcard_3-1536x962.jpeg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1600px) 100vw, 1600px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Postcard circa 1915-1930: “The Key Route Pier: San Francisco-Oakland-Berkeley, Cal.” \u003ccite>(\u003ca href=\"https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Key_Route_Pier_postcard_(3).jpg\">Wikimedia Commons\u003c/a>)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Perhaps even more surprising, two lanes of traffic on the lower deck of the Bay Bridge were once devoted to rail travel. From 1936, the year the Bay Bridge opened, until 1941, riders could board a train at 16th Street station and take it across the bridge into San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Southern Pacific Railroad was a major employer in Oakland, and workers migrated from all over the country to live and work in West Oakland near the station.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Levy Laird arrived in Oakland in the 1920s, and found a job working as a cook on trains. Like many Black people at the time, he was looking for a better life away from the Jim Crow South. The first steps of this new life were into Oakland’s 16th Street Station.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Oakland was a golden doorway to a new life,” said Alan Laird, Levy’s son. “When the doors opened up, and the passengers were departing the train, the engine would let off this last blast of steam. It was like a sigh of relief, like hope is here, we made it, and now we are in a new home.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Pullman car porters make their mark on West Oakland\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Cross-country rail travel could be long, harsh and uncomfortable. So, it was only a matter of time until companies started catering to the wealthy who wanted to travel in style. The Pullman Palace Car Company was known for its luxury sleeping cars, like hotels on wheels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11910920\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2288px\">\u003ca href=\"https://lccn.loc.gov/2012649450\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11910920\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar.png\" alt=\"Black and white photo of a woman in early 20th century clothing reading while lying down in a sleeping birth on a train. A small hammock for belongings hands abvoe her.\" width=\"2288\" height=\"858\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar.png 2288w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar-800x300.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar-1020x383.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar-160x60.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar-1536x576.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar-2048x768.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar-1920x720.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2288px) 100vw, 2288px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A woman reading in bed in a Pullman car berth with curtains up, circa 1905. \u003ccite>(\u003ca href=\"https://lccn.loc.gov/2012649450\">Geo. R. Lawrence Co./Library of Congress\u003c/a>)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Imagine travelers sitting on plush seats, chandeliers hanging from ceilings, windows with silk curtains and dark walnut woodwork. Travelers could get almost anything on a Pullman car, and it took an army of employees to deliver that experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pullman employed maids, waiters and cooks to provide top-quality service. But the porters were the most renowned part of the operation. They would carry luggage, shine shoes and wait on passengers’ every need. The Pullman Palace Car Company hired almost exclusively Black men for these jobs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There was this racist idea of Blacks serving whites in a subsidiary role,” Schwarzer said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://interactive.wttw.com/a/chicago-stories-pullman-porters\">Pullman managers expected porters to work 20-hour shifts.\u003c/a> They were at the beck and call of passengers at any time, day or night. Many customers wouldn’t even call the porters by their given names, instead referring to them all as “George,” after the company’s founder, George Pullman.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Conditions didn’t improve over time. One report from 1935 found that the porters made just $0.278 per hour, whereas workers in manufacturing or federally funded New Deal projects made twice that. Yet despite the terrible working conditions, being a porter was considered a good job. It was one of the few opportunities Black people had to travel and earn a steady income.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11911065\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11911065 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS189_1319-800x1073.jpg\" alt=\"A very old and poor quality image shows a man wearing a pullman porters uniform holding 2 pieces of luggage at a train station.\" width=\"800\" height=\"1073\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS189_1319-800x1073.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS189_1319-1020x1368.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS189_1319-160x215.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS189_1319-1145x1536.jpg 1145w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS189_1319.jpg 1267w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Clinton Jones stands at a railroad station wearing a porter’s uniform and holding two pieces of luggage, circa 1920. \u003ccite>(Cottrell Laurence Dellums papers/African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It was a huge source of employment for Blacks around the country,” Schwarzer said. “The porters had a kind of role as ambassadors of information throughout the United States to Black communities.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.pbs.org/blackpress/news_bios/defender.html\">Porters often distributed the Chicago Defender\u003c/a> — the largest Black newspaper at the time — across the country, including to the American South, where the paper was banned in some places. The Defender helped fuel the Great Migration out of the South by informing people of opportunities elsewhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The porters also were talking to each other on their long trips, and organizing to take on the systemic racism in the railroad business. In 1925, the porters announced they wanted to form a union. It would come to be known as the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters — the first Black union in the country. It was based in Chicago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But the vice president, C.L. Dellums, was based in Oakland,” Schwarzer said. “So Oakland takes on a very large role within the brotherhood. It’s kind of the secondary headquarters of the brotherhood.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.britannica.com/topic/Brotherhood-of-Sleeping-Car-Porters\">The struggle to unionize was a long one, taking 12 years.\u003c/a> The Pullman company fired workers who tried to organize, and did everything they could to discourage the union. But in the end, the porters were successful, and Oakland played no small part.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11911063\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-11911063\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS014_B12_F11_048-800x654.jpg\" alt=\"A photo shows three black men in suits and ties standing in front of a banner for the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters\" width=\"800\" height=\"654\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS014_B12_F11_048-800x654.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS014_B12_F11_048-1020x834.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS014_B12_F11_048-160x131.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS014_B12_F11_048.jpg 1252w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">From left, C.L. Dellums, vice president of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters; A. Philip Randolph, president; and unidentified man, at the 28th anniversary of the union, in 1953. \u003ccite>(Cottrell Laurence Dellums papers/African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It’s widely reported that the branch that was the most steadfast, that had the largest membership, who supported ongoing union efforts, was the Oakland branch under C.L. Dellums,” Schwarzer said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters is credited with helping to establish the Black middle class in America, as well as the modern civil rights movement. \u003ca href=\"https://www.zinnedproject.org/news/tdih/a-philip-randolph-first-call-mow/\">In 1941, the porters threatened to march on Washington to protest employment discrimination.\u003c/a> This was more than 20 years before the March on Washington where Martin Luther King Jr. made his “I Have a Dream” speech.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=103880184#:~:text=Pullman%20Porters%20Helped%20Build%20Black%20Middle%20Class%20Porters%20combined%20their,for%20the%20civil%20rights%20movement.\">porter’s offspring\u003c/a> also made their mark on history. Former San Francisco Mayor Willie Brown and former Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall both are descendants of Pullman porters. C.L. Dellums’s nephew, Ron Dellums, served both as the mayor of Oakland and a U.S. Representative of California in Congress.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If you look at Oakland’s history of civil rights activism, this is really the start,” Schwarzer said. “If you think about the Occupy movement in the 2010s, the Black Panthers in the ’60s and ’70s, or \u003ca href=\"https://moms4housing.org/\">Moms 4 Housing\u003c/a> now, it all goes back to the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The good railroad jobs offered at Oakland’s 16th Street Station, along with the nearby Army base, helped the community to thrive. West Oakland had a vibrant business district, swinging nightclubs and plenty of people who owned homes. Alan Laird remembers going to the porters’ union hall with his father. He looked up to the men there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a vibration there,” Laird said. “It felt like I was getting vitamins from them. It was like I was a sponge receiving it all.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Redevelopment guts West Oakland\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11910898\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11910898\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/LamarMcDaniel_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"An older Black man wearing an athletic jacket, necklace and white hat stands in the hall of an old building. Sunlight pores through a window behind him, spotlighting the floor.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/LamarMcDaniel_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/LamarMcDaniel_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/LamarMcDaniel_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/LamarMcDaniel_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/LamarMcDaniel_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Former Amtrak employee Lamar McDaniel poses for a portrait in the Main Hall of the 16th Street station in West Oakland on Feb. 16, 2022. McDaniel toured the station with KQED’s Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman and shared his memories on the podcast. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the 1950s, Oakland leaders approved two major infrastructure projects that leveled hundreds of homes and businesses, displacing thousands of mostly Black West Oakland residents. In little more than a decade, the neighborhood suffered the construction of the Cypress viaduct (part of the 880 freeway), a huge regional post office, a BART line and several other “\u003ca href=\"https://www.oaklandca.gov/topics/oaklands-history-of-resistance-to-racism\">urban renewal\u003c/a>” projects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s no place in the Bay Area that received more abuse than West Oakland,” Schwarzer said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Without a business district, the economy of West Oakland began to decline. At the same time, the rising popularity of the automobile made the 16th Street station less relevant. By the late 1980s, just a few trains a day stopped there. In 1989, the Loma Prieta earthquake badly damaged the structure, forcing it to close. The last train rolled past it in 1994.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Without regular visitors, people squatted inside the building and stripped its once immaculate interior of anything useful. The tracks themselves disappeared, dug up and sold for scrap, leaving the station disconnected from the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead of fixing the station’s aging structure, Amtrak opened two new stations serving the Oakland area: the Jack London Square station in 1994, and the Emeryville station in 1993. The 16th Street station and West Oakland’s prosperous past became a distant memory.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>What’s next for the station?\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11910935\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11910935\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Hall_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A once grand hall stands dilapidated and empty. A stairway leads up to the left and light streams in through huge windows.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Hall_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Hall_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Hall_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Hall_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Hall_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Light shines through windows in the main hall of the now abandoned 16th Street station in West Oakland on Feb. 16, 2022. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Nowadays, the station stands in a strange limbo. BRIDGE Housing, a large affordable housing nonprofit, bought the station in 2005. But after nearly two decades in their care, the station still stands vacant and in disrepair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re not just a housing developer, we try to develop community,” said Jim Mather, chief investment officer for BRIDGE. “I think this was seen as something that could benefit the community and something that could help bring West Oakland back.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it hasn’t gone according to plan. The building needs over $50 million dollars worth of seismic retrofitting and historic restoration. BRIDGE hoped to get help footing that massive bill from local redevelopment agencies, but the 2008 recession dashed those dreams.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11910897\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11910897\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Disrepair_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A close up of one wall shows the plaster is crumbling away and bricks can be seen underneath.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Disrepair_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Disrepair_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Disrepair_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Disrepair_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Disrepair_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Plaster has crumbled to reveal brick in the Main Hall of 16th Street Station in West Oakland, Feb. 16, 2022. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“We’re on hold, trying to find the financing,” Mather said. “So if there are any billionaires listening who want a project, here it is.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>BRIDGE used to rent the station out for events. A few \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2GZbaXdK8Js\">music videos\u003c/a> were shot there. But even those uses are a thing of the past. Pieces of the ceiling can fall without warning, Mather said, and the city of Oakland won’t grant BRIDGE permits anymore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The liability is too high,” Mather said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people want the station turned into a museum for the railroad and the porters; others want it to be an event space. Community advocates, historians and West Oaklanders who remember the building’s former glory don’t want any part of it torn down.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Whatever happens here, BRIDGE is going to recognize and honor the history behind the station and its significance to the African American community of Oakland,” Mather said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You may never hear a train pull into 16th Street Station again, but it’s possible the site could have a new beginning, just like the people who passed through it all those years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Updates:\u003c/strong> The 16th Street Station was \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12024819/historic-landmark-status-boosts-push-restore-iconic-west-oakland-train-station\">added to the National Register of Historic Places on Jan. 21.\u003c/a> BRIDGE Housing sold the property to City Ventures, a housing developer based in San Francisco and Irvine, in 2022.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Bay Curious listener Tadd Williams often finds himself driving on the 880 freeway in West Oakland. There’s this one building that’s visible from the road that he’s always wondered about…\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tadd Williams:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> It seemed like such a beautiful structure. I guess that was the first thing that kinda caught my eye. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s an impressive building, in a beaux arts style that looks stately and European. The front is dominated by three grand arched windows, positioned over the entrance. Everything is very symmetrical.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the outside is routinely covered with graffiti, and this place is surrounded by a perimeter of chain link fencing … Because it’s been abandoned for more than 3 decades.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tadd Williams:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> It’s something I’ve always seen from the freeway and I just wanted to understand more about its background, you know, its history, its purpose.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Turns out the building Tadd has been eyeing is the 16th street train station in West Oakland. It’s got a storied legacy that can hardly be overstated. It helped give rise to West Oakland’s Black community … and laid a foundation for activism in the town. But with all these accolades, why does it sit empty today? