Eeriness may be the right word when thinking of North Beach. Specs stands across the street. Little Italy lies only a few blocks away, surrounded by Chinatown. Trieste Cafe is only a small three block walk up the hill boardering Stockton street. An old l950's style jukebox still sits in the corner of the cafe, and some of the real residents of North Beach still frequent the old coffee shop in the morning for conversation and coffee. Old bars, alleys that lead nowhere, pawn shops carrying pieces of antiquity from a half-remembered past built around a still-thriving art scene hidden in the innermost depths of the city. Washington square park sits just around the corner; surrounding the now famous statue of Benjamine Franklin that adorned the cover of Richard Brautigan's, "Trout Fishing In America." And, the bums still hang out in the park, waiting as Brautigan used to say, "to see what is inside his own sandwich." The whole neighborhood seems tranfixed, waiting as the rest of San Francisco grew into the next century. Rumors abound that a coven of Basque witches still hold a silent guard over the area. Those wishing to change North Beach too drastically against the wishes of the neighborhood have found a series of mystical nighttime spells cast upon them. The best advice for the new bohemian visitor is to tread lightly; when passing through the streets of North Beach. Nightly hauntings are said to occur frequently, and the trees around Washington square are said to come alive, when the moon is full. The luck of the Irish may still be found hanging in the air.
Downstairs in the window to the left side of the cash register is an old painting showing the bookstore several decades ago. In those days, the atmosphere was a great deal different that it is today. A coffee table sat inside on the first floor, where locals, visitors, and poets used to sit for hours discussing poetry, the arts, last night's gossip. The poets held reign over their parlor on the first floor. Kerouac, Ginsberg, and the classics could be found there. The marxist literature and literary criticism was contained quietly in the basement. City Lights was still about culture and literature in those days. Tables that now sit empty were frequented by the meter and song of poetry. Sofas and comfortable lounge chairs were placed in particular areas, so that the people could sit, meditate, or read. These days, some sort of strange poetic justice has taken place. The poets have been moved upstairs, the marxists have taken over the first floor, and the comfortable chairs and pot of coffee have been
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