“I want to create a church,” Paulina said when I asked what she intended to do when she gets back from Burning Man.
“A real one?”
“Yes. Not a conventional one. But a real one.” She was inspired by something she’d found while she lived in Boston, the Church of Slut, and she wanted to import it here and belong to it with all her friends. “Not just to have a church,” she said, “but because a church is a way we could all organize to have healthcare, and have venues for performances. I don’t know that this can happen any other way, and maybe this is the best way.”
We were sitting outside of ABV, at 16th at Albion streets, on a perfect summer night. I’d been planning to go in and sit at the bar, because I really like ABV’s dark interior. It’s atmospheric; you expect to find characters from a movie there, and seems bigger than it is, but it’s also lighthearted. Dark, but not noir. But I can sit in a dark bar anytime. A perfect summer night in the Mission has to be enjoyed while you can. The tables outside aren’t much to speak of, but they’re outside, and it was beautiful.
Paulina had been running late, and so I’d ordered a Kentucky Rose (bourbon, lemon, apple brandy, grenadine, $17), which tasted delightfully like an effervescent sour bourbon. It’s not true of every drink, but there’s a light, airy quality that I associate with the cocktails at ABV. I go there when I want to drink easily, not heavily.
I was looking through a novel on my e-reader when the drink arrived. The server asked me, “what are you reading?” with such earnestness that I was momentarily confused.
“A novel,” I said.
He nodded. “What’s it called?”
“Ah … ‘This Time Tomorrow.’”
“What’s it about?” He seemed to really want to know. In fact, it seemed important. Like this mattered.
“Well … I’ve just started it … but, as I understand it, it’s a book about a woman whose father is dying in the hospital, and through some twist, I haven’t gotten there yet, she’s able to travel back in time and meet his younger self. But it’s more about emotional closure than it is about changing anything in the future.”
“Oh, the process rather than the time travel mechanic.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“That’s interesting,” he said. “Thanks,” and left. I wondered why this conversation threw me. Isn’t that the kind of conversation I want to have with people in bars? The kind that I actively look for?
Paulina texted me to say that she was still looking for parking. Time passed, until we were reaching the point where it had taken her about as much time looking for a space as it had to drive to San Francisco from Oakland.
The Mission never seems as busy to me as it used to be. It seems emptier. Despite all the wonderful outside seating, I don’t think I’ve seen the kind of bustling streetscape that I was used to during pre-pandemic times. And yet … if parking is a useful metric, then it was as busy as it ever was on an off night.
“I might have to drive back to Oakland and then take an Uber in to San Francisco,” she texted.
Damn … how could that possibly be worth it? “We can reschedule if you need to,” I texted back. But a moment later, she had a moment of grace and a spot near ABV appeared. “Walking over!” she texted, and a minute later she was here. She ordered a Must Love Pears (pear eau de vie, blanc vermouth, lemon, bitters, $17), which she liked very much, and I ordered a Tarragon Fix (blanco tequila, tarragon, absinthe, lime, pineapple, $17).
“Good decision,” the server said when I ordered it, and she nodded at me, beaming. The staff tonight seemed to be having fun, which was delightful. It is fun to be around people who are having fun, and more interesting to be around people who are authentic, even if it throws me sometimes. She was right: It was a wonderful blend of flavors, very herbal and, once again, very light.
Paulina was born in Leningrad, Russia, and immigrated to the U.S. when she was 12. She moved to the Bay Area in 2019, in time for everything to shut down just as she was getting to know it. She fought and clawed her way into a job and a social life from nothing, and it worked. This is still a place where you can do that.
She used to work in 3D printing, now she works in AI, and is an active member of the Bay Area’s festival circuit. “When people ask me where I’m from, I say Black Rock City,” she said. She means it. That’s home. She has a community of friends who camp together, build art together, have parties together at each other’s houses. She has a snake plant that recently started blooming — which they almost never do — and, to celebrate that, she started holding poetry readings in which all the poetry is read to her plant.
“I live in a bubble, and I love it so much,” she said. “But I’m realizing that this is all I do, that I don’t just go out to places like …” she gestures at ABV, and the Mission around her, “and see what happens. And I wonder if I’m missing something.”
The idea of a church appeals to her because she imagines herself wanting to retire to a gender-inclusive nunnery. “I want to live communally and make candles and have many cats and be with my loved ones,” she said. “But you can’t really do that today without some kind of an organization. I thought about starting a union, but that’s work-focused and work isn’t so important to the people I hope will join.”
I nodded, considering. “It makes sense, actually. The kind of community you’re talking about, it forms because we really do believe in something, even if we have a hard time articulating what it is. Even if we’re materialists, we’re striving for transcendent experiences.”
“Yes!” she said. “Exactly! Plus you can get healthcare for people who need it.”
“Always helpful,” I agreed.
She laughed. “And isn’t that what people in the Bay Area do? Start churches and cults? We have the Church of Clown, the Psychedelic Mushroom Church, the Satanists … ”
“The Church of the Subgenius,” I added.
“Yes!
“The Church of The Eight Wheels … although I think that’s just a name, and not an actual church … ”
“And of course all the cults,” she said.
“Which are the churches that, in hindsight, we don’t like … ”
Paulina’s not actually the first person to talk to me about creating some kind of religious institution for their local art and party circuit. My accountant once asked if he could hire me to write scripture for a church he was creating, then sent me a note apologizing that he didn’t actually need to pay me to do that, because he felt a book I’d written was already close enough. I don’t think it ever actually happened, though: A lot of the people who want to create churches are dreamers, rather than planners.
I’ve always described San Francisco as a gold-rush town, a place defined by an idea that came with the prospectors, that you’re always just one step away from striking gold, one step away from starting a unicorn tech firm, one step away from hitting it big. But I think Paulina’s right: Some people come here to strike gold, others to build churches.
I came here, 16-odd years ago, by accident. I didn’t want to do either of these things. But, over time, I think I’ve turned into a church-builder. Or at least that kind of dreamer.
“That’s what I’m going to do when I get back,” she said. “Contact the Church of Slut and see if I can create a branch here, and start gathering.”
I think I believe her. Or at least, on that perfect summer night outside a crowded bar, I had faith.
Each drink is $20+ with tip, so you can imagine the clientele the place attracts. It’s gross. No offense to Gabe Kapler.
one of the best burgers in the city!!
(not for the feint of wallet)
Perhaps the “high” cost of ABV’s beverages allows the business to pay their workforce a decent wage, which in turn results in these workers creating a premium product while exuding a happy vibe to their customers, which in turn makes the customers want to come back and the workers stay at their job? People who don’t see the value proposition in this equation should probably just stay home and drink cheap beer.