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On today’s show, we go inside the once grand, now derelict 16th Street Station.This episode first ran on Bay Curious in 2022, but there’s been an exciting update. So we’re bringing it back to refresh your memory. Hang out at the end for what’s new. That’s all just ahead on Bay Curious. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SPONSOR MESSAGE\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Question asker, Tadd Williams, sent us on a journey to learn about the impressive, and neglected, 16th Street Train Station in West Oakland. Reporter Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman found that for many coming to California, it was the end of the line. The opening scene in your next chapter …\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Oakland was a golden doorway to a new life \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This is Alan Laird, he was born in Oakland, but before he was born, his father made the journey from Mississippi to California.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> And leaving the south. Um, Uh, brown paper bags and baskets worth of fried chicken and things just to make the journey. And chairs, chair cars that would not give sometimes and your back would ache and your rock and you think, and all the time about making it to that place.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was an opportunity to start a\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">life away from the Jim Crow South. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> When the doors opened up the engine led off this last blast of steam. Ahh. You almost hear a sigh of relief, like hope is here. We made it on time. We made it all the way through that. And now we are at home, a new home. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For many people, the first steps of this new life would be into the 16th street station. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> And they stop and pause for a minute, getting off the train, gazing around, not knowing what to expect beyond those, uh, highly polished brass plated doors.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Laird’s father worked as a cook on the Southern Pacific Railroad. So Laird was there a lot in the 50’s when he was a boy.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> I remember the smell of the hot dogs and the hot peanuts and things from it, from the little snack shop there that had all the books that you could buy to read and…\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He says the marble floors were so polished, you could see the reflection of the chandeliers when you looked down. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> So I had a love affair with that station. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(music bridge)\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> It was built in 1912, during the golden age of rail travel. For decades, the station was as busy as an airport is today. There would be \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">dozens of long distance trains\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> arriving every day.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> “Now on train number track 22. That Shasta Daylight coming in, now arriving.” And depending on what train my father was on, it was extra exciting.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(Music ends)\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was the grandest railroad station ever designed in the San Francisco Bay Area. That includes San Francisco, Oakland, and all the cities around. This was the big station. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s Mitchell Schwarzer, professor and author of the book \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Hella Town: Oakland’s History of Development and Disruption.” \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He says that the station was also home to a huge network of local trains and streetcars.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: T\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">here would have been hundreds – 500 or more – electric interurban trains arriving from various parts of the East Bay. There would have been about 200 street cars arriving and departing every day as well.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Before the Bay Bridge was built you could take a train from 16th street station to something called the Mole. Essentially a pier that took trains out into the bay, to a terminal where people transferred to a ferry to get to San Francisco. Later, for about five years, you could even take a train across the lower deck of the Bay Bridge into San Francisco. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(Music bridge)\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the decades after the station was built, throughout the early 1900’s, you’d see all sorts of trains, but the most luxurious were Pullman Palace Cars. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Archival tape: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">By day or by night, Pullman offers complete rest and relaxation cleanliness, safety, and comfortable transportation for the American public.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">These trains were \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/traveling-style-and-comfort-pullman-sleeping-car-180949300/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">luxury sleeping cars\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, like hotels on wheels, designed for wealthy people to make the long transcontinental railroad trip in comfort. Imagine well-to-do travelers sitting on plush seats, chandeliers hanging from ceilings, windows with silk curtains and dark walnut woodwork. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Archival tape: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It takes a great army of men and women to maintain Pullman standards. The yards and shops storerooms and offices work smoothly day and night.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was an operation. Pullman employed maids, waiters, and cooks to provide top quality service. But the porters were the most renowned part of the operation. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Archival tape: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And electric bell with which to summon the porter at any hour. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">They would carry luggage, shine shoes, and basically wait on passengers every need. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Archival tape: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">PORTER! PORTER!\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And the Pullman Palace Car company almost exclusively hired Black men for these jobs. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So there was that kind of racist idea of Blacks serving whites in a subsidiary role. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">They were expected to work hard, 20 hour shifts. Many customers wouldn’t even call the porters by their name, they just referred to them as George, after the founder, George Pullman. Calling someone the name of their enslaver was a tradition carried over from slavery. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But at the same time, it gave a great source of employment for Blacks around the country. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The combination of a steady income and the ability to travel around the country was almost unheard of for Black people at the time.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(Music)\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> So the porters have a kind of role as ambassadors of information, right throughout the United States to Black communities.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Porters were known for distributing the Chicago Defender, the largest Black newspaper at the time, across the country, including to the south, where the paper was banned in some places. The paper helped fuel The Great Migration out of the south by informing people of opportunities elsewhere.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So they’re both, they have relatively well-paying jobs, stable jobs. They’re moving around the United States. And basically communicating to other Black communities cause they’re getting off and sleeping and then getting back on.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Because of the hard working conditions and the systemic racism, in 1925, the Porters announced they wanted to form a union. The first Black union in the country, called the Brotherhood of Sleepingcar Porters. They were based in Chicago\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the vice-president C.L. Dellums was based in Oakland. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(Music)\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So Oakland takes on a very large role within the brotherhood. You know, it’s kind of, it’s kind of what the secondary headquarters of the brotherhood.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the struggle to unionize was a long one. It took 12 years. The Pullman company fired workers who tried to organize, and did everything they could to discourage the union. But in the end, the porters were successful, and Oakland played no small part. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The branch that was the most steadfast, that had the largest membership who supported ongoing union efforts was the Oakland branch under C.L. Dellums.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The porters are credited with helping to found the Black middle class in America, as well as the modern civil rights movement. In 1941, they threaten a march on Washington to protest employment discrimination. This is more than 20 years before the March on Washington where Martin Luther King makes his “I have a dream” speech.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Schwarzer says the community organizing that continues in West Oakland today, groups like Moms 4 Housing, are part of a legacy started by the Brotherhood. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If you look at Oakland’s history of civil rights activism, this is really the kind of start, you know. You think about the occupy movement in the 2010s, and the Black panthers in the 60s and 70s. It all goes back to the brotherhood of sleeping car porters. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">These railroad jobs were the foundation for a neighborhood of black owned businesses, nightclubs, and homes in West Oakland. Alan Laird remembers going to the porters union hall with his father and seeing a flourishing community. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So in that community, we had all our own businesses and finances. I remember my barber shop, Stovall Barber Shop, was right there on Seventh Street. It was vibrant. It was people walking on both sides of the street going and coming with shopping bags and different things.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">West Oakland, and the 16th Street Station, were thriving. But all that starts to change in the late 1950s. The construction of the 880 freeway and later, the BART line, demolished a lot of those West Oakland businesses. And as the economy of West Oakland begins to decline, so does the 16th street station. The golden age of railroads comes to an end. Cars and airplanes become more popular and all those streetcars and suburban trains ceased to exist. By the late 80’s, just a few trains a day stopped at 16th Street Station. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Alan Laird remembers seeing the station in disrepair.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When I pass by and it’s just a hulk, with a million memories, you know, the windowpanes looked as though they’d been in steady tears. And say, “Won’t, they notice me can’t they see me don’t they know who I was,” you know?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In 1989 the Loma Prieta Earthquake badly damaged the structure of the station, and it was closed. The last train rolled past it in 1994.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The station sat vacant and abandoned for 11 years. People squatted in it, covered it in graffiti, and stripped the interior. In 2005 it was bought by BRIDGE housing, an non-profit affordable housing developer. They wanted to turn the station into something the community could use, but like other redevelopment plans in West Oakland… \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Jim Mather: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A lot of those plans have been derailed by at least two major recessions during that time. I mean, the dot com bust was one, then the big recession.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s Jim Mather, the Chief Investment Officer for BRIDGE. I met him outside the station. He says those recessions dried up a lot of the funding that the station needed. And the price tag for the restoration and seismic retrofitting the station needs is at least $50 million dollars. So the station is in limbo.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Jim Mather: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">We’re on hold. I mean, it’s really trying to find the financing. Any billionaires listening who want to want a project here, here it is. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Frankie Whitman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I like to say we’re looking for, uh, somebody with deep pockets who says, this is my legacy to Oakland.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Also here is, Frankie Whitman a consultant for BRIDGE.\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">We’re going to go inside the station, for a chance to peek at some history most Oaklander’s never get to see. So I brought someone along who knows the station firsthand.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Recordings outside the station: \u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hey, nice to meet you, man.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hey, Am I late?\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No, you’re right on time. Perfect timing. So welcome back.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Alright alright\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">How’s it feel to be back? \u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Oh man, I just got a little chill.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This is Lamar MacDaniel. He started working out of the station in 1973. He’s 71 now. He walks a bit slowly, which he credits to working on the railroad.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">By the time you leave the railroad, walking on the train, serving, waiting tables and taking all that rocking and rolling, You’d be wowed, you’ll feel like you’ve been in football game for the last 27 years. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When he started, MacDaniel was trained by some of the last of the Pullman Porters to work on the railroads. He started as a waiter and worked his way up. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And I was the one that got, you know, I got taught a lot. That’s how I ended up being a maitre’d, which was the job that a Black guy didn’t have during the Pullman days. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He hasn’t been inside since the station was closed.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sound of door being unlocked\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But today we get to go in.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sound of everyone “wow” as they enter the station\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The inside is jaw dropping. The ceilings are 40 feet high, adorned with intricate plaster work. Golden light filters in through arched windows. MacDaniel remembers some of the same things that made Alan Laird’s eyes big as a kid …\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">They used to have a guy over there that was shine shoes … and over in that corner was a snack stand. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the grand clocks and chandeliers that Alan Laird told me about are gone. Somethings off.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Frankie Whitman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But you could even see here, even though it looks very distressed, it’s very evenly distressed.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Since BRIDGE has owned the station, they’ve rented it out to companies like HBO and Netflix for TV and movies, and those companies have left a lot of their sets behind. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Frankie Whitman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">All the wainscoting, the door treatment, the window treatment, the valances … those are not elevators cause there’s no second floor. All movie set. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">More than one music video has been filmed here as well. So in the same spot where porters once carried luggage, E-40 told us how to go dumb in the Tell Me When To Go Music video.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Clip from “Tell Me When To Go”\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Mumford and Son’s did a video here too, and it has hosted Burning Man inspired parties. But BRIDGE can’t even do that anymore. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Frankie Whitman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This, this, this is new\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Back in the main hall, Whitman points to a pile of debris on the floor. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>In the train station:\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Where do you think that fell from? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Jim Mather: \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Right up there. \u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Wow. So the, the ceilings like actively crumbling, huh?\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Jim Mather: \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yes. Another reason we don’t have, I mean, it’s part of the liability thing. Why we not having events in here anymore.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">We walk out of the main hall, through a dark corridor, to the old baggage wing. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> I’m going to need my flashlight\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yeah, it’s pretty dark here.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The baggage wing is thick with history. There’s an old scale for weighing luggage, and a large rolling door where passengers used to wait for their things. The first elevated tracks west of the Mississippi are directly over our heads. I walk with Lamar over to another small room. It’s the utility room, where the porters would hang out between shifts.