Growing up in Tampa, Florida, I knew all of my neighbors.

First, there was my best friend and her Lebanese family. Her Teta (which I quickly learned meant grandma, NOT boob) could often be found gutting raw fish while sitting on a crate in the driveway. Next to them, we had grumpy white man. I guess I never knew his name, but we all knew how to piss him off, which was to make his mailbox home base in our kickball games. He was a great contrast to the lovely black sisters next store. I loved being outside when they came home from work. No matter who you were or what you were doing, when the sisters came home, a delicate hand emerged from the car window and gave the most elegant wave. The illusion was only disrupted by the clashing metal sound of the garage door opening, maybe getting stuck halfway, then closing and opening again.

There was also the sketchy house, where I was once summoned by the owner to sweep the house and check if the burglar was still there (I was 12). Then we had a Cuban family, a redneck family with coordinated mullets, a male recording artist whose mother lived in the garage, and finally my Cuban family and a Chinese family next door with a perfectly manicured lawn.

I loved growing up knowing my neighbors (not to be confused with loving Tampa). They were there to cheer me on when I learned to ride a bike, they graciously chipped in for obscure school fundraisers, and they generally gave at least a couple of shits about my life. And being on that cul-de-sac, we emerged from our houses literally facing one another. It was beautiful.

Moving from a suburb, where it takes 20 minutes by car to get anywhere, to a city where people are as closely packed together in 7×7 square miles as possible, I guess I was expecting more human interaction.

But let’s hop over to my San Francisco neighborhood, where I know my neighbors mostly by their property, not their faces. We have the evil corgis from hell who greet passersby with teeth, drool, and the most obnoxious barks while their owner just smirks at you as an apology. Then there are the mansion owners across the street who have never invited me over for dinner. I know there’s an opera singer in the ‘hood because SF walls are thin and she has the vibrato of a 3.0 earthquake. The only person I recognize is the war veteran who strolls the neighborhood in military garb, tips his hat at you, and gets back to thinking the thoughts of a man who has done some serious living. I can’t even tell you who lives in my 6-unit apartment building. I only know that one woman is making the most of her Amazon prime membership.

This all leaves me wondering how to engage with passersby/neighbors in this city. At heart, I’m a “hello” with a smile type of girl. When I do by miracle make eye contact with a stranger and whip out my rusty, deranged neighborly smile, I receive a dead-eyed gaze. Most often, it’s only the homeless and people of color who greet me back, and I don’t know what that has to say about San Francisco.

My smiles and attempts at connection are so often unreciprocated, I’ve developed a new walking persona. It’s more of a smile in the eyes only (per Tyra Banks a “smize”) that I hope tells other people, “You can say hi, I’ll say it back.”

I’m not sure what makes this city less neighborly. Is it fear? We just can’t stomach the thought of having a conversation with a stranger. Is it selfish? Maybe we’re too worried that we’ll get pulled out of our world. I mean, don’t you see my yoga mat people, I’m on my way to find peace not say howdy doo! But the people that we pass by every day could be the very ones sitting next to us on the Muni (or in a Lyft line) when THE BIG ONE hits. And wouldn’t it be nice to see a friendly face?

So what are we to do San Francisco? We’re supposed to be the friendly city, full of tree hugging hippies. And when trees get more love than people, well that’s a damn shame.

Have a similar or different experience in the city? Tell me about it in the comments.