My apartment is in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco. And Tenderloin is, as a friend said, a bit dodgy. If I walk home from the library, I don’t even have to look around to know that I’m nearing my block: the air changes from a light kale-and-goat’s-cheese infused richesse to the dense odor of human waste that heralds the vast number of homeless that scurry around. It’s an odor that seems to envelop you, that tries to cling to your skin. Does that scare me? Yes and no. During daytime, I’m fine. The homeless are fairly harmless and we slowly get to know each other. I pass by small gatherings of men and women hanging around a former hotel, now a shelter-like facility for the homeless,…