Most Saturday mornings, I stroll half a mile downhill from my tiny apartment in a bosky part of San Francisco to a farmers market. My usual reverie of anticipation (about carrots with their tops attached, about the price of berries) was interrupted recently by the sight of three bodies.

That is, I thought of them as bodies; it was not evident whether they were alive or dead. All lay splayed on the sidewalk, one a couple blocks from my home, the other two, blocks apart, closer to the market, itself located in a neighborhood where need is evident. (Food stamps are often the tender for buying produce.) The bodies belonged to shabbily but fully dressed men — except one man, who was missing a shoe. Maybe the men are sleeping, I thought, or unconscious from drink or drugs. Or maybe they are dead. Nobody walking by — including me — slowed down to pay attention to them, beyond a glance.

For decades, encountering such a scene, I used to stop, then wait to see a leg twitch, a chest rise. I rarely do even that anymore. In high school, I had read with shock that poor people in India, people with no home, slept on the sidewalk, while others just walked by. How awful of those others, I remember thinking. How could they live with themselves? The reproach has come home. We’ve gotten used to homelessness — the homelessness of others.

I guessed the three men on that recent Saturday had no homes, but from many years interviewing a formerly homeless man who is now a civic leader in San Francisco, I learned not to rush to conclusions. Del Seymour, today known locally as the mayor of the Tenderloin, taught me that a man lying with his eyes closed on a sidewalk may have a home, but perhaps was interrupted by temptation or a medical situation on his way there. I also learned from Del, to my initial shock, that some homeless people work full-time jobs. I’ve learned a lot about homelessness, mostly from him, but also from my daily Google alert for the word in the news.

Because those alerts are so rarely encouraging, one seeming spark of good news recently stood out. In Los Angeles County, according to newly released statistics about 2024, the number of deaths among the homeless population decreased from 2023. Yay! I thought. The myriad programs are working! Whether naloxone intervention or tiny houses or new shelters or other efforts (free job training like Del initiated in San Francisco?) are to praise, I felt a surge of hope. Then I read more closely.

Deaths among unhoused individuals in L.A. County had fallen in 2024 not to 100 or so, as I naively hoped, but to 2,208. A trend in the right direction, yes. A cause for celebration, no.

Far too many people know firsthand the emotional and physical grind of homelessness. Virtually all other Californians know it secondhand and have probably asked themselves the same question: What is a (presumably well-meaning) housed person to do in response to the sight of an unhoused person, not to mention many unhoused people? I know of a nurse in San Francisco who screeches her car to a stop when she spots a person in bodily distress and administers CPR if appropriate. I admire her action, but doubt I could replicate it.

Granted, my own main and stubborn response, to spend nearly a decade writing a book about the subject in the hope it will have a helpful impact, is not a route available or attractive to many. And shorter term efforts, such as volunteering at local nonprofits, certainly have more immediate results. One common impulse, in which I take part, if insufficiently and awkwardly, is to give someone food or money, or call 911 when someone clearly needs help.

Yet any pedestrian, especially any female pedestrian, will attest that the impulse to help someone on the sidewalk becomes more challenging if that someone is awake, and male. Will an offering lead to a spit, a scream, a chase? Should we avoid eye contact and walk on? Not necessarily.

What I’ve learned from Del is to offer something that may mean more than a dollar or a sandwich: Say hello.

Acknowledge the person whose face is several feet below your own. This individual is part of a family, “somebody’s son, somebody’s auntie,” Del’s litany goes, and remains a human being. Remind yourself of that. More importantly, remind them. Del adds: Don’t stop if the person seems “nuts,” his enjoyed foray into politically incorrect phrasing. Otherwise, slow down for a few seconds, maybe longer. At some point, over time, and the same route, you might recognize one another and actually have a conversation. Meanwhile, keep it basic, but say something.

I obey. Often, just “Hi.”

Almost always comes an incalculably generous reward: a smile and a greeting returned. Humbled, I move on, again resolved not to let our unhoused neighbors feel invisible, nor to forget that homelessness is, among other adjectives, abnormal.

Alison Owings is the author of “Mayor of the Tenderloin: Del Seymour’s Journey From Living on the Streets to Fighting Homelessness in San Francisco.”

A Pacific Heights mansion that was once the priciest listing in San Francisco has traded hands as the already-hot spring market continues getting hotter.

