The thing that’s always amazed me about San Francisco is how it changes from block to block. Five dollar cups of coffees are a stone’s throw from public housing.

The World Series celebrations in the Mission District were no different. Dolores and parts of Valencia were strangely quiet. The sirens and honking were faint. Some drank wine and ate dinner outside restaurants as if the World Series never happened.

But Mission Street may as well have been in a different world. Glass bottles full of beer were hurled at police. Fires were set in the middle of the street. I even saw a man jump out of his Cadillac and punch a woman square in the face.

Oh, San Francisco.