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> There would be luggage all over the place. Guys would be here, when there wasn’t a train to be ready to be serving. The red caps would just hang out, back here and shoot the breeze, tell jokes and all kinds of stuff. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Some people want the station turned into a museum for the railroad and the porters, others want it to be an event space. Jim Mather from Bridge. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Jim Mather: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Whatever happens here, BRIDGE is going to recognize and honor the history behind the station and its significance to the African-American community of Oakland. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Just When the doors of the 16th Street Station will reopen again is unclear. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sound of freeway\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">To complete the tour we walk out to the back of the station. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Where once there was the shore of the bay, there’s the 880 freeway. Instead of trains, semi’s run in and out of the Port of Oakland. There are no tracks connected to 16th Street Station anymore. They’ve been dug up and taken away. It’s reminiscent of how this station has been disconnected from Oakland, the building neglected, the history obscured. Alan Laird again.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> It was like losing a friend, you know, but, you see the shadow of it right there and you want to run and tell people: “I remember when that was a palace! And that was filled with thriving hearts and minds and souls and energy and hope was waiting for you as you got off the train.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You’ll never hear a train pull into 16th Street Station again, but it’s still possible the station could have a new beginning, just like the people that passed through it all those years ago. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(music bridge)\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> So, Azul, as we mentioned earlier this story first aired in 2022, and there have been some recent developments. What’s happening now?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So the big news is that the 16th Street Station has been added to the National Register of Historic Places. A non-profit group called the Oakland Heritage Alliance submitted the application for the station, which basically outlined the stations significance for three things; its importance to local transportation, its architectural significance, and its relation to C.L. Dellums, and that’s the labor organizer you heard about in this story. The station was one of the first places to be recognized for this newly created category within the register, that recognizes the history of African Americans in California. I spoke to Feleciai Favroth, whose the treasurer with the Oakland Heritage Alliance, about this, she said she was ecstatic.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Feleciai Favroth:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> This could be the key to make the station a viable rehab project. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Alliance is really hoping this will turn the tide in the battle to get the station repaired. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Historic sites make me think the building is like going to get a fancy plaque that has a little bit of history written on it. But what does historic designation mean practically?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So yes there is a lot of notoriety and national recognition that comes with being added to the register, but a really big thing that’s tangible is that it also opens the station up to a 20% federal income tax credit. And a developer could use that towards restoration of the station. This has actually worked in the Bay Area before. Like say, have you ever been to the Fox Theater in Oakland?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Oh yeah, I’ve seen some great shows there and I always marvel at the ceiling in that place …\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yeah, well the Fox is on the National Register, and received a federal tax credit toward its rehabilitation, including that really nice ceiling. So advocates are hoping this will happen to the 16th Street Station as well. But again this is all still just theoretical. There’s no money that has been committed yet. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So it’s not like the station is suddenly saved necessarily…\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No. There still aren’t any plans to restore the station itself. And another change is that BRIDGE Housing no longer owns the station, they sold it to City Ventures, a housing developer based in San Francisco and Irvine in 2022. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">City Ventures has submitted plans to the city of Oakland to build a 77-unit townhome-style development — called “Signal House” — on the area around the station, but there’s no plan to rehabilitate the station itself.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">To that end, City Ventures has hired a consulting group called OE Consulting to explore finding someone or some group to fund the rehabilitation of the station, separate from this housing project. They’re still trying to find someone to fund that. And even what the space could become is still open ended. Members of the Oakland Heritage Alliance have suggested a business incubator, or an events space, and something that highlights the history of the station, but as of now, those are all just ideas.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Alright. Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman, KQED Features Reporter – thank you.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You’re welcome.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(Music bridge)\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> If you want to see some pictures of 16th Street Station, including some from our tour inside, head to BayCurious.org. We’ll drop a link in the show notes too.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Special thanks to Dan Brekke and Paul Lancour for their help on this episode.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This episode was made by Katrina Schwartz, Sebastian Miño-Bucheli, Brendan Willard and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Additional engineering from Christopher Beale.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Bay Curious is produced at member-supported KQED in San Francisco.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a good one!\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"title": "How Oakland's 16th Street Train Station Helped Build West Oakland and the Modern Civil Rights Movement | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript. \u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cem>This story was first published on April 14, 2022, and updated on Feb. 13, 2025.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re in Oakland, take 16th Street west from downtown like you’re heading to the freeway. As you travel, single-family homes will give way to vacant lots, industrial warehouses and shiny new condominiums. Pretty soon you’ll see the 880 freeway roaring above you. You’ve hit a dead end, and you’ll be staring up at Oakland’s 16th Street Station.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a massive, 40-foot-high stone structure covered in terra-cotta tiles. Designed in the Beaux Arts style, it’s elegant, with three large arched windows over the main door. There’s a wide parking lot, an old control tower and what looks like the skeleton of an elevated train line.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For all its grandeur, it clearly has been left to the slow decay of time. Local graffiti artists have covered its once bright walls, the perimeter is encircled by cyclone fencing and weeds grow everywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It definitely could have been cared for better,” says Tadd Williams, our question asker. He drives by the station on 880 every day and often wonders about the lives it has lived. “What’s the deal with the 16th Street station?” he wanted to know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As it happens, the 16th Street station played a crucial role in the Bay Area’s transportation infrastructure during the golden age of rail travel, helped establish a working-class Black community in West Oakland and was a major organizing force behind America’s first Black union.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The golden age of rail travel\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The 16th Street station opened in 1912. Trains were the way to get around, and Oakland soon became a major hub for the Southern Pacific Railroad, which operated a rail yard there. In the decades following its opening, the station boomed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11910937\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-11910937\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Busy_scene_on_the_Southern_Pacific_RR_Oakland_Pier_San_Francisco_CJ_Allen_Steel_Highway_1928-800x479.jpeg\" alt=\"Black and white photo of multiple rail lines and trains exiting a busy train station.\" width=\"800\" height=\"479\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Busy_scene_on_the_Southern_Pacific_RR_Oakland_Pier_San_Francisco_CJ_Allen_Steel_Highway_1928-800x479.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Busy_scene_on_the_Southern_Pacific_RR_Oakland_Pier_San_Francisco_CJ_Allen_Steel_Highway_1928-160x96.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Busy_scene_on_the_Southern_Pacific_RR_Oakland_Pier_San_Francisco_CJ_Allen_Steel_Highway_1928.jpeg 803w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Southern Pacific lines approaching Oakland Pier Terminal in 1928. \u003ccite>(\u003ca href=\"https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c6/Busy_scene_on_the_Southern_Pacific_RR%2C_Oakland_Pier%2C_San_Francisco_%28CJ_Allen%2C_Steel_Highway%2C_1928%29.jpg\">Wikimedia Commons\u003c/a>)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It was like an airport is today,” said Mitchell Schwarzer, a professor at California College of the Arts and author of the book “\u003ca href=\"https://www.ucpress.edu/book/9780520391536/hella-town\">Hella Town: Oakland’s History of Development and Disruption\u003c/a>.” “Back in the day, there would have been 50 or more trains coming into the station from long distances every day.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hundreds of interurban trains would pass through from all over the East Bay, as would hundreds more street cars. Some trains ran on the first elevated train tracks to be constructed west of the Mississippi.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Bridge wasn’t constructed until 1936, so for many years the 16th Street station was a passthrough for travelers headed to San Francisco. Trains took passengers out onto “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zXbicSxD0_g\">moles\u003c/a>” — essentially, wooden piers built far out into the bay. Riders then would transfer to a ferry for the final leg of their journey.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11910936\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1600px\">\u003ca href=\"https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Key_Route_Pier_postcard_(3).jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11910936\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Key_Route_Pier_postcard_3.jpeg\" alt=\"A color drawing shows ferries and other boats out in the Bay with a long stretch of rail tracks connecting back to the mainland.\" width=\"1600\" height=\"1002\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Key_Route_Pier_postcard_3.jpeg 1600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Key_Route_Pier_postcard_3-800x501.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Key_Route_Pier_postcard_3-1020x639.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Key_Route_Pier_postcard_3-160x100.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Key_Route_Pier_postcard_3-1536x962.jpeg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1600px) 100vw, 1600px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Postcard circa 1915-1930: “The Key Route Pier: San Francisco-Oakland-Berkeley, Cal.” \u003ccite>(\u003ca href=\"https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Key_Route_Pier_postcard_(3).jpg\">Wikimedia Commons\u003c/a>)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Perhaps even more surprising, two lanes of traffic on the lower deck of the Bay Bridge were once devoted to rail travel. From 1936, the year the Bay Bridge opened, until 1941, riders could board a train at 16th Street station and take it across the bridge into San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Southern Pacific Railroad was a major employer in Oakland, and workers migrated from all over the country to live and work in West Oakland near the station.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Levy Laird arrived in Oakland in the 1920s, and found a job working as a cook on trains. Like many Black people at the time, he was looking for a better life away from the Jim Crow South. The first steps of this new life were into Oakland’s 16th Street Station.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Oakland was a golden doorway to a new life,” said Alan Laird, Levy’s son. “When the doors opened up, and the passengers were departing the train, the engine would let off this last blast of steam. It was like a sigh of relief, like hope is here, we made it, and now we are in a new home.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Pullman car porters make their mark on West Oakland\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Cross-country rail travel could be long, harsh and uncomfortable. So, it was only a matter of time until companies started catering to the wealthy who wanted to travel in style. The Pullman Palace Car Company was known for its luxury sleeping cars, like hotels on wheels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11910920\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2288px\">\u003ca href=\"https://lccn.loc.gov/2012649450\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11910920\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar.png\" alt=\"Black and white photo of a woman in early 20th century clothing reading while lying down in a sleeping birth on a train. A small hammock for belongings hands abvoe her.\" width=\"2288\" height=\"858\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar.png 2288w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar-800x300.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar-1020x383.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar-160x60.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar-1536x576.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar-2048x768.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/SleepingCar-1920x720.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2288px) 100vw, 2288px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A woman reading in bed in a Pullman car berth with curtains up, circa 1905. \u003ccite>(\u003ca href=\"https://lccn.loc.gov/2012649450\">Geo. R. Lawrence Co./Library of Congress\u003c/a>)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Imagine travelers sitting on plush seats, chandeliers hanging from ceilings, windows with silk curtains and dark walnut woodwork. Travelers could get almost anything on a Pullman car, and it took an army of employees to deliver that experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pullman employed maids, waiters and cooks to provide top-quality service. But the porters were the most renowned part of the operation. They would carry luggage, shine shoes and wait on passengers’ every need. The Pullman Palace Car Company hired almost exclusively Black men for these jobs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There was this racist idea of Blacks serving whites in a subsidiary role,” Schwarzer said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://interactive.wttw.com/a/chicago-stories-pullman-porters\">Pullman managers expected porters to work 20-hour shifts.\u003c/a> They were at the beck and call of passengers at any time, day or night. Many customers wouldn’t even call the porters by their given names, instead referring to them all as “George,” after the company’s founder, George Pullman.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Conditions didn’t improve over time. One report from 1935 found that the porters made just $0.278 per hour, whereas workers in manufacturing or federally funded New Deal projects made twice that. Yet despite the terrible working conditions, being a porter was considered a good job. It was one of the few opportunities Black people had to travel and earn a steady income.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11911065\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11911065 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS189_1319-800x1073.jpg\" alt=\"A very old and poor quality image shows a man wearing a pullman porters uniform holding 2 pieces of luggage at a train station.\" width=\"800\" height=\"1073\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS189_1319-800x1073.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS189_1319-1020x1368.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS189_1319-160x215.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS189_1319-1145x1536.jpg 1145w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS189_1319.jpg 1267w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Clinton Jones stands at a railroad station wearing a porter’s uniform and holding two pieces of luggage, circa 1920. \u003ccite>(Cottrell Laurence Dellums papers/African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It was a huge source of employment for Blacks around the country,” Schwarzer said. “The porters had a kind of role as ambassadors of information throughout the United States to Black communities.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.pbs.org/blackpress/news_bios/defender.html\">Porters often distributed the Chicago Defender\u003c/a> — the largest Black newspaper at the time — across the country, including to the American South, where the paper was banned in some places. The Defender helped fuel the Great Migration out of the South by informing people of opportunities elsewhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The porters also were talking to each other on their long trips, and organizing to take on the systemic racism in the railroad business. In 1925, the porters announced they wanted to form a union. It would come to be known as the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters — the first Black union in the country. It was based in Chicago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But the vice president, C.L. Dellums, was based in Oakland,” Schwarzer said. “So Oakland takes on a very large role within the brotherhood. It’s kind of the secondary headquarters of the brotherhood.