Living Room

Lots goes on in the mini-park next to the thrift store, from political protests (with permits) to murder (one, last year, in the middle of the night). 
Little camps of cardboard and scavenged furniture appear. Clothes and food containers pile up.  
Someone (who?) regularly hauls the stuff away. 

Freelance seating arrangements in the park, over the past couple weeks:

When I started at the store, I thought it was ridiculous that some people are afraid to come there.
But over a year and a half, I've seen some disturbing things on the way to work, from a girl passed out with a needle in her arm to a car accident so violent, it turned a vehicle upside down. 
(In both cases, help had already arrived.)

There's plenty of fun and kindness too. 
I buy chai at the Somali restaurant on the corner. One day the guy at the counter asked if I'd like ginger in it, and since then always remembers that I do. He shakes the powdered ginger out of an industrial-size, plastic flap-top bottle.
A skittish and scruffy guy who comes in for free bread on Fridays always brings us a bag of donations––things he's scrounged in the alleys. Mostly they are unusable, but everyone is appreciative.
There are lots of everyday exchanges like that.

I don't feel unsafe, personally––or not more unsafe than I generally feel in the city––but I'm an old person who has learned to chat with strangers. I'm no expert on street life, but I've found that if you're respectful, even friendly, people on the street usually (usually) respond in kind. 
I enjoy that.
And I do stay well back from the traffic. 

I have some pleasant chats at the bus stop. If I don't feel safe, I move on––walk to another stop, or cross the street. A while ago I got off the bus because two guys were yelling at each other, and I was afraid it might escalate, due to the close quarters. On the street, there's room to maneuver.