As a child, I listened to Maxime Le Forestier’s song “San Francisco” over and over again, searching for clues. Surely, he was singing about my family’s neighborhood! His descriptions of houses leaning up against hills, of a city cloaked and swimming in fog, the light, the crazies and long hairs playing guitar were exactly what I saw looking out my bedroom window. I knew exactly what he was talking about, but in my kid brain, I figured I must be wrong. How could someone know so intimately the landscape of my American home, yet praise it in our secret language, French? It confused me in the same way that “Rendezvous,” the name of a local bar on Divisadero Street, confused me. Was the bar French? How do you pronounce “Rendezvous” in English? Wren-dez-vowss?