Lower Nob Hill was once best known for its classic San Francisco architecture, relatively affordable residential properties, and thriving businesses. Travelers, especially those wanting easy, safe walks to Union Square, were drawn to its hotels. Due to decisions made by City Hall during the Covid-19 era, the area has changed dramatically. An influx of homeless shelters and permanent supportive housing units moved into the southern portion of Nob Hill, abruptly changing the neighborhood’s character. Area residents and workers say it’s not just seedy, but dangerous.
From 1973 to 2021, 711 Post Street was the Ansonia Hotel, a busy youth hostel. Today, it is where the city places hundreds of unhoused, unstable individuals — the largest such facility in the neighborhood. Initially contracted to hold up to 250 people, it’s currently over capacity at 280 and includes 42 dogs. Urban Alchemy, a nonprofit organization that formerly hired incarcerated people, has been running the facility, but its contract ends March 31, 2026. Therefore, a decision about the fate of 711 Post Street must be made soon.
In response, locals have mobilized. The Lower Nob Hill Association (LNHA), composed of residents and business owners, want the city to reject a new lease and close the shelter so it can revert to a functioning hotel. They gathered more than 100 signatures on their petition. While the Department of Homelessness and Supportive Housing (HSH) is aware of the neighbor’s objectives, it has a conflicting aim: to keep the 119-year-old building as a homeless shelter.
The backstory
In 2020, San Francisco was awarded $41.6 million in state Project Homekey grants to convert hotels, motels, and other properties into housing for people experiencing homelessness. The funds became available a year later. Because Lower Nob Hill had many such commercial buildings, it became a focal point for Homekey spending. Among the proposed locations was the five-floor Ansonia Hotel. The LNHA pleaded with city leaders to stop the conversion. It was the community against then Mayor London Breed, the Board of Supervisors, and HSH.
Despite their efforts, residents and business owners lost the fight. In an LNHA newsletter dated Feb. 8, 2022, the group broke the news to their members. They learned that city leaders had no intention of stopping the opening. The supervisors voted unanimously to approve the shelter. Urban Alchemy was awarded the $22.7 million, no-bid contract.
Cofounder Dr. Lena Miller articulated big dreams for the site.
“What I imagine this place being is the same when people go to those spas in Sedona, or something, and just start to get their health back,” Miller said, in an ABC-7 News report.
HSH officials offered assurances. “We want to make sure that we are good neighbors,” said HSH executive director Shireen McSpadden in that same interview. “We have agreed that we will meet regularly and check in with them about their experience as neighbors … to ensure that we’re meeting their concerns, that we’re addressing them, if things start to go awry in their eyes.”
Neither the spa-like atmosphere nor the HSH agreement panned out. Instead, the block soon adopted the nearby Tenderloin’s troubles.
Inside the shelter
Brian Shepherd, an Urban Alchemy director, gave The Voice a tour of the shelter, which includes spaces for individuals and couples, rooms with two bunk beds that sleep four, and a female-only floor. He requested that no photos be taken inside.
The longest stays were supposed to be a year, said Shepherd, but those guidelines have disappeared. So when people are in, they tend to stay. “We have some people living here for over three years,” he said. At least 95 percent of placements are for active addiction. With the current shelter population, that equates to a minimum of 266 drug users, all in one building. Illegal substance use inside is permitted and common.
A portion of the lobby wall has become a photo memorial of shelter residents, including at least one worker, who died.
Just being indoors hasn’t led to healthy outcomes for thousands of homeless drug users. From 2020 to 2025, 3,772 people lost their lives to accidental overdose in San Francisco, with 875 of the fatalities occurring inside the city’s network of homeless housing units. Shelter management has attempted to mitigate overdose deaths and behavioral problems by separating users by their preferred substance.
For example, they place fentanyl users together while methamphetamine users are in the same rooms. This way, Shepherd explained, they can help each other. An addiction doctor is on site once a week to distribute Suboxone, which treats opioid dependence. There are no 12-step meetings, but they do offer support groups for people who want to manage their addiction, with about 10 to 15 people attending at a time. Behavioral health services are available on Tuesdays.
Shepherd pointed out the “bug zapper” room, where people deposit their clothes upon arrival. It’s heated to kill fleas and bedbugs. Laundry is on site, but most people don’t do their own washing. Instead, their clothes are washed, folded, and pressed, then delivered to them within two days. Twice daily, Meals on Wheels serves free prepared food.
Activities include ping-pong, billiards, and other events designed to put people in a more community-focused state of mind, Shepherd said. They used to have a video game console, but it had been stolen. In the small library with donated books, a woman was sleeping in the corner. Several cats meandered around the hallways.
Angela Lyman and her partner have been staying at the shelter for two months, and she says the recreation area is rarely used. “People don’t really go to the common areas. We show up for breakfast and lunch,” says Lyman, who struggles with a multi-substance dependency. “We get our laundry done. It’s really nice that you get it back all folded.”
IN PART TWO: A look at the shelter’s impact on the neighborhood, and at recent moves to reexamine how it’s run.