We started the day with a proper breakfast at Carl’s Jr. in Hallidie Plaza, just a few minutes’ walk
from the hotel. It’s not the sort of place that appears in glossy travel guides — a bit rough around
the edges, fluorescent lighting, and a security guard whose job seems to be filtering out the more
“colourful” characters of downtown — but the food is fantastic and you certainly get plenty of bang
for your buck.
Today’s feast was a sausage and grilled-cheese sandwich on sourdough, mini hash browns, and a
coffee strong enough to wake the dead, all for sixteen dollars. By this time of the morning most
locals were already at work, so the place was quiet. I doubt many tourists wander in here; it doesn’t
have the polished charm of Union Square cafés, but it has something better — proper food at a
proper price. After yesterday’s marathon of travel, it was exactly what we needed.
San Francisco Here We Come
Breakfast done, we headed down into the “hole in the ground” — the slightly hidden, slightly grimy
visitor information centre buried beneath Hallidie Plaza. It’s the only place nearby where you can
buy the Muni seven-day travel passes, so down we went, bracing ourselves for the usual sensory
assault.
At $42, the passes are excellent value. Unlimited travel on buses, trams, streetcars, and cable cars
— considering a single journey is $2.50 and the cable car alone is $8, you only need to make two
and a half trips a day to start saving money. We easily exceed that before lunchtime.
The only downside is the journey to get them. The lifts down to the plaza always smell faintly (or
strongly) of pee, and if you try to avoid them you end up crossing Market Street — which is less a
road and more a chaotic river of traffic, people, noise, and the occasional person shouting at a
lamppost. Still, needs must.
Once inside, the staff were as friendly and helpful as ever. They have maps for absolutely
everything — neighbourhoods, transport routes, walking trails, even ones that seem to exist purely
for decoration — and all of them are free. They also sell a few gift items, though the prices suggest
they’re aimed at people who’ve just arrived, are still jet-lagged, and haven’t yet realised that $30 for
a keyring is daylight robbery. I’m a sucker for anything shiny, so I had to resist the urge to buy half
the shop.
Passes in hand, we emerged back into the daylight, ready to take on the city properly. After the
chaos of yesterday, it felt good to start the day with a full stomach, a plan, and the promise of San
Francisco waiting for us just outside the door.
Pier 39 & The Wheelchair Incident
From the visitor centre, we dodged the usual collection of Market Street characters and caught the
8BX down to Pier 39 — home of the sea lions, the knick-knack shops, and every tourist within a
five-mile radius. It’s brash, loud, colourful, and absolutely determined to separate visitors from their
cash. We were ready for all of that. What we weren’t ready for was the small disaster waiting just
around the corner.
The bus does a one-way loop around the area, which means the last stop isn’t the first. Technically,
you can stay on and wait for it to restart the route, but there’s only room for one bus to sit there, and
the driver didn’t look thrilled at the idea of us lingering. If I’d known better, we would have stayed
put anyway — but you live and learn.
We got off, Jane hopped into the wheelchair, and we started down what looked like a gentle slope.
That’s when the front wheel hit a raised bit of pavement and — crack. One of the four spokes had
snapped clean through. We managed to get across the road so I could inspect the damage properly. I
forced it back together, but it didn’t last long. Adapt and conquer, as they say… though at that
moment it felt more like adapt and swear quietly.
There was no way we’d get through the full plan for the day, but if we cut the end off, it wouldn’t
be too much walking. Most of my itineraries overlap anyway, so we’d end up near this area again
later in the trip. Jane could manage walking, just more slowly, so staying local made sense.
By now the temperature was around 25°C but felt closer to 30 in the sun, especially with no breeze.
Perfect weather for sightseeing — less perfect for pushing a half-broken wheelchair.
Pier 39 was its usual self: shiny, colourful, and full of the smell of food drifting from every
direction. One of the things we were hunting for was a laser-engraved crystal — the kind you don’t
see anywhere else. Luckily, the little shop that makes them was still there. At ten dollars, they’re a
genuinely lovely keepsake. They also sell a light-up stand for $6.50, but it felt a bit flimsy, so we
passed. The pier is spread across two levels, packed with restaurants, gift shops, glassware stores,
and the occasional bar to keep things interesting. It’s the sort of place where you plan to spend
twenty minutes and somehow lose an hour.
But the real stars, as always, were the sea lions.
They took over the boat pontoons after the 1989 earthquake and never left, and honestly, who can
blame them? On a good day, there can be hundreds of them — barking, shuffling, flopping, arguing,
and generally behaving like a group of loud uncles at a family barbecue. There weren’t as many
today as on previous trips, but they still put on a show. They’re magnificent, charismatic, and
absolutely hilarious to watch.
