It wasn't an especially early start for us today. I'm definitely starting to feel my age when it comes to
being out and about all day, every day, so it was nearly 10 a.m. by the time we left the hotel and
headed around the corner to the bus stop.
One of the handy things about staying where we were is that almost any bus will take you down to
Market Street, which acts as San Francisco's transport hub. From there you can catch a bus or tram
pretty much anywhere in the city. Before doing anything else, though, we needed to renew our
Muni passes. We weren't likely to get another chance tomorrow, and they needed sorting before
Monday.
Inspired Naming
With that little bit of administration out of the way, it was time for a coffee in Hallidie Plaza before
catching the 14R down to the Mission District for the Cinco de Mayo Festival.
Cinco de Mayo, which translates as "Fifth of May", commemorates one of history's great underdog
victories. On 5th May 1862, a heavily outnumbered and outgunned Mexican army defeated the elite
French forces at the Battle of Puebla. France had invaded Mexico in an attempt to recover unpaid
debts, and although the victory didn't end the conflict, it became a powerful symbol of Mexican
resistance, pride, and national unity.
The festival is normally a major event in San Francisco, particularly in the Mission District, which
has deep roots in the city's Latino community. Unfortunately, this year's celebrations felt a little
subdued. Several Cinco de Mayo events in other cities had already been cancelled, and there was a
noticeable sense of unease among many Mexican communities because of concerns over
immigration enforcement and possible deportations.
The festival here was still going ahead, but it certainly felt quieter than we had expected. There
were a few performances taking place and a handful of stalls selling food, crafts, and souvenirs.
Naturally, I found myself browsing anything that looked remotely collectible. I have a well
established weakness when it comes to souvenirs, especially if they have the name of a place
printed on them somewhere.
To be honest, the festival wasn't quite what we'd imagined. We'd expected a much bigger event with
more entertainment and a livelier atmosphere. Still, we were heading into the Mission District
anyway, so it wasn't a wasted trip by any means. Looking back, there were probably better ways we
could have spent our time, but that's part of travelling. Sometimes the places you don't expect turn
out to be highlights, and sometimes the things you're most looking forward to end up being just
okay.
Hydrants & High Anxiety
We spent about an hour and a half at the festival before catching the 48 bus four stops to Church
Street, then hopped on the J tram another four stops up to Mission Dolores Park. Just outside the
park sits the famous golden fire hydrant — and yes, it is exactly what it sounds like: a fire hydrant,
painted gold. It doesn't exactly scream landmark, but its backstory earns it the colour. This was
apparently the only working hydrant left after the 1906 earthquake levelled most of the city, and the
firefighters who used it to help save the Mission District from the flames have painted it gold every
year since in its honour. Humble origins, glittering legacy.
It wasn't the warmest of days, but the park was absolutely packed regardless — because this is San
Francisco, and its residents will turn out in force at the mere suggestion of sunshine, like meerkats
responding to a distant rumble. The park is built on the side of a steep hill, recently and beautifully
landscaped, and it has its own peculiar microclimate where the sun-facing slope manages to feel
considerably warmer than the rest of the city. On a clear afternoon you can see the downtown
skyscrapers, the bay, and layer upon layer of colourful neighbourhoods stretching away below you
— which is a lovely view to have while lying on a blanket pretending you're not slightly chilly.
The atmosphere is what really makes Dolores Park famous, though. The grass was carpeted with
people sunbathing, drinking coffee, walking dogs, doing yoga, eating burritos, playing music, or
simply lying there doing absolutely nothing with great commitment and obvious expertise. It has
this enormous social energy — the kind where half the city seems to materialise with blankets and
snacks the instant the sun shows its face. I did find myself wondering how many of them had rung
their boss that morning with a carefully rehearsed, "Yeah, working from home today," only to be
absolutely bricking it every time a familiar face came anywhere near their patch of grass.
And then there was the entertainment we hadn't budgeted for. A local resident — presumably one of
the poor souls whose street backs onto the park — was doing a furious, increasingly pointless lap of
the area, shouting at anyone who might conceivably be responsible for blocking his driveway. He
had two chances of finding the culprit in that crowd: fat chance, and absolutely no chance
whatsoever. He pressed on regardless, with the energy of a man who has decided that being right is
more important than any outcome. We watched him disappear into the crowd with the quiet respect
you reserve for someone fighting a battle you know is already lost.
Brake Testing On The Hills Of The Mission
After sitting for a while enjoying the fresh air and watching the J-Church trams hurtle down the hill,
it was time to head over to the oldest church in San Francisco: Mission San Francisco de Asís.
Getting there involved rolling — and occasionally hanging on for dear life — down one of the city's
steeper hills. The first section wasn't too bad, but once we turned the corner at the bottom of
Dolores Park, things became considerably more exciting. The final stretch was alarmingly steep,
and keeping control of the wheelchair suddenly became less of a casual stroll and more of a braking
exercise.
With the afternoon warmth already giving me sweaty palms, it wasn't difficult to imagine how
quickly the situation could have deteriorated. Had I lost my grip, Jane would have enjoyed an
unscheduled express service straight to the junction at the bottom of the hill. Fortunately, disaster
was avoided and we arrived with both passenger and wheelchair intact.
When we got there, we decided not to go inside. Admission was $7 each, and I'm fairly sure I'd read
somewhere that it was free. The main thing I wanted to see was the old cemetery anyway, so it
wasn't a major disappointment. We'd only come a short distance and the walk itself had been
worthwhile.
It probably seems a little odd that I enjoy wandering around old graveyards so much. The reason
goes back more than thirty years. After leaving school, I spent a couple of years doing restoration
work in a cemetery, and I've had a soft spot for them ever since. There's something fascinating
about the history, the stories, and the craftsmanship of the old headstones.
You can't beat a good boneyard.
By now we were both getting hungry, so we headed a couple of blocks down the road to catch the
Number 33 bus towards Castro Street. Unfortunately, the timetable had other ideas and we found
ourselves facing a twenty-minute wait.
Still, waiting for a bus can be surprisingly entertaining if you're in the right place. The Mission is
one of the best areas in the city for people-watching, and there was no shortage of interesting
characters passing by while we sat there.
Partway through our wait, a large