The six-bedroom home at 2830 Pacific Avenue was initially listed in 2023 for $35 million before dropping to $27.5 million last spring and ultimately selling last week at that price, the San Francisco Business Times reported. 

The seller was listed in records as Helena Trust, an entity tied to Hennessey Capital President Rajiv Ghatalia. Ghatalia bought the property in 2010 for nearly $8.4 million. The buyer is an LLC dubbed Almost Heaven, linked in state business records to the address of San Francisco-based financial services firm Andersen, though the buyer’s identity is unknown. Ghatalia and his wife are downsizing after their children moved out, according to the Business Times. 

The Georgian Colonial home was built in 1910 and spans roughly 9,400 square feet. A 2012 renovation brought the home into the 21st century with a seismic retrofit, updated systems and a 1,500-bottle wine cellar. The home also has one of the first residential elevators in the city. 

The sale arrives as fresh trophy listings continue to hit the market this spring. Homes priced above $5 million are seeing increased competition, driven in part by tech wealth and limited inventory in the city, which industry observers view as a symptom of the artificial intelligence boom as deep-pocketed buyers in the tech industry move into town. That surge in demand at the higher end of the market has led to a so-called mansion shortage, especially in tony neighborhoods like Pacific Heights. 

Late last month, a Russian Hill mansion tied to Gap’s founding family hit the market for the first time. That home at 888 Francisco Street is listed for nearly $17.3 million. Also last month, a Pacific Heights property sold for $56 million, representing the priciest sale in the city so far this year, while another Pac Heights home at 2602 Jackson Street hit the market for $22.5 million. It’s not just single-family homes, either. A penthouse sold last month for more than $10 million, the Business Times reported. 

— Chris Malone Méndez

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Sometimes, even a wrong number can make the right connection.

That was the case for Lauren Stevens, whose newly assigned work phone came with an unexpected problem: it kept receiving calls and texts for someone named “Verndawg.” At first, the messages were confusing. Over time, they became life-changing, for both Stevens and the man behind the nickname, renowned San Francisco photographer Wernher Krutein.

Shortly after getting the phone, Stevens began receiving repeated messages clearly meant for someone else. Curious, she and a group of friends did some online sleuthing to track down the intended recipient.

It didn’t take long.

“One of my friends texted me and said, ‘This guy, Wernher Krutein, he’s iconic,’” Stevens said.

Krutein, 72, has spent more than six decades traveling the world with a camera, documenting everything from people and architecture to insects and everyday objects. While his work spans continents, some of his most famous photographs were taken closer to home in San Francisco.

One image immediately stood out to Stevens: Krutein’s striking photograph from the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake, showing a car dangling from the collapsed Bay Bridge.

“I grew up seeing that photo in textbooks and documentaries,” she said. “And this was the photo.”

A longtime film photography enthusiast herself, Stevens found Krutein’s old website, Photovault.com, an archive of nearly half a million images, and decided to email him. What began as a practical exchange about forwarding messages soon became something deeper.

“You could tell he didn’t really care about the messages,” Stevens said. “What mattered to him was that someone cared about his work.”

Emails turned into phone calls, then in-person visits to Krutein’s home in Sonoma County. As their friendship grew, Stevens began to understand the challenges the celebrated photographer was quietly facing.

Starting his website in the late 1990s, Krutein was once ahead of the technological curve, but in an increasingly digital world, he found himself struggling financially.

“I’ve been barely making a living for years,” Krutein said. “I’ve pared down everything. I don’t even have heat in the house.”

He told Stevens his savings could last anywhere from six months to two years. After that, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

Wanting to help, Stevens launched a GoFundMe campaign to assist with Krutein’s living expenses. It has since raised more than $15,000. But financial relief was only part of her goal.

Krutein was deeply worried about the future of his archive, his life’s work, and, as he describes it, his purpose.

“I love connecting with everything I photograph,” he said. “Bugs, cars, people, furniture, all of it fascinates me.”

Using her understanding of social media, Stevens created TikTok and Instagram accounts called @Verndawgtales, documenting their friendship and sharing Krutein’s photographs and stories. Thousands of followers now track their journey as Stevens works to preserve Krutein’s legacy and bring renewed attention to his work.

“The world needs to see his work,” Stevens said. “It is crazy, diabolically amazing, and I feel so lucky to be the vessel to share his story.”

For Krutein, the impact has gone beyond recognition or financial support.

“She’s brought me out of the darkness,” he said. “That’s a gift beyond words.”