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.britannica.com/topic/Brotherhood-of-Sleeping-Car-Porters\">The struggle to unionize was a long one, taking 12 years.\u003c/a> The Pullman company fired workers who tried to organize, and did everything they could to discourage the union. But in the end, the porters were successful, and Oakland played no small part.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11911063\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-11911063\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS014_B12_F11_048-800x654.jpg\" alt=\"A photo shows three black men in suits and ties standing in front of a banner for the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters\" width=\"800\" height=\"654\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS014_B12_F11_048-800x654.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS014_B12_F11_048-1020x834.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS014_B12_F11_048-160x131.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/MS014_B12_F11_048.jpg 1252w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">From left, C.L. Dellums, vice president of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters; A. Philip Randolph, president; and unidentified man, at the 28th anniversary of the union, in 1953. \u003ccite>(Cottrell Laurence Dellums papers/African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It’s widely reported that the branch that was the most steadfast, that had the largest membership, who supported ongoing union efforts, was the Oakland branch under C.L. Dellums,” Schwarzer said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters is credited with helping to establish the Black middle class in America, as well as the modern civil rights movement. \u003ca href=\"https://www.zinnedproject.org/news/tdih/a-philip-randolph-first-call-mow/\">In 1941, the porters threatened to march on Washington to protest employment discrimination.\u003c/a> This was more than 20 years before the March on Washington where Martin Luther King Jr. made his “I Have a Dream” speech.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=103880184#:~:text=Pullman%20Porters%20Helped%20Build%20Black%20Middle%20Class%20Porters%20combined%20their,for%20the%20civil%20rights%20movement.\">porter’s offspring\u003c/a> also made their mark on history. Former San Francisco Mayor Willie Brown and former Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall both are descendants of Pullman porters. C.L. Dellums’s nephew, Ron Dellums, served both as the mayor of Oakland and a U.S. Representative of California in Congress.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If you look at Oakland’s history of civil rights activism, this is really the start,” Schwarzer said. “If you think about the Occupy movement in the 2010s, the Black Panthers in the ’60s and ’70s, or \u003ca href=\"https://moms4housing.org/\">Moms 4 Housing\u003c/a> now, it all goes back to the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The good railroad jobs offered at Oakland’s 16th Street Station, along with the nearby Army base, helped the community to thrive. West Oakland had a vibrant business district, swinging nightclubs and plenty of people who owned homes. Alan Laird remembers going to the porters’ union hall with his father. He looked up to the men there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a vibration there,” Laird said. “It felt like I was getting vitamins from them. It was like I was a sponge receiving it all.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Redevelopment guts West Oakland\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11910898\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11910898\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/LamarMcDaniel_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"An older Black man wearing an athletic jacket, necklace and white hat stands in the hall of an old building. Sunlight pores through a window behind him, spotlighting the floor.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/LamarMcDaniel_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/LamarMcDaniel_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/LamarMcDaniel_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/LamarMcDaniel_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/LamarMcDaniel_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Former Amtrak employee Lamar McDaniel poses for a portrait in the Main Hall of the 16th Street station in West Oakland on Feb. 16, 2022. McDaniel toured the station with KQED’s Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman and shared his memories on the podcast. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the 1950s, Oakland leaders approved two major infrastructure projects that leveled hundreds of homes and businesses, displacing thousands of mostly Black West Oakland residents. In little more than a decade, the neighborhood suffered the construction of the Cypress viaduct (part of the 880 freeway), a huge regional post office, a BART line and several other “\u003ca href=\"https://www.oaklandca.gov/topics/oaklands-history-of-resistance-to-racism\">urban renewal\u003c/a>” projects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s no place in the Bay Area that received more abuse than West Oakland,” Schwarzer said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Without a business district, the economy of West Oakland began to decline. At the same time, the rising popularity of the automobile made the 16th Street station less relevant. By the late 1980s, just a few trains a day stopped there. In 1989, the Loma Prieta earthquake badly damaged the structure, forcing it to close. The last train rolled past it in 1994.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Without regular visitors, people squatted inside the building and stripped its once immaculate interior of anything useful. The tracks themselves disappeared, dug up and sold for scrap, leaving the station disconnected from the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead of fixing the station’s aging structure, Amtrak opened two new stations serving the Oakland area: the Jack London Square station in 1994, and the Emeryville station in 1993. The 16th Street station and West Oakland’s prosperous past became a distant memory.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>What’s next for the station?\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11910935\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11910935\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Hall_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A once grand hall stands dilapidated and empty. A stairway leads up to the left and light streams in through huge windows.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Hall_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Hall_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Hall_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Hall_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Hall_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Light shines through windows in the main hall of the now abandoned 16th Street station in West Oakland on Feb. 16, 2022. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Nowadays, the station stands in a strange limbo. BRIDGE Housing, a large affordable housing nonprofit, bought the station in 2005. But after nearly two decades in their care, the station still stands vacant and in disrepair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re not just a housing developer, we try to develop community,” said Jim Mather, chief investment officer for BRIDGE. “I think this was seen as something that could benefit the community and something that could help bring West Oakland back.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it hasn’t gone according to plan. The building needs over $50 million dollars worth of seismic retrofitting and historic restoration. BRIDGE hoped to get help footing that massive bill from local redevelopment agencies, but the 2008 recession dashed those dreams.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11910897\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11910897\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Disrepair_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A close up of one wall shows the plaster is crumbling away and bricks can be seen underneath.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Disrepair_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Disrepair_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Disrepair_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Disrepair_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/Disrepair_16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Plaster has crumbled to reveal brick in the Main Hall of 16th Street Station in West Oakland, Feb. 16, 2022. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“We’re on hold, trying to find the financing,” Mather said. “So if there are any billionaires listening who want a project, here it is.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>BRIDGE used to rent the station out for events. A few \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2GZbaXdK8Js\">music videos\u003c/a> were shot there. But even those uses are a thing of the past. Pieces of the ceiling can fall without warning, Mather said, and the city of Oakland won’t grant BRIDGE permits anymore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The liability is too high,” Mather said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people want the station turned into a museum for the railroad and the porters; others want it to be an event space. Community advocates, historians and West Oaklanders who remember the building’s former glory don’t want any part of it torn down.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Whatever happens here, BRIDGE is going to recognize and honor the history behind the station and its significance to the African American community of Oakland,” Mather said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You may never hear a train pull into 16th Street Station again, but it’s possible the site could have a new beginning, just like the people who passed through it all those years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Updates:\u003c/strong> The 16th Street Station was \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12024819/historic-landmark-status-boosts-push-restore-iconic-west-oakland-train-station\">added to the National Register of Historic Places on Jan. 21.\u003c/a> BRIDGE Housing sold the property to City Ventures, a housing developer based in San Francisco and Irvine, in 2022.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Bay Curious listener Tadd Williams often finds himself driving on the 880 freeway in West Oakland. There’s this one building that’s visible from the road that he’s always wondered about…\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tadd Williams:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> It seemed like such a beautiful structure. I guess that was the first thing that kinda caught my eye. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s an impressive building, in a beaux arts style that looks stately and European. The front is dominated by three grand arched windows, positioned over the entrance. Everything is very symmetrical.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the outside is routinely covered with graffiti, and this place is surrounded by a perimeter of chain link fencing … Because it’s been abandoned for more than 3 decades.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tadd Williams:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> It’s something I’ve always seen from the freeway and I just wanted to understand more about its background, you know, its history, its purpose.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Turns out the building Tadd has been eyeing is the 16th street train station in West Oakland. It’s got a storied legacy that can hardly be overstated. It helped give rise to West Oakland’s Black community … and laid a foundation for activism in the town. But with all these accolades, why does it sit empty today? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On today’s show, we go inside the once grand, now derelict 16th Street Station.This episode first ran on Bay Curious in 2022, but there’s been an exciting update. So we’re bringing it back to refresh your memory. Hang out at the end for what’s new. That’s all just ahead on Bay Curious. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SPONSOR MESSAGE\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Question asker, Tadd Williams, sent us on a journey to learn about the impressive, and neglected, 16th Street Train Station in West Oakland. Reporter Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman found that for many coming to California, it was the end of the line. The opening scene in your next chapter …\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Oakland was a golden doorway to a new life \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This is Alan Laird, he was born in Oakland, but before he was born, his father made the journey from Mississippi to California.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> And leaving the south. Um, Uh, brown paper bags and baskets worth of fried chicken and things just to make the journey. And chairs, chair cars that would not give sometimes and your back would ache and your rock and you think, and all the time about making it to that place.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was an opportunity to start a\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">life away from the Jim Crow South. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> When the doors opened up the engine led off this last blast of steam. Ahh. You almost hear a sigh of relief, like hope is here. We made it on time. We made it all the way through that. And now we are at home, a new home. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For many people, the first steps of this new life would be into the 16th street station. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> And they stop and pause for a minute, getting off the train, gazing around, not knowing what to expect beyond those, uh, highly polished brass plated doors.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Laird’s father worked as a cook on the Southern Pacific Railroad. So Laird was there a lot in the 50’s when he was a boy.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> I remember the smell of the hot dogs and the hot peanuts and things from it, from the little snack shop there that had all the books that you could buy to read and…\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He says the marble floors were so polished, you could see the reflection of the chandeliers when you looked down. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> So I had a love affair with that station. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(music bridge)\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> It was built in 1912, during the golden age of rail travel. For decades, the station was as busy as an airport is today. There would be \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">dozens of long distance trains\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> arriving every day.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> “Now on train number track 22. That Shasta Daylight coming in, now arriving.” And depending on what train my father was on, it was extra exciting.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(Music ends)\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was the grandest railroad station ever designed in the San Francisco Bay Area. That includes San Francisco, Oakland, and all the cities around. This was the big station. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s Mitchell Schwarzer, professor and author of the book \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Hella Town: Oakland’s History of Development and Disruption.” \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He says that the station was also home to a huge network of local trains and streetcars.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: T\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">here would have been hundreds – 500 or more – electric interurban trains arriving from various parts of the East Bay. There would have been about 200 street cars arriving and departing every day as well.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Before the Bay Bridge was built you could take a train from 16th street station to something called the Mole. Essentially a pier that took trains out into the bay, to a terminal where people transferred to a ferry to get to San Francisco. Later, for about five years, you could even take a train across the lower deck of the Bay Bridge into San Francisco. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(Music bridge)\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the decades after the station was built, throughout the early 1900’s, you’d see all sorts of trains, but the most luxurious were Pullman Palace Cars. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Archival tape: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">By day or by night, Pullman offers complete rest and relaxation cleanliness, safety, and comfortable transportation for the American public.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">These trains were \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/traveling-style-and-comfort-pullman-sleeping-car-180949300/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">luxury sleeping cars\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, like hotels on wheels, designed for wealthy people to make the long transcontinental railroad trip in comfort. Imagine well-to-do travelers sitting on plush seats, chandeliers hanging from ceilings, windows with silk curtains and dark walnut woodwork. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Archival tape: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It takes a great army of men and women to maintain Pullman standards. The yards and shops storerooms and offices work smoothly day and night.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was an operation. Pullman employed maids, waiters, and cooks to provide top quality service. But the porters were the most renowned part of the operation. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Archival tape: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And electric bell with which to summon the porter at any hour. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">They would carry luggage, shine shoes, and basically wait on passengers every need. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Archival tape: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">PORTER! PORTER!\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And the Pullman Palace Car company almost exclusively hired Black men for these jobs. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So there was that kind of racist idea of Blacks serving whites in a subsidiary role. