Right in front of you is the famous Bohemian Club-a sturdy, six-story masonry building at the corner, just off Post Street and Taylor-keep an eye out for a grand entrance with an air of mystery, and you might even spot an elegant bronze relief outside if you look closely!
Ah, the Bohemian Club! Now, as you stand at its doorstep, imagine yourself transported back to 1872 San Francisco. It’s a foggy evening, the city is bustling with characters-a lively crowd of journalists, artists, musicians, and, a bit later, some very sharply dressed businessmen. Word is, the original “bohemians” just wanted a cozy place to gather after work, chat about their latest stories, and maybe forget their deadlines for a while-well, at least until their editors tracked them down. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the low rumble of laughter from a smoky dining room upstairs.
Now, don’t let the stone-faced exterior fool you. While this clubhouse may look serious, the stories inside are anything but dull. Back in the early days, the Bohemian Club was a haven for the city’s oddballs and creatives. Journalists like those from the San Francisco Chronicle, with pens still stained with ink, rubbed elbows with painters, authors, and composers. Among them was poet George Sterling, who insisted that true bohemians had to be a little bit poor and very much addicted to the arts. He must’ve had a good laugh when the club got rich, famous, and just a tad more respectable over the years.
As decades rolled by, the Club’s doors opened a tiny crack for San Francisco’s movers and shakers-CEOs, university presidents, generals, and more-though it remained, and still remains, a strictly men-only domain. Even U.S. presidents have been spotted in the crowd, but don’t worry, the club motto is, “Weaving Spiders Come Not Here.” No business talk inside! (Though rumor has it, that rule is more of a guideline than a law. If two billionaires leave for a stroll around the block, who am I to judge?)
Inside, the club is a labyrinth of secretive dining rooms, libraries, a bar that’s seen more toasts than your local bakery, and even a theater that’s staged plays written-and often performed-by the members themselves. For any art lover, this place was gold: painters displayed their works throughout the building, and the only commission fee for selling your masterpiece was, well, another round of drinks.
But wait, the tale gets stranger. Every summer, when the city’s grip gets a little too tight, the Bohemian Club heads north to Bohemian Grove in Sonoma County-a massive, hidden camp shrouded by towering redwoods. There, for a few weeks, the secrets flow as richly as the wine. At the heart of these gatherings stands a giant (and I mean GIANT) concrete owl statue, looming forty feet high and watching over everyone with a stone-cold stare. If you find that a little “hoo”-spicious, just wait. The most famous event at the Grove is the “Cremation of Care” ceremony, a bizarre and dramatic ritual where they burn an effigy of “Care”-yes, someone actually set their worries aflame-with fireworks bursting and costumes swirling by the lake. It’s all a bit tongue-in-cheek, but if you ask me, it’s better entertainment than most streaming services.
One of the club’s prides sits just outside-you’ll notice a bronze relief dedicated to Bret Harte, a founding member and famed poet. Sculpted by Jo Mora, also a club member, this tribute survived even after the original building came down. Now, those fifteen characters from Harte’s stories keep watch over passersby, a silent reminder of the club’s literary roots. The plaque reads IN MEMORIAM BRET HARTE, proof that, while fortunes and faces changed, the thread of creativity never snapped.
Yet, not all the fun happened downtown. Club co-founder Nathaniel J. Brittan actually built a party house-yes, a literal party house-in San Carlos, where the club’s most “outdoorsy” members could escape, go hunting, or just swap tall tales until sunrise.
And if you think being a member was all about schmoozing with the high and mighty, think again! The club made sure that at least ten percent of its members were accomplished artists. So, you might run into a world-famous sculptor debating a CEO, or a novelist arm-wrestling a general. All of them are supposed to leave business outside and keep their mischief within these walls.
Oh, and about those well-fed businessmen-Oscar Wilde himself once walked in and quipped, “I never saw so many well-dressed, well-fed, business-looking Bohemians in my life.” So, if you hear the faint echoes of witty one-liners drifting out tonight, you’ll know you’ve found the right place.
And thus, the Bohemian Club remains a swirl of mystery, history, art, and a dash of mischief-a place where stories, like the wine, never quite run dry. Shall we continue on our way?
