San Francisco is a city of secrets. Hidden tunnels and bricked-up passageways, sunken ships and rebuilt palaces. With our backfilled downtown, railcar tracks that lead into empty parking lots, and stairways that sneak you from one neighborhood to another, we are the Winchester Mystery House of urban areas.
One of the secrets is right beneath your nose, and you’ve likely passed it at least once. Maybe you’ve walked your dog there. Or gone to play tennis at one of the hidden-gem tennis courts that locals like to keep all to themselves. Maybe, like me, you’ve cut through Buena Vista Park from Haight Street, zigzagging your way down toward Market on your morning commute-with-a-view, all blissfully ignorant that you were in the presence of hundreds of headstones.