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">They were expected to work hard, 20 hour shifts. Many customers wouldn’t even call the porters by their name, they just referred to them as George, after the founder, George Pullman. Calling someone the name of their enslaver was a tradition carried over from slavery. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But at the same time, it gave a great source of employment for Blacks around the country. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The combination of a steady income and the ability to travel around the country was almost unheard of for Black people at the time.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(Music)\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> So the porters have a kind of role as ambassadors of information, right throughout the United States to Black communities.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Porters were known for distributing the Chicago Defender, the largest Black newspaper at the time, across the country, including to the south, where the paper was banned in some places. The paper helped fuel The Great Migration out of the south by informing people of opportunities elsewhere.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So they’re both, they have relatively well-paying jobs, stable jobs. They’re moving around the United States. And basically communicating to other Black communities cause they’re getting off and sleeping and then getting back on.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Because of the hard working conditions and the systemic racism, in 1925, the Porters announced they wanted to form a union. The first Black union in the country, called the Brotherhood of Sleepingcar Porters. They were based in Chicago\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the vice-president C.L. Dellums was based in Oakland. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(Music)\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So Oakland takes on a very large role within the brotherhood. You know, it’s kind of, it’s kind of what the secondary headquarters of the brotherhood.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the struggle to unionize was a long one. It took 12 years. The Pullman company fired workers who tried to organize, and did everything they could to discourage the union. But in the end, the porters were successful, and Oakland played no small part. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The branch that was the most steadfast, that had the largest membership who supported ongoing union efforts was the Oakland branch under C.L. Dellums.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The porters are credited with helping to found the Black middle class in America, as well as the modern civil rights movement. In 1941, they threaten a march on Washington to protest employment discrimination. This is more than 20 years before the March on Washington where Martin Luther King makes his “I have a dream” speech.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Schwarzer says the community organizing that continues in West Oakland today, groups like Moms 4 Housing, are part of a legacy started by the Brotherhood. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mitchell Schwarzer: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If you look at Oakland’s history of civil rights activism, this is really the kind of start, you know. You think about the occupy movement in the 2010s, and the Black panthers in the 60s and 70s. It all goes back to the brotherhood of sleeping car porters. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">These railroad jobs were the foundation for a neighborhood of black owned businesses, nightclubs, and homes in West Oakland. Alan Laird remembers going to the porters union hall with his father and seeing a flourishing community. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So in that community, we had all our own businesses and finances. I remember my barber shop, Stovall Barber Shop, was right there on Seventh Street. It was vibrant. It was people walking on both sides of the street going and coming with shopping bags and different things.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">West Oakland, and the 16th Street Station, were thriving. But all that starts to change in the late 1950s. The construction of the 880 freeway and later, the BART line, demolished a lot of those West Oakland businesses. And as the economy of West Oakland begins to decline, so does the 16th street station. The golden age of railroads comes to an end. Cars and airplanes become more popular and all those streetcars and suburban trains ceased to exist. By the late 80’s, just a few trains a day stopped at 16th Street Station. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Alan Laird remembers seeing the station in disrepair.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Laird: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When I pass by and it’s just a hulk, with a million memories, you know, the windowpanes looked as though they’d been in steady tears. And say, “Won’t, they notice me can’t they see me don’t they know who I was,” you know?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In 1989 the Loma Prieta Earthquake badly damaged the structure of the station, and it was closed. The last train rolled past it in 1994.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The station sat vacant and abandoned for 11 years. People squatted in it, covered it in graffiti, and stripped the interior. In 2005 it was bought by BRIDGE housing, an non-profit affordable housing developer. They wanted to turn the station into something the community could use, but like other redevelopment plans in West Oakland… \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Jim Mather: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A lot of those plans have been derailed by at least two major recessions during that time. I mean, the dot com bust was one, then the big recession.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s Jim Mather, the Chief Investment Officer for BRIDGE. I met him outside the station. He says those recessions dried up a lot of the funding that the station needed. And the price tag for the restoration and seismic retrofitting the station needs is at least $50 million dollars. So the station is in limbo.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Jim Mather: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">We’re on hold. I mean, it’s really trying to find the financing. Any billionaires listening who want to want a project here, here it is. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Frankie Whitman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I like to say we’re looking for, uh, somebody with deep pockets who says, this is my legacy to Oakland.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Also here is, Frankie Whitman a consultant for BRIDGE.\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">We’re going to go inside the station, for a chance to peek at some history most Oaklander’s never get to see. So I brought someone along who knows the station firsthand.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Recordings outside the station: \u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hey, nice to meet you, man.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hey, Am I late?\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No, you’re right on time. Perfect timing. So welcome back.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Alright alright\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">How’s it feel to be back? \u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Oh man, I just got a little chill.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This is Lamar MacDaniel. He started working out of the station in 1973. He’s 71 now. He walks a bit slowly, which he credits to working on the railroad.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">By the time you leave the railroad, walking on the train, serving, waiting tables and taking all that rocking and rolling, You’d be wowed, you’ll feel like you’ve been in football game for the last 27 years. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When he started, MacDaniel was trained by some of the last of the Pullman Porters to work on the railroads. He started as a waiter and worked his way up. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And I was the one that got, you know, I got taught a lot. That’s how I ended up being a maitre’d, which was the job that a Black guy didn’t have during the Pullman days. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He hasn’t been inside since the station was closed.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sound of door being unlocked\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But today we get to go in.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sound of everyone “wow” as they enter the station\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The inside is jaw dropping. The ceilings are 40 feet high, adorned with intricate plaster work. Golden light filters in through arched windows. MacDaniel remembers some of the same things that made Alan Laird’s eyes big as a kid …\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">They used to have a guy over there that was shine shoes … and over in that corner was a snack stand. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the grand clocks and chandeliers that Alan Laird told me about are gone. Somethings off.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Frankie Whitman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But you could even see here, even though it looks very distressed, it’s very evenly distressed.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Since BRIDGE has owned the station, they’ve rented it out to companies like HBO and Netflix for TV and movies, and those companies have left a lot of their sets behind. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Frankie Whitman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">All the wainscoting, the door treatment, the window treatment, the valances … those are not elevators cause there’s no second floor. All movie set. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">More than one music video has been filmed here as well. So in the same spot where porters once carried luggage, E-40 told us how to go dumb in the Tell Me When To Go Music video.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Clip from “Tell Me When To Go”\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Mumford and Son’s did a video here too, and it has hosted Burning Man inspired parties. But BRIDGE can’t even do that anymore. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Frankie Whitman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This, this, this is new\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Back in the main hall, Whitman points to a pile of debris on the floor. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>In the train station:\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Where do you think that fell from? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Jim Mather: \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Right up there. \u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Wow. So the, the ceilings like actively crumbling, huh?\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Jim Mather: \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yes. Another reason we don’t have, I mean, it’s part of the liability thing. Why we not having events in here anymore.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">We walk out of the main hall, through a dark corridor, to the old baggage wing. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> I’m going to need my flashlight\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yeah, it’s pretty dark here.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The baggage wing is thick with history. There’s an old scale for weighing luggage, and a large rolling door where passengers used to wait for their things. The first elevated tracks west of the Mississippi are directly over our heads. I walk with Lamar over to another small room. It’s the utility room, where the porters would hang out between shifts.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> There would be luggage all over the place. Guys would be here, when there wasn’t a train to be ready to be serving. The red caps would just hang out, back here and shoot the breeze, tell jokes and all kinds of stuff. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Some people want the station turned into a museum for the railroad and the porters, others want it to be an event space. Jim Mather from Bridge. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Jim Mather: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Whatever happens here, BRIDGE is going to recognize and honor the history behind the station and its significance to the African-American community of Oakland. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Just When the doors of the 16th Street Station will reopen again is unclear. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sound of freeway\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">To complete the tour we walk out to the back of the station. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Where once there was the shore of the bay, there’s the 880 freeway. Instead of trains, semi’s run in and out of the Port of Oakland. There are no tracks connected to 16th Street Station anymore. They’ve been dug up and taken away. It’s reminiscent of how this station has been disconnected from Oakland, the building neglected, the history obscured. Alan Laird again.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lamar MacDaniel:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> It was like losing a friend, you know, but, you see the shadow of it right there and you want to run and tell people: “I remember when that was a palace! And that was filled with thriving hearts and minds and souls and energy and hope was waiting for you as you got off the train.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You’ll never hear a train pull into 16th Street Station again, but it’s still possible the station could have a new beginning, just like the people that passed through it all those years ago. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(music bridge)\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> So, Azul, as we mentioned earlier this story first aired in 2022, and there have been some recent developments. What’s happening now?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So the big news is that the 16th Street Station has been added to the National Register of Historic Places. A non-profit group called the Oakland Heritage Alliance submitted the application for the station, which basically outlined the stations significance for three things; its importance to local transportation, its architectural significance, and its relation to C.L. Dellums, and that’s the labor organizer you heard about in this story. The station was one of the first places to be recognized for this newly created category within the register, that recognizes the history of African Americans in California. I spoke to Feleciai Favroth, whose the treasurer with the Oakland Heritage Alliance, about this, she said she was ecstatic.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Feleciai Favroth:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> This could be the key to make the station a viable rehab project. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Alliance is really hoping this will turn the tide in the battle to get the station repaired. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Historic sites make me think the building is like going to get a fancy plaque that has a little bit of history written on it. But what does historic designation mean practically?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So yes there is a lot of notoriety and national recognition that comes with being added to the register, but a really big thing that’s tangible is that it also opens the station up to a 20% federal income tax credit. And a developer could use that towards restoration of the station. This has actually worked in the Bay Area before. Like say, have you ever been to the Fox Theater in Oakland?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Oh yeah, I’ve seen some great shows there and I always marvel at the ceiling in that place …\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yeah, well the Fox is on the National Register, and received a federal tax credit toward its rehabilitation, including that really nice ceiling. So advocates are hoping this will happen to the 16th Street Station as well. But again this is all still just theoretical. There’s no money that has been committed yet. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So it’s not like the station is suddenly saved necessarily…\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No. There still aren’t any plans to restore the station itself. And another change is that BRIDGE Housing no longer owns the station, they sold it to City Ventures, a housing developer based in San Francisco and Irvine in 2022. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">City Ventures has submitted plans to the city of Oakland to build a 77-unit townhome-style development — called “Signal House” — on the area around the station, but there’s no plan to rehabilitate the station itself.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">To that end, City Ventures has hired a consulting group called OE Consulting to explore finding someone or some group to fund the rehabilitation of the station, separate from this housing project. They’re still trying to find someone to fund that. And even what the space could become is still open ended. Members of the Oakland Heritage Alliance have suggested a business incubator, or an events space, and something that highlights the history of the station, but as of now, those are all just ideas.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Alright. Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman, KQED Features Reporter – thank you.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You’re welcome.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(Music bridge)\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> If you want to see some pictures of 16th Street Station, including some from our tour inside, head to BayCurious.org. We’ll drop a link in the show notes too.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Special thanks to Dan Brekke and Paul Lancour for their help on this episode.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This episode was made by Katrina Schwartz, Sebastian Miño-Bucheli, Brendan Willard and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Additional engineering from Christopher Beale.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Bay Curious is produced at member-supported KQED in San Francisco.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a good one!\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>"