They are also, on a warm day, absolutely rotten. The smell hits you like a wall — a powerful
reminder that these creatures spend their lives eating fish and shouting about it. Thankfully, we were
upwind today, which felt like a small miracle. We stayed for ages anyway.
All this sunshine, shopping, and sea-lion watching is thirsty work, so we headed to Beer 39 — yes,
that really is its name. We were the only two people in there, but it was only 11 a.m., so perhaps
morning drinking is more of a British tradition. The bar had a fantastic range of local craft beers and
looked like a classic American watering hole. The inside was mostly open, with what looked
suspiciously like a dance floor surrounded by wooden pillars wrapped with circular tables and tall
chairs. Not ideal for Jane’s leg — or mine, if I’m honest. Old age has a habit of sneaking up on you.
I could have happily stayed there all day at the price they were charging, though walking afterwards
might have been a challenge. And with the sea lions nearby, becoming lunch wasn’t entirely out of
the question.
Waterfalls, Steps, & A Pub Called Grumpy’s
After our beer at Pier 39, we browsed a few more shops before hopping onto the F-Line streetcar
for the short ride to Levi Plaza. What an incredible place this is — a calm, beautifully designed
oasis tucked away behind the waterfront, and home to the Levi’s headquarters. With the heat
climbing and the sun beating down, Jane decided to dip her feet into one of the shallow fountain
pools to cool off. Technically frowned upon by the grounds staff, as another parent discovered when
their child tried the same thing, but on a day like this it was hard to blame anyone.
I first stumbled across Levi Plaza by accident at the end of our last trip. Jane wasn’t with me that
evening, and I remember thinking, How on earth did I miss this in all the guidebooks and research?
I promised myself I’d bring her here next time — and here we were. The plaza is a little paradise: a
large cascading waterfall, shallow pools, winding streams with stepping stones, lush greenery, and
palm trees swaying gently in the heat. On a hot day, it feels like the city has handed you a secret
garden.
From there, we took a short walk to the bottom of the Filbert Street Steps — all 375 of them —
leading up to Coit Tower. There was absolutely no way we were climbing them today. These
outdoor staircases are scattered all over San Francisco, built because the roads had to wind around
the steep hills, but people still wanted shortcuts. Over the years, many have been transformed into
works of art: painted risers forming murals, full tiling like the famous 16th Avenue Steps, and
wooden staircases weaving through neighbourhoods like something out of a fairy tale. There are
around a thousand of them in the city, ranging from plain concrete to full-blown attractions. But
today, my mountain-goat legs were staying firmly at sea level.
By now the sun was relentless, so we headed through Sidney G. Walton Park toward a Safeway in
the desperate hope of finding sunblock. I’d forgotten to pack ours, and apparently so had everyone
else — the shelves were stripped bare. We lingered in the air-conditioning longer than necessary,
enjoying the brief reprieve from the heat, but eventually we had to step back outside and continue
melting our way through the afternoon.
After about twenty minutes of walking, the humidity was getting to us. We ducked into a pub called
Grumpy’s Bar for a couple of drinks. Coming in from the bright sunshine, it took a moment for our
eyes to adjust — the windows were high and narrow, letting in just enough light to prove they
existed. Once we could see properly, the place revealed itself as a spacious, old-school American
bar: dark wooden tables, a long counter lined with high stools, and room for around fifty people. At
2 p.m., there were only about eight customers scattered around.
We headed to the far wall so no one would trip over the wheelchair — you’d be amazed how many
people walk straight into it without looking. Grumpy’s served Anchor Steam, one of my favourites
and brewed right here in San Francisco. At 6.2% per pint, I wasn’t planning on having too many,
but at eight dollars for a beer and a lemonade, the prices weren’t bad at all. The lemonade came in a
tall glass filled to the brim with ice, so you didn’t get much actual drink, but the refills were free
with my beer — a common perk in American pubs. On a day this warm, it was wonderfully
refreshing.
They served food too, and the portions looked enormous — easily enough for the two of us to share
— but we weren’t hungry just yet. For now, it was enough to sit in the cool, sip our drinks, and
enjoy a quiet moment away from the heat.
Bridges, Birds, & A Brutalist Octopus
From Grumpy’s, we wandered through another small park and soon found ourselves passing the
Vaillancourt Fountain — San Francisco’s most spectacularly confusing piece of public art. The best
way to describe it is as a giant concrete tantrum that somehow became a landmark. Depending on
your mood, it looks like a brutalist octopus, a half-demolished motorway interchange, or a pile of
industrial plumbing having a nervous breakdown.
