Long-time residents complain that these new arrivals, who drive up rent and drive out the families that are most at home among the taquerias, the open markets, the artwork, the travel agencies with posted window fares to Guatemala City, Managua, San Salvador, Oaxaca, Montevideo. They play behind a chain-link fence on what was once a tennis court. Though some of the men carry beer guts, they change directions with dexterity and send floating soccer balls into the middle of the field where opposing heads lunge for the ball and somehow manage not to crash into one another. Nearby, taquerias abound. Inside, thin strips of beef sizzle on the grill behind the counter as an assembly line of sour creme, salsa, onions, hot sauce, and chunky guacamole are slopped generously onto grilled tortillas with melted cheese.
Customers happily munch on the dripping creations as juice spills their mouths, over their faces.
The spicy smell of beef, cheese, and limes is intoxicating, driving those in line ravenous with hunger. They stand next to a statue of St. Peter, and a row of photographs from the Pope's visit in the 1980s. Beside the Mission is the Basilica, where Sunday Mass is delivered in Spanish. Mass here is a festive affair, with the priest walking along the aisle to the accompaniment of guitars, shakers, and tambourines. Back at the BART station, there is an ingeniously-placed mural.