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003cem>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/em>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reserving campsites in California can be daunting. Many book up as soon as they become available, so if you don’t plan ahead – sometimes you’re out of luck! And figuring out where and how to reserve a campsite can be confusing. But there are some tips and tricks that can help you snag that ideal spot. We break it all down to help you get out of your house and into nature this year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And if you’re looking for more info about camping, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/explainers\">KQED’s Audience Desk has you covered\u003c/a>:\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11973183/want-to-go-camping-near-the-bay-area-this-summer-make-your-reservations-now\">Want To Go Camping Near the Bay Area This Summer? Make Your Reservations Now (Seriously)\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11953853/how-to-find-a-camping-spot-in-california-when-they-always-seem-to-be-fully-booked\">How to Find a Camping Spot in California (When They Always Seem to Be Fully Booked)\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11920867/how-to-find-free-camping-in-californias-national-forests\">How to Find Free Camping in California’s National Forests\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11988380/want-to-go-camping-in-big-sur-this-summer-what-to-know\">Want to Go Camping In Big Sur This Summer? What to Know\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC6949756646&light=true\" width=\"100%\" height=\"200\" frameborder=\"0\" scrolling=\"no\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>This is Bay Curious. I’m your host, Olivia Allen-Price and today we are demystifying something that should be … simple! … camping.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>My family did a lot of camping together in the state of Montana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>This is Tim Schwartz … father of Bay Curious producer Katrina Schwartz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>And we would just drive into a campsite and find something and throw our sleeping bags down. There was no reservations at all. But it also wasn’t that popular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Tim is retired now and wants to take advantage of the free time to explore more around California. Up until now he’s relied on Katrina to make reservations for him … but he’s trying to get the hang of doing it himself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>Let’s try logging in right now. So you need an email and a password, which I don’t think I remember.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Mmm yeah, I’ve been there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>Now it’s asking me to create a new password. So let’s just do something simple. Oh, hold on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>Too simple!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>Too simple. You gotta have special characters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Reserving campsites in California can be daunting. Many book up as soon as they become available, so if you don’t plan ahead – sometimes you find yourself out of luck!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>The first time I tried it, I was looking up on websites what campsites people liked and why they liked them. And I found one I liked! But by the time I’d done that it was already 8:30 and campsites were already disappearing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Tim is not alone. Figuring out \u003ci>where\u003c/i> to reserve a campsite can be confusing for anyone. But there are some tips and tricks that can help you snag that ideal spot. Today on the show, we’re breaking it all down to help you get out of your house and into nature this year. That’s all ahead, stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Here to help us break down what it takes to nab a good campsite in California is KQED’s Senior Editor of Audience News Carly seven. Hey, Carly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Hello, Olivia.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>So I can’t help but notice, but here we are in the middle of winter. It’s cold outside. The days are short. This is not the time of year I would normally associate with camping. And yet it’s top of your mind right now. Tell me why.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>It’s because, and I’m just going to cut to the chase, many camping spots open up six months in advance. So you’re in the depths of winter and you’re already thinking about summer and making these reservations, which I know can be a little bit counterintuitive. And it’s a little bit like when the dentist asks you, like, what are you doing in six months time at 4 p.m.? Like, you don’t know. But if you want to make a camping reservation, it is good to get yourself in the mind frame of doing this now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Yeah. I feel like camping has become a competitive sport in California and it really favors people who can plan ahead. So we’re talking about this today so that you, Dear Bay Curious listener, can be one of those people. I’ve been camping in California for, I don’t know, more than a decade. And it just feels like every year it gets harder and harder to get my hands on whatever spot I’m trying to get.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>So this is not just you. It’s not just your impression. There are more people camping. There’s this franchise called Kampgrounds with a K of America, better known as KOA. They run private campsites, and for more than ten years they have been researching who camps and the kinds of experiences that people want. And the most recent report in 2024 found that almost 53.6 million households across the country identify as active campers, and that is a 68% increase since 2014.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>That’s huge. Why so much growth?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>There are a lot of factors, including camping is no longer this simple throw-your-tent-in-the-car and go. There’s everything from glamping, where you have a ton of amenities, all the way to backpacking — super simple — and everything in between. There are just a lot more options, which means that more to appeal to different people now. Another huge thing, obviously the Covid pandemic has really influenced this market to rise. REI sales went up by 35% from 2020 when you know, a lot of folks physically couldn’t leave the house. A lot of parks were straight up closed, you couldn’t get those camping spots. By the time it got to 2021, they were up 35%.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Wow. Yeah. I mean, I will admit, the first trip that I took during the Covid pandemic was a camping trip to the Trinity Alps. And it felt kind of like the safest way to get out of my house. Where you’re still going to be socially distanced from people in our little pod.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Felt like doing the right thing, right? Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>You’re you’re among the trees instead of, you know, in your living room for the 300th day straight. So this growth in popularity, I guess it’s you know, it’s made it pretty competitive to get a campsite. I know some years ago there were issues with bots reserving campsites. We actually had a Bay Curious episode about that. Is it still an issue?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>So a few years ago, the frustration with the sheer competitiveness of snagging a campsite, it was leading a lot of folks to assume that it was bots scooping up all your spots. And it was actually hard to assess how much of that competitiveness around camping generally was actually bots. But one thing we do know, is it sounds like the California state park system, at least, took it pretty seriously, especially after they moved to this third party online reservation system. So eventually some security features for users were added to the process for anyone logging in. And they also did this big analysis of, like, IP addresses and timestamps for all the reservations coming in. And after that they officially concluded that bots are no longer an issue, at least on the state parks system. And in large part, it really does just seem to be a supply and demand issue. Not enough campsites, too many people who want to camp. I don’t know. Is that is that good news? Is that bad news?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>I would say good news. I would say good news. But yeah, let’s break it down from here. So let’s say I’m a first time camper. I’m looking to book a campsite. Walk me through a little bit of the matrix that I’m going to be navigating as I’m looking to make a reservation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Okay. First of all, a plug. I’m the senior editor of the audience news desk at KQED, which is basically explainers and guides. So we love talking about this kind of stuff. If you’re interested in it, you can go to \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/explainers\">KQED dot org slash explainers\u003c/a>. We have all these tips. And I do want to say, these tips that I’m about to give you, the creme de la creme of what we have published so far, come from our reporter Kelly O’Mara, who has been diving deep into how to snag a camping spot. The process to making camping reservations in California…it depends where the campgrounds are located and what agency operates the campsite. This is the boring stuff, but it really helps if you understand because you’re going to be able to navigate the system a lot quicker and snap up your campsite.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Right? Understanding where you’re camping makes all the difference.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Exactly. There are different reservation systems, essentially, and different timelines for making reservations for national parks, tate parks, and just to complicate things there are also private campgrounds. You’ve got a lot in the mix, but essentially in a nutshell, you can camp in California’s national parks. So that is spots like the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, Point Reyes. And to do that, you make reservations on recreation.gov.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You can camp in California State Parks. You can make that reservation at reservecalifornia.gov. That’s stuff like Mt. Tam, Mount Diablo, Angel Island and a lot of Tahoe spots. There’s a huge amount of California State Parks, 279 units with campsites. And then you also have camping in California regional parks. That includes things like the East Bay Regional Park System. And all of these regional park systems have their own websites and their own booking methods. And the cherry on top, you’ve also got BLM land. That is Bureau of Land Management camping, where you can do what’s called dispersed camping, sometimes without the usual amenities like potable water, bathrooms, etc.. And sometimes BLM campgrounds require a reservation, but sometimes they don’t.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>I will definitely add that BLM camping is maybe the best avenue to try if you have procrastinated at booking a site. I’ve had a lot of luck there in the past. But yeah, in general, block off some time on your calendar to really go through and figure out where you want to camp. Who’s in charge of it? What you need to do to reserve it. It’s an effort.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Yeah. Because I think a lot of people, even ones who like camping, they might not know that the sites open up six months in advance. And if they’re thinking, you know, I didn’t get my spot this year, it’s because someone was so on it and they weren’t. The system is meant to give everyone this chance to book, but there are challenges for folks who say, don’t have access to reliable WiFi. Or don’t have access to a computer. Or they just don’t have free time to get up and mark their calendar, secure the spot. Plus planning three months, six months in advance like it lends itself to a certain type of person, shall we say.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Well, you think of camping as like, I don’t know, I think of it as sort of a last minute thing, you know, what should we do this weekend? We don’t have plans. Let’s go camping. That is not the case at a lot of these campgrounds in California. It is almost like taking an international trip where you really need to be thinking about it and planning your way ahead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn:\u003c/b> Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b> Help us increase our chances at getting one of those spots. Kali, please.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Okay, so these are some of the tips, just some of the tips we have been sharing online at KQED. The first one, it sounds so obvious, but just be ready with all your information ahead of time. Ready to make that booking. Create your account on the reservation site, have your credit card ready, even know, like, what’s my vehicle license plate? I don’t know about you, I always forget what my license plate is. But the reservation system, when you book for your campground, it’s probably going to ask you what the car looks like that you’re going to be showing up in. So be logged in as well so that you are ready before that time slot opens and you won’t have to, like, reset your password because you forgot it. I’m talking to myself. I always have to reset my passwords because I forget them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>This sounds almost like you’re going to, you know, like a Taylor Swift concert or something.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Nailed it. That’s exactly what it feels like sometimes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>So as soon as the reservation system opens and your campsite becomes available, you need to be ready to hit purchase.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>So another tip, keep an eye out for cancellations. You can even set up an alert on the reservation site to let you know if something opens up. Similar to what you can do in, like, Open Table or something for, like, a dinner reservation you want to make. On the Reserve California site, there’s like a little notify me button that you can click when you search for a particular camping spot. It’s really handy. You know, someone else’s change of plans could be your gain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>I will vouch for this, not a campsite, but I did score last minute half dome hiking permits because somebody canceled. That’s so cool. Yeah, I only got that experience because somebody canceled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Yeah. When it works, it works really well. Another thing that works well when it works is knowing about day of spots and walk-in sites. Point Reyes National Seashore, for example, they hold back a handful of campsites to give out two weeks beforehand and also a few to hand out each day. You still need to reserve them. You know, the spots open up at 7 a.m. There’s still, like, a certain methodology to it. So, it’s not loosey goosey, but you may have more luck taking this approach. Another thing about walk-ins, many popular campgrounds are also operating first come, first serve sites, which you can typically claim if you get there by noon-ish. Obviously, if you want the site for a busy weekend, then you probably need to be there on Friday morning or even Thursday evening for long weekends. Be prepared to be flexible as well. You may have your heart set on this like one Tahoe campground. You might not be hitting that campground this year. Keep your mind and your heart open for lesser known campgrounds. The Reserve California site actually has this recommendation engine which will show you other parks nearby that have availability when you put your dates in. So it’s a good thing to give it a try.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Donner State Park… still holding a candle to make my way out there someday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Okay, Olivia, we’ve gone through some pretty straightforward tips. Are you ready to come to the dark side with me?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Oh my. Am I ready? Yes. Yes. Take me there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>I like to just sound the metaphorical unethical klaxon because some of the tips that have been shared with us, there are some things that, you know, might stray beyond the boundaries of acceptability. Not everyone might be comfortable making them, basically. So I offer them in that spirit, not necessarily endorsing them, but just telling you what some campers do to get spots.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>There’s no gatekeeping here, we’re going to the dark side. Okay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>With those caveats. One way that dedicated campers try to reserve those really coveted weekend spots is by deliberately starting their reservation a few days before the weekend. Because remember, the reservations open several months in advance and you can book multiple nights. So reservations for trips that start on the Wednesday or the Thursday of that week that you’re hoping to visit, they’ll open before the weekend reservations. So you could log on as soon as Wednesday reservations open and reserve a trip that starts then and lasts four nights and thereby snag your weekend camping spot before the reservations for Friday or Saturday even open.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So you might be saying, what is the problem here? If someone is just planning a lovely longer camping trip and they are happening to benefit from the way the reservation system works? I’ll tell you the problem. Some people do this and then they just don’t show up for those first couple of nights. They just roll up for the weekend dates that they really wanted that are included in their reservation. And if you’re thinking about trying this, you should be very careful because not only have different campsites always had different rules about giving your spot away, if you no-show after a certain day or time it is actually now California law that a state park will give your campsite away if you don’t show up on day one of your reservation. And if, you no-show more than three times in one year, you could be banned from making any more reservations within the California state park system entirely.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Yeah, I do feel weird about this tip, just thinking about the possibility for empty campsites when people are not planning to be there. But what if you modified your dates after the booking?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>You could totally do that, to essentially remove the earlier dates and keep the weekend. It is undoubtedly more ethical to cancel the nights you are not planning to be there and let someone else have the fun. This new California law is all about trying to encourage more ethical, generous camper behavior and not hogging all the coveted spots for yourself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>And of course, once you get there, be a respectful camper so that you can have others enjoy their stay as well. You know, don’t make noise after quiet hours. Don’t leave your trash out. Like, just be a good person.