I used to live near the seedy side of Polk St.

Fresh from Boston, the urban grit of San Francisco was both attractive and repellent. Walking home I’d pass transvestite prostitutes, lonely men at Kimo’s, and, always, the insane, the homeless, the bereft.

In 2002, I had an encounter with the devil herself. Hissing and screaming, the woman asked where Osama was and followed me up the street yelling.

I wish I could say I ignored her and walked on. But when she spat on me, I forgot patience, the shabbiness of her clothes, and all the things that were supposed to make me better.

Afterwards, I ran straight into a homeless man who wanted nothing but birthday wishes and conversation. He looked at me and said, “Just remember, we can’t change anyone but ourselves.”

I sat down on a bench near him and cried, ashamed. His is a lesson I have yet to fully learn.

That’s San Francisco – city of devils and angels, usually within blocks of each other but each with lessons to teach and tales to tell, if you’ve got a minute or a dime to spare.

Recently I walked down to Polk St again from my current digs where dogs abound and everyone looks as ho-hum as a Banana Republic ad. It was still as intriguing as I remembered.

I passed through the women-run Good Vibes, the delicious cheese store, and lingered over Mumbai chai at Leland Tea, before heading out hand in hand with my beloved, swinging a small white bag filled with condoms and aged Vermont Cheddar cheese – the simple necessities of life that day.

I walked home smiling.