California, San Francisco, and Livermore
This morning began early — 5:30 a.m., to be exact — as I set out to meet a group of 41 travelers on a tour of the West Coast. Their journey had started in Seattle and carried them south through the scenic stretches of the Pacific before ending here in San Francisco. These groups are always a delight — curious, adventurous, and full of questions about our coast’s history and its unique cultural mix. Most hail from the Midwest or East Coast, and they all shared that same sparkle of discovery that makes guiding so rewarding.
When I first began leading tours over ten years ago, I had no idea how much joy and meaning it would bring. Just two weeks ago, I spent five lively days with 45 seventh graders — quite the contrast to this morning’s crew!
October in San Francisco is pure magic. The fog (known affectionately as Karl) retreats, the skies turn crystal blue, and the air softens into that perfect balance of sun and sea breeze. Today was one of those golden days — 73 degrees, a light wind off the bay, and the city showing off its best self. We visited some of my favorite spots: the city’s highest hills, the historic Japanese Tea Garden (the oldest in the U.S.), and the Presidio — once home to Spanish and Mexican military forces before the U.S. Army took over and it remained a military base until 1994.
After dropping the group off at Pier 39 for lunch, I found myself in the middle of another kind of gathering — the No Kings demonstrations, also known internationally as the No Dictators or No Tyrants protests. These rallies, largely across the U.S., challenge what organizers describe as authoritarian policies and corruption within Donald Trump’s administration. Whether one agrees or not, I couldn’t help but feel grateful to live in a country where free speech flourishes.
Watching the signs wave and hearing the chants reminded me of the protests of the late 1960s and early ’70s I’d seen on TV during the Vietnam era. It made me wonder how we’ve once again found ourselves so divided — and hope that, in time, we reclaim that middle ground that should define the American spirit.
Back home in Livermore, life was buzzing with a different kind of energy. From across our backyard fence, the joyful sounds of Mexican music floated over from the Baptist church — a wedding celebration, perhaps. Laughter, singing, and the rhythm of life itself drifted on the afternoon breeze.
Across the street, my neighbors — originally from India — were out decorating their yard for Halloween with their kids and visiting parents. Their display easily takes the prize this year: glowing pumpkins, dancing skeletons, and spooky lights galore. I’m sure their two boys are already scheming how much candy they can stash before their parents intervene!
As I stood there, memories of forty-plus years in this house came floating back. My neighbors to the south — a Chinese American couple — have been part of our lives for decades. He’s a 95-year-old World War II veteran who received the Congressional Gold Medal of Honor in 2021, and she spent her career with the local school district. He’s shared stories from his childhood in San Francisco’s Chinatown neighborhood during the Chinese Exclusion Act era, when certain streets were off-limits after dark. They lent us their bassinet when our daughter Erin was born, and their sons later mowed our lawn to earn money for college.
One of my favorite memories with them involves a day trip to San Francisco — and an unforgettable $700 parking fine that left us calling our son to bail us out. His boss apparently found the story quite amusing, calling it “poetic justice” that “the parents” were the ones in trouble for once!
Our neighbors to the north are newer — a blended family of African and Pacific Islander heritage (I think) with kids about the same age as our grandkids. We trade gardening tips, battle squirrels and rats in solidarity, and share the occasional glass of wine on warm evenings.
When I moved to California in 1981, I never could have imagined this beautifully diverse tapestry of people and stories that would shape my life here. I even married the man whose job I was hired to replace — over 42 years ago now.
So today felt like a perfect reflection of what I love most about living here: a country where we can communicate, debate, disagree, demonstrate — and still come together to celebrate life, family, and the cultural richness that binds us all together.
It just doesn’t get much better than that, does it?
Evonne Klein Hopkins is a longtime Bay Area resident, tour guide, storyteller, and lover of local history. She delights in connecting people to the beauty, humor, and humanity woven through everyday life.
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