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Yeah. And also check the specific place you’re going for any fire regulations. Wildfires have been started by people who are lighting illegal campfires that got out of control. So it’s really, really important that we all take those risks seriously.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Carly Severn, thank you so much. We are going to go home tonight and get on our summer plans because of this conversation, so thanks again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>See you at the campground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b> Remember you can find all kinds of tips for camping at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/guides\">kqed.org/\u003c/a>explainers. Special thanks this week to Katrina’s Dad. He’s taking Carly’s advice to heart.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>I’ve never tried to modify a reservation before, so I’m not quite sure…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b> Bay Curious is made by…. Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>So what I’d like to do is delete the first day because I don’t think I can make it up there in time. I’m trying to be accurate and a good citizen and return the day to somebody else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b> With extra support from…Amanda Font, Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan and everyone on Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>Yay you did it!\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>So we achieved our modification.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b> Our colleagues at The Bay are working on a podcast episode about dating in the Bay Area — the good, the bad, and everything in between — and we’d love to hear from you. What’s your experience been like? What’s dating like in your city? Do you have a wild story? Leave a voicemail at 415-710-9223, or send a voice memo to thebay@kqed.org. Tell them your name, your city, and your story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks for listening. See you next week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"headline": "Tips and Tricks to Snag A California Campsite",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003cem>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/em>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reserving campsites in California can be daunting. Many book up as soon as they become available, so if you don’t plan ahead – sometimes you’re out of luck! And figuring out where and how to reserve a campsite can be confusing. But there are some tips and tricks that can help you snag that ideal spot. We break it all down to help you get out of your house and into nature this year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And if you’re looking for more info about camping, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/explainers\">KQED’s Audience Desk has you covered\u003c/a>:\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11973183/want-to-go-camping-near-the-bay-area-this-summer-make-your-reservations-now\">Want To Go Camping Near the Bay Area This Summer? Make Your Reservations Now (Seriously)\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11953853/how-to-find-a-camping-spot-in-california-when-they-always-seem-to-be-fully-booked\">How to Find a Camping Spot in California (When They Always Seem to Be Fully Booked)\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11920867/how-to-find-free-camping-in-californias-national-forests\">How to Find Free Camping in California’s National Forests\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11988380/want-to-go-camping-in-big-sur-this-summer-what-to-know\">Want to Go Camping In Big Sur This Summer? What to Know\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC6949756646&light=true\" width=\"100%\" height=\"200\" frameborder=\"0\" scrolling=\"no\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>This is Bay Curious. I’m your host, Olivia Allen-Price and today we are demystifying something that should be … simple! … camping.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>My family did a lot of camping together in the state of Montana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>This is Tim Schwartz … father of Bay Curious producer Katrina Schwartz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>And we would just drive into a campsite and find something and throw our sleeping bags down. There was no reservations at all. But it also wasn’t that popular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Tim is retired now and wants to take advantage of the free time to explore more around California. Up until now he’s relied on Katrina to make reservations for him … but he’s trying to get the hang of doing it himself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>Let’s try logging in right now. So you need an email and a password, which I don’t think I remember.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Mmm yeah, I’ve been there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>Now it’s asking me to create a new password. So let’s just do something simple. Oh, hold on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>Too simple!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>Too simple. You gotta have special characters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Reserving campsites in California can be daunting. Many book up as soon as they become available, so if you don’t plan ahead – sometimes you find yourself out of luck!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>The first time I tried it, I was looking up on websites what campsites people liked and why they liked them. And I found one I liked! But by the time I’d done that it was already 8:30 and campsites were already disappearing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Tim is not alone. Figuring out \u003ci>where\u003c/i> to reserve a campsite can be confusing for anyone. But there are some tips and tricks that can help you snag that ideal spot. Today on the show, we’re breaking it all down to help you get out of your house and into nature this year. That’s all ahead, stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Here to help us break down what it takes to nab a good campsite in California is KQED’s Senior Editor of Audience News Carly seven. Hey, Carly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Hello, Olivia.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>So I can’t help but notice, but here we are in the middle of winter. It’s cold outside. The days are short. This is not the time of year I would normally associate with camping. And yet it’s top of your mind right now. Tell me why.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>It’s because, and I’m just going to cut to the chase, many camping spots open up six months in advance. So you’re in the depths of winter and you’re already thinking about summer and making these reservations, which I know can be a little bit counterintuitive. And it’s a little bit like when the dentist asks you, like, what are you doing in six months time at 4 p.m.? Like, you don’t know. But if you want to make a camping reservation, it is good to get yourself in the mind frame of doing this now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Yeah. I feel like camping has become a competitive sport in California and it really favors people who can plan ahead. So we’re talking about this today so that you, Dear Bay Curious listener, can be one of those people. I’ve been camping in California for, I don’t know, more than a decade. And it just feels like every year it gets harder and harder to get my hands on whatever spot I’m trying to get.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>So this is not just you. It’s not just your impression. There are more people camping. There’s this franchise called Kampgrounds with a K of America, better known as KOA. They run private campsites, and for more than ten years they have been researching who camps and the kinds of experiences that people want. And the most recent report in 2024 found that almost 53.6 million households across the country identify as active campers, and that is a 68% increase since 2014.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>That’s huge. Why so much growth?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>There are a lot of factors, including camping is no longer this simple throw-your-tent-in-the-car and go. There’s everything from glamping, where you have a ton of amenities, all the way to backpacking — super simple — and everything in between. There are just a lot more options, which means that more to appeal to different people now. Another huge thing, obviously the Covid pandemic has really influenced this market to rise. REI sales went up by 35% from 2020 when you know, a lot of folks physically couldn’t leave the house. A lot of parks were straight up closed, you couldn’t get those camping spots. By the time it got to 2021, they were up 35%.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Wow. Yeah. I mean, I will admit, the first trip that I took during the Covid pandemic was a camping trip to the Trinity Alps. And it felt kind of like the safest way to get out of my house. Where you’re still going to be socially distanced from people in our little pod.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Felt like doing the right thing, right? Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>You’re you’re among the trees instead of, you know, in your living room for the 300th day straight. So this growth in popularity, I guess it’s you know, it’s made it pretty competitive to get a campsite. I know some years ago there were issues with bots reserving campsites. We actually had a Bay Curious episode about that. Is it still an issue?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>So a few years ago, the frustration with the sheer competitiveness of snagging a campsite, it was leading a lot of folks to assume that it was bots scooping up all your spots. And it was actually hard to assess how much of that competitiveness around camping generally was actually bots. But one thing we do know, is it sounds like the California state park system, at least, took it pretty seriously, especially after they moved to this third party online reservation system. So eventually some security features for users were added to the process for anyone logging in. And they also did this big analysis of, like, IP addresses and timestamps for all the reservations coming in. And after that they officially concluded that bots are no longer an issue, at least on the state parks system. And in large part, it really does just seem to be a supply and demand issue. Not enough campsites, too many people who want to camp. I don’t know. Is that is that good news? Is that bad news?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>I would say good news. I would say good news. But yeah, let’s break it down from here. So let’s say I’m a first time camper. I’m looking to book a campsite. Walk me through a little bit of the matrix that I’m going to be navigating as I’m looking to make a reservation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Okay. First of all, a plug. I’m the senior editor of the audience news desk at KQED, which is basically explainers and guides. So we love talking about this kind of stuff. If you’re interested in it, you can go to \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/explainers\">KQED dot org slash explainers\u003c/a>. We have all these tips. And I do want to say, these tips that I’m about to give you, the creme de la creme of what we have published so far, come from our reporter Kelly O’Mara, who has been diving deep into how to snag a camping spot. The process to making camping reservations in California…it depends where the campgrounds are located and what agency operates the campsite. This is the boring stuff, but it really helps if you understand because you’re going to be able to navigate the system a lot quicker and snap up your campsite.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Right? Understanding where you’re camping makes all the difference.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Exactly. There are different reservation systems, essentially, and different timelines for making reservations for national parks, tate parks, and just to complicate things there are also private campgrounds. You’ve got a lot in the mix, but essentially in a nutshell, you can camp in California’s national parks. So that is spots like the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, Point Reyes. And to do that, you make reservations on recreation.gov.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You can camp in California State Parks. You can make that reservation at reservecalifornia.gov. That’s stuff like Mt. Tam, Mount Diablo, Angel Island and a lot of Tahoe spots. There’s a huge amount of California State Parks, 279 units with campsites. And then you also have camping in California regional parks. That includes things like the East Bay Regional Park System. And all of these regional park systems have their own websites and their own booking methods. And the cherry on top, you’ve also got BLM land. That is Bureau of Land Management camping, where you can do what’s called dispersed camping, sometimes without the usual amenities like potable water, bathrooms, etc.. And sometimes BLM campgrounds require a reservation, but sometimes they don’t.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>I will definitely add that BLM camping is maybe the best avenue to try if you have procrastinated at booking a site. I’ve had a lot of luck there in the past. But yeah, in general, block off some time on your calendar to really go through and figure out where you want to camp. Who’s in charge of it? What you need to do to reserve it. It’s an effort.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Yeah. Because I think a lot of people, even ones who like camping, they might not know that the sites open up six months in advance. And if they’re thinking, you know, I didn’t get my spot this year, it’s because someone was so on it and they weren’t. The system is meant to give everyone this chance to book, but there are challenges for folks who say, don’t have access to reliable WiFi. Or don’t have access to a computer. Or they just don’t have free time to get up and mark their calendar, secure the spot. Plus planning three months, six months in advance like it lends itself to a certain type of person, shall we say.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Well, you think of camping as like, I don’t know, I think of it as sort of a last minute thing, you know, what should we do this weekend? We don’t have plans. Let’s go camping. That is not the case at a lot of these campgrounds in California. It is almost like taking an international trip where you really need to be thinking about it and planning your way ahead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn:\u003c/b> Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b> Help us increase our chances at getting one of those spots. Kali, please.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Okay, so these are some of the tips, just some of the tips we have been sharing online at KQED. The first one, it sounds so obvious, but just be ready with all your information ahead of time. Ready to make that booking. Create your account on the reservation site, have your credit card ready, even know, like, what’s my vehicle license plate? I don’t know about you, I always forget what my license plate is. But the reservation system, when you book for your campground, it’s probably going to ask you what the car looks like that you’re going to be showing up in. So be logged in as well so that you are ready before that time slot opens and you won’t have to, like, reset your password because you forgot it. I’m talking to myself. I always have to reset my passwords because I forget them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>This sounds almost like you’re going to, you know, like a Taylor Swift concert or something.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Nailed it. That’s exactly what it feels like sometimes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>So as soon as the reservation system opens and your campsite becomes available, you need to be ready to hit purchase.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>So another tip, keep an eye out for cancellations. You can even set up an alert on the reservation site to let you know if something opens up. Similar to what you can do in, like, Open Table or something for, like, a dinner reservation you want to make. On the Reserve California site, there’s like a little notify me button that you can click when you search for a particular camping spot. It’s really handy. You know, someone else’s change of plans could be your gain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>I will vouch for this, not a campsite, but I did score last minute half dome hiking permits because somebody canceled. That’s so cool. Yeah, I only got that experience because somebody canceled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Yeah. When it works, it works really well. Another thing that works well when it works is knowing about day of spots and walk-in sites. Point Reyes National Seashore, for example, they hold back a handful of campsites to give out two weeks beforehand and also a few to hand out each day. You still need to reserve them. You know, the spots open up at 7 a.m. There’s still, like, a certain methodology to it. So, it’s not loosey goosey, but you may have more luck taking this approach. Another thing about walk-ins, many popular campgrounds are also operating first come, first serve sites, which you can typically claim if you get there by noon-ish. Obviously, if you want the site for a busy weekend, then you probably need to be there on Friday morning or even Thursday evening for long weekends. Be prepared to be flexible as well. You may have your heart set on this like one Tahoe campground. You might not be hitting that campground this year. Keep your mind and your heart open for lesser known campgrounds. The Reserve California site actually has this recommendation engine which will show you other parks nearby that have availability when you put your dates in. So it’s a good thing to give it a try.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Donner State Park… still holding a candle to make my way out there someday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Okay, Olivia, we’ve gone through some pretty straightforward tips. Are you ready to come to the dark side with me?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Oh my. Am I ready? Yes. Yes. Take me there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>I like to just sound the metaphorical unethical klaxon because some of the tips that have been shared with us, there are some things that, you know, might stray beyond the boundaries of acceptability. Not everyone might be comfortable making them, basically. So I offer them in that spirit, not necessarily endorsing them, but just telling you what some campers do to get spots.