Imagine someone handing a child a set of enormous concrete drainage pipes and saying, “Build
whatever you like — and yes, we’ll put it right in the middle of one of the world’s most beautiful
waterfronts.” That’s the Vaillancourt Fountain. When the water used to run, it didn’t cascade
gracefully; it shot out at odd angles like the fountain was trying to assert dominance. One moment
you’re enjoying the Embarcadero, the next you’re staring at what appears to be a sewer system that
quit its job to pursue abstract art. Some call it bold. Others call it a mistake that gained sentience.
Either way, it’s unforgettable.
Leaving this ancient-looking modern wonder behind, we headed down to the underground Muni
platform and rode a couple of stops to AT&T Park. From there, we joined the Bay-front Trail,
hoping to spot some pelicans gliding over the water. No luck today — perhaps they were on their
lunch break — but the walk was still lovely.
When there isn’t a baseball game, this whole area is surprisingly peaceful. It used to be a bit run
down, but in recent years a lot of money has been poured into redeveloping it: low-cost housing,
new office buildings, and a long, flat waterfront path that follows the bay and the waterways around
Mission Bay. This was one of the earlier phases of the redevelopment, with plans for even more
waterfront improvements in the years ahead. One of the best things about this area is that tourists
rarely wander this far, so you often get the place almost entirely to yourself.
Eventually we crossed the 3rd Street Bridge — or, if you want to sound like a local who knows
things, the Lefty O’Doul Bridge. It’s basically San Francisco’s very own Transformer. One minute
it’s a normal bridge; the next it’s lifting itself into the sky like it’s trying to get a better view of the
ballpark. Built in 1933, it’s seen San Francisco reinvent itself more than a few times.
Designed by Joseph Strauss — the same man who designed the Golden Gate Bridge — this is like
the Golden Gate’s scrappy little cousin who never left the neighbourhood. Big steel trusses, giant
counterweights, and a full industrial-chic vibe decades before that became fashionable. Boats still
pass underneath, so every now and then the whole road lifts up. If you’re lucky, you’ll see it in
action — like watching a giant metal eyebrow raise in slow motion.
Back in the day, streetcars and even trains used this bridge. It’s been in films too: James Bond once
drove a fire truck over it mid-lift (not recommended). It also appeared in Sudden Impact, and of
course features in the opening credits of The Streets of San Francisco.
This bridge has seen things.
What I love most is the contrast: this tough, old steel beast sitting right next to shiny new Mission
Bay, like a grandfather watching his grandchildren play with gadgets he doesn’t quite trust.
Unfortunately, by the time we crossed back over, it was too late to go into the Giants’ merchandise
shop — but we knew we’d get another chance later in the trip. Nothing stops me from acquiring
knick-knacks for long.
So instead, we lingered by the water, looking out across the bay toward the Bay Bridge. On a game
day this whole area would be packed with fans, vendors, music, and noise. But today it felt like it
belonged just to us.
These are the moments that make a holiday — not rushing between attractions or ticking another
sight off a list, but simply sitting beside the person you love, soaking up the atmosphere and
enjoying being exactly where you are.
Supplies, Safeway, & The Elusive Number 30
After spending a blissful hour or so wandering along the bay — soaking up the peace, pretending
we were locals, and enjoying the rare luxury of having a quiet corner of San Francisco to ourselves
— reality eventually tapped us on the shoulder in the form of rumbling stomachs and the need for
supplies. Conveniently, a Safeway was just around the corner. Given that Safeway is one of our
favourite supermarket chains in the city, and that there wasn’t a single one anywhere near our hotel,
stumbling across this one felt like bumping into an old friend you didn’t realise you’d missed.
Despite the heroic quantities we’d eaten at breakfast, and the steady stream of snacks we’d grazed
on throughout the day, neither of us was particularly hungry by evening. A light shop was all we
needed — a few bits to keep us going, nothing more.
By now, late afternoon had quietly slipped into early evening, and the city was beginning its daily
transformation into rush-hour chaos. San Francisco has a special talent for this: the kind of public
transport meltdown where personal space becomes a distant memory and sardines everywhere feel a
deep sense of kinship with you. The proof was already inside Safeway itself, which had filled up
with the after-work crowd as if someone had opened a valve.
Jet lag was also starting to creep in — that slow, foggy heaviness that makes your limbs feel like
they’re filled with sand. The absolute last thing we needed was to be wedged into a packed bus at
peak hour. If you ever find yourself in this situation, consider this your warning: personal space is
not something you can opt into. It simply does not exist.
We headed to the stop and waited.
And waited.
The Number 30 — famously one of the more optimistic bus routes in the city — failed to appear. In
theory, it runs every seven minutes. In practice, it has a complicated relationship with punctuality,
largely thanks to its route through Chinatown, where traffic, crowds, and general chaos turn the
timetable into more of a polite suggestion. The fact that these are articulated trolley buses — long,
bendy creatures that can only pass each other at specific points — doesn’t help matters.
Just as we were about to give up entirely and reassess our life choices, the Number 45 appeared. It
doesn’t actually serve that stop, but the driver pulled over for us anyway — a genuinely kind
gesture. The route wasn’t identical to the 30 and would drop us a little further from the hotel, but at
that point we would have happily accepted a lift on a tandem bicycle.
So onto the 45 we got.
Beer, Bed & Back Out Again
The journey back took the best part of an hour — roughly three times longer than it should have
under normal circumstances, which felt about right for rush hour in San Francisco. By the time we
finally made it to the hotel, we did what any self-respecting traveller does after a long first day:
collapsed onto the bed like a pair of exhausted starfish and stared at the ceiling in silence.
Bliss.
The only danger with this manoeuvre — as any seasoned traveller knows — is that if you stay
horizontal for too long, your body files a formal complaint and refuses to return to the upright
position. We gave ourselves a strict time limit before we risked becoming permanent fixtures.
Once we'd recovered enough to move again, it was time for the sacred evening ritual: a short walk
to the local shop to stock the mini-fridge.
We'd already asked the hotel to remove all the minibar contents when we checked in. Not because
we'd emptied it ourselves, but because we needed somewhere to keep our own supplies. The hotel
staff must be used to this request, although I like to imagine they wonder what sort of guests
immediately demand an empty fridge before they've even unpacked.
With the tiny bottles of spirits and overpriced snacks safely removed, there was just enough room
for a few cans, a couple of chocolate bars, and — most importantly — the Gatorade.
Now, nobody is pretending Gatorade is a health drink. The ingredient list reads more like the
contents of a GCSE chemistry set than anything found in nature. But ice-cold, after a long day
exploring the city, it is one of life's simple pleasures. We refuse to apologise for that.
And so that was it — our first full day officially in the books.
The only thing left to do was settle in front of the television, work through the snacks, and get
started on the day's blog entry. Writing it up in the evening has become a habit over the years. I jot
notes down throughout the day, and everything syncs properly once I connect to the internet later
on. It saves time and, more importantly, saves me from that dreaded moment of staring at a blank
page trying to remember what we did and in what order.
I used to rely entirely on photos and notes to piece the day together, which worked well enough
until I discovered that some of the timestamps on my camera couldn't be trusted.
Part of the problem was entirely my own fault. Before leaving home I'd managed to leave the
camera set to the wrong time zone, which is exactly the sort of thing that sounds obvious in
hindsight. Fortunately, the camera had a clever feature that was supposed to solve the problem
automatically. Whenever it picked up a GPS signal, it would work out where it was in the world and
quietly adjust the clock.
In theory, this was brilliant.
In practice, it seemed to do it whenever it felt like it.
Some photos would have the correct local time, others would still be running on a completely
different time zone, and occasionally the sequence of images suggested we had somehow mastered
time travel. Trying to organise a photo album afterwards became an exercise in detective work, with
pictures apparently taken before we'd arrived, after we'd left, and sometimes both at once.
Excellent feature in principle; maddening in practice when you're trying to build a photo album in
chronological order and the timeline looks like it was assembled by someone who'd had one too
many of those overpriced minibar spirits.
Eventually the blog was finished, the photos were backed up, and tomorrow's plans had been
checked for the hundredth time. With that, there was nothing left to do but call it a night and get
some sleep before another day exploring the City by the Bay.
Reflections On The Day
Today was one of those days that reminds you why travel is equal parts adventure, chaos, and quiet
magic.
It began with a grilled-cheese breakfast the size of a small continent and ended with us half-asleep
on a hotel bed surrounded by snacks, beer, and the gentle hum of the mini-fridge. In between, we
managed to break a wheelchair, melt in the Californian sunshine, get lost in a Safeway crowd, and
still somehow find moments of complete calm.
What stands out most isn't the heat, the crowds, or the endless waiting for buses that may or may
not have existed. It's the quieter moments: sitting by the water with the Bay Bridge in the distance,
wandering through the waterfalls and hidden corners of Levi Plaza, watching sea lions bicker like
grumpy old relatives, and enjoying a cold beer while the city carried on around us.
San Francisco has a habit of throwing everything at you at once — beauty, noise, odd characters,
broken pavements, and the occasional transport meltdown — but it usually gives something back in
return. A shady park when you need it. A cooling breeze off the bay. A small discovery that wasn't
on the itinerary.
By the time we crawled into bed, jet lag was still tugging at our eyelids and the day felt twice as
long as it probably was. But it was the good kind of tiredness — the sort that comes from exploring,
adapting, laughing, and making the most of whatever the day decides to throw at you.
If yesterday was about arriving, today was about settling in. Despite the broken wheel, the heat, and
the elusive Number 30 bus, San Francisco already felt a little bit like home again.