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>There’s no gatekeeping here, we’re going to the dark side. Okay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>With those caveats. One way that dedicated campers try to reserve those really coveted weekend spots is by deliberately starting their reservation a few days before the weekend. Because remember, the reservations open several months in advance and you can book multiple nights. So reservations for trips that start on the Wednesday or the Thursday of that week that you’re hoping to visit, they’ll open before the weekend reservations. So you could log on as soon as Wednesday reservations open and reserve a trip that starts then and lasts four nights and thereby snag your weekend camping spot before the reservations for Friday or Saturday even open.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So you might be saying, what is the problem here? If someone is just planning a lovely longer camping trip and they are happening to benefit from the way the reservation system works? I’ll tell you the problem. Some people do this and then they just don’t show up for those first couple of nights. They just roll up for the weekend dates that they really wanted that are included in their reservation. And if you’re thinking about trying this, you should be very careful because not only have different campsites always had different rules about giving your spot away, if you no-show after a certain day or time it is actually now California law that a state park will give your campsite away if you don’t show up on day one of your reservation. And if, you no-show more than three times in one year, you could be banned from making any more reservations within the California state park system entirely.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Yeah, I do feel weird about this tip, just thinking about the possibility for empty campsites when people are not planning to be there. But what if you modified your dates after the booking?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>You could totally do that, to essentially remove the earlier dates and keep the weekend. It is undoubtedly more ethical to cancel the nights you are not planning to be there and let someone else have the fun. This new California law is all about trying to encourage more ethical, generous camper behavior and not hogging all the coveted spots for yourself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>And of course, once you get there, be a respectful camper so that you can have others enjoy their stay as well. You know, don’t make noise after quiet hours. Don’t leave your trash out. Like, just be a good person.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>Yeah. And also check the specific place you’re going for any fire regulations. Wildfires have been started by people who are lighting illegal campfires that got out of control. So it’s really, really important that we all take those risks seriously.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>Carly Severn, thank you so much. We are going to go home tonight and get on our summer plans because of this conversation, so thanks again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>See you at the campground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b> Remember you can find all kinds of tips for camping at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/guides\">kqed.org/\u003c/a>explainers. Special thanks this week to Katrina’s Dad. He’s taking Carly’s advice to heart.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>I’ve never tried to modify a reservation before, so I’m not quite sure…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b> Bay Curious is made by…. Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>So what I’d like to do is delete the first day because I don’t think I can make it up there in time. I’m trying to be accurate and a good citizen and return the day to somebody else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b> With extra support from…Amanda Font, Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan and everyone on Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>Yay you did it!\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Tim Schwartz: \u003c/b>So we achieved our modification.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/b> Our colleagues at The Bay are working on a podcast episode about dating in the Bay Area — the good, the bad, and everything in between — and we’d love to hear from you. What’s your experience been like? What’s dating like in your city? Do you have a wild story? Leave a voicemail at 415-710-9223, or send a voice memo to thebay@kqed.org. Tell them your name, your city, and your story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks for listening. See you next week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>\u003c/div>"
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}
},
"baycurious": {
"id": "baycurious",
"title": "Bay Curious",
"tagline": "Exploring the Bay Area, one question at a time",
"info": "KQED’s new podcast, Bay Curious, gets to the bottom of the mysteries — both profound and peculiar — that give the Bay Area its unique identity. And we’ll do it with your help! You ask the questions. You decide what Bay Curious investigates. And you join us on the journey to find the answers.",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Bay-Curious-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/news/series/baycurious",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 3
},
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"npr": "https://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious",
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}
},
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"id": "bbc-world-service",
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"info": "The day's top stories from BBC News compiled twice daily in the week, once at weekends.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 9pm-10pm, TUE-FRI 1am-2am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/BBC-World-Service-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/live:bbc_world_service",
"meta": {
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"source": "BBC World Service"
},
"link": "/radio/program/bbc-world-service",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/global-news-podcast/id135067274?mt=2",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/radio/BBC-World-Service-p455581/",
"rss": "https://podcasts.files.bbci.co.uk/p02nq0gn.rss"
}
},
"californiareport": {
"id": "californiareport",
"title": "The California Report",
"tagline": "California, day by day",
"info": "KQED’s statewide radio news program providing daily coverage of issues, trends and public policy decisions.",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-California-Report-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/californiareport",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 8
},
"link": "/californiareport",
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"amazon": "https://music.amazon.com/podcasts/26099305-72af-4542-9dde-ac1807fe36d5/kqed-s-the-california-report",
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}
},
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"title": "The California Report Magazine",
"tagline": "Your state, your stories",
"info": "Every week, The California Report Magazine takes you on a road trip for the ears: to visit the places and meet the people who make California unique. The in-depth storytelling podcast from the California Report.",
"airtime": "FRI 4:30pm-5pm, 6:30pm-7pm, 11pm-11:30pm",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/californiareportmagazine",
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"order": 10
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM3NjkwNjk1OTAz",
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},
"city-arts": {
"id": "city-arts",
"title": "City Arts & Lectures",
"info": "A one-hour radio program to hear celebrated writers, artists and thinkers address contemporary ideas and values, often discussing the creative process. Please note: tapes or transcripts are not available",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/05/cityartsandlecture-300x300.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.cityarts.net/",
"airtime": "SUN 1pm-2pm, TUE 10pm, WED 1am",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "City Arts & Lectures"
},
"link": "https://www.cityarts.net",
"subscribe": {
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/radio/City-Arts-and-Lectures-p692/",
"rss": "https://www.cityarts.net/feed/"
}
},
"closealltabs": {
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/closealltabs",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 1
},
"link": "/podcasts/closealltabs",
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"title": "Code Switch / Life Kit",
"info": "\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em>, which listeners will hear in the first part of the hour, has fearless and much-needed conversations about race. Hosted by journalists of color, the show tackles the subject of race head-on, exploring how it impacts every part of society — from politics and pop culture to history, sports and more.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em>, which will be in the second part of the hour, guides you through spaces and feelings no one prepares you for — from finances to mental health, from workplace microaggressions to imposter syndrome, from relationships to parenting. The show features experts with real world experience and shares their knowledge. Because everyone needs a little help being human.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510312/codeswitch\">\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/lifekit\">\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />",
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"meta": {
"site": "radio",
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},
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"id": "commonwealth-club",
"title": "Commonwealth Club of California Podcast",
"info": "The Commonwealth Club of California is the nation's oldest and largest public affairs forum. As a non-partisan forum, The Club brings to the public airwaves diverse viewpoints on important topics. The Club's weekly radio broadcast - the oldest in the U.S., dating back to 1924 - is carried across the nation on public radio stations and is now podcasting. Our website archive features audio of our recent programs, as well as selected speeches from our long and distinguished history. This podcast feed is usually updated twice a week and is always un-edited.",
"airtime": "THU 10pm, FRI 1am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Commonwealth-Club-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "Commonwealth Club of California"
},
"link": "/radio/program/commonwealth-club",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/commonwealth-club-of-california-podcast/id976334034?mt=2",
"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cDovL3d3dy5jb21tb253ZWFsdGhjbHViLm9yZy9hdWRpby9wb2RjYXN0L3dlZWtseS54bWw",
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}
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"id": "forum",
"title": "Forum",
"tagline": "The conversation starts here",
"info": "KQED’s live call-in program discussing local, state, national and international issues, as well as in-depth interviews.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 9am-11am, 10pm-11pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Forum-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED Forum with Mina Kim and Alexis Madrigal",
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"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 9
},
"link": "/forum",
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM5NTU3MzgxNjMz",
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"freakonomics-radio": {
"id": "freakonomics-radio",
"title": "Freakonomics Radio",
"info": "Freakonomics Radio is a one-hour award-winning podcast and public-radio project hosted by Stephen Dubner, with co-author Steve Levitt as a regular guest. It is produced in partnership with WNYC.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/freakonomicsRadio.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://freakonomics.com/",
"airtime": "SUN 1am-2am, SAT 3pm-4pm",
"meta": {
"site": "radio",
"source": "WNYC"
},
"link": "/radio/program/freakonomics-radio",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/freakonomics-radio/id354668519",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/podcasts/WNYC-Podcasts/Freakonomics-Radio-p272293/",
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},
"fresh-air": {
"id": "fresh-air",
"title": "Fresh Air",
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"link": "/radio/program/fresh-air",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=214089682&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/381444908/podcast.xml"
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"info": "A live production of NPR and WBUR Boston, in collaboration with stations across the country, Here & Now reflects the fluid world of news as it's happening in the middle of the day, with timely, in-depth news, interviews and conversation. Hosted by Robin Young, Jeremy Hobson and Tonya Mosley.",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/510051/podcast.xml"
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},
"hidden-brain": {
"id": "hidden-brain",
"title": "Hidden Brain",
"info": "Shankar Vedantam uses science and storytelling to reveal the unconscious patterns that drive human behavior, shape our choices and direct our relationships.",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/series/423302056/hidden-brain",
"airtime": "SUN 7pm-8pm",
"meta": {
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"source": "NPR"
},
"link": "/radio/program/hidden-brain",
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},
"how-i-built-this": {
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"title": "How I Built This with Guy Raz",
"info": "Guy Raz dives into the stories behind some of the world's best known companies. How I Built This weaves a narrative journey about innovators, entrepreneurs and idealists—and the movements they built.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/howIBuiltThis.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510313/how-i-built-this",
"airtime": "SUN 7:30pm-8pm",
"meta": {
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"source": "npr"
},
"link": "/radio/program/how-i-built-this",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/how-i-built-this-with-guy-raz/id1150510297?mt=2",
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},
"hyphenacion": {
"id": "hyphenacion",
"title": "Hyphenación",
"tagline": "Where conversation and cultura meet",
"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/Hyphenacion_FinalAssets_PodcastTile.png",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/hyphenacion",
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"order": 15
},
"link": "/podcasts/hyphenacion",
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},
"jerrybrown": {
"id": "jerrybrown",
"title": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown",
"tagline": "Lessons from a lifetime in politics",
"info": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown brings listeners the wisdom of the former Governor, Mayor, and presidential candidate. Scott Shafer interviewed Brown for more than 40 hours, covering the former governor's life and half-century in the political game – and Brown has some lessons he'd like to share. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-Political-Mind-of-Jerry-Brown-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 18
},
"link": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/id1492194549",
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}
},
"latino-usa": {
"id": "latino-usa",
"title": "Latino USA",
"airtime": "MON 1am-2am, SUN 6pm-7pm",
"info": "Latino USA, the radio journal of news and culture, is the only national, English-language radio program produced from a Latino perspective.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/latinoUsa.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://latinousa.org/",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "npr"
},
"link": "/radio/program/latino-usa",
"subscribe": {
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=79681317&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/510016/podcast.xml"
}
},
"marketplace": {
"id": "marketplace",
"title": "Marketplace",
"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 4pm-4:30pm, MON-WED 6:30pm-7pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Marketplace-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.marketplace.org/",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "American Public Media"
},
"link": "/radio/program/marketplace",
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"rss": "https://feeds.publicradio.org/public_feeds/marketplace-pm/rss/rss"
}
},
"masters-of-scale": {
"id": "masters-of-scale",
"title": "Masters of Scale",
"info": "Masters of Scale is an original podcast in which LinkedIn co-founder and Greylock Partner Reid Hoffman sets out to describe and prove theories that explain how great entrepreneurs take their companies from zero to a gazillion in ingenious fashion.",
"airtime": "Every other Wednesday June 12 through October 16 at 8pm (repeats Thursdays at 2am)",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Masters-of-Scale-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://mastersofscale.com/",
"meta": {
"site": "radio",
"source": "WaitWhat"
},
"link": "/radio/program/masters-of-scale",
"subscribe": {
"apple": "http://mastersofscale.app.link/",
"rss": "https://rss.art19.com/masters-of-scale"
}
},
"mindshift": {
"id": "mindshift",
"title": "MindShift",
"tagline": "A podcast about the future of learning and how we raise our kids",
"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Mindshift-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED MindShift: How We Will Learn",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/mindshift/",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 12
},
"link": "/podcasts/mindshift",
"subscribe": {
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM1NzY0NjAwNDI5",
"npr": "https://www.npr.org/podcasts/464615685/mind-shift-podcast",
"stitcher": "https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/kqed/stories-teachers-share",
"spotify": "https://open.spotify.com/show/0MxSpNYZKNprFLCl7eEtyx"
}
},
"morning-edition": {
"id": "morning-edition",
"title": "Morning Edition",
"info": "\u003cem>Morning Edition\u003c/em> takes listeners around the country and the world with multi-faceted stories and commentaries every weekday. Hosts Steve Inskeep, David Greene and Rachel Martin bring you the latest breaking news and features to prepare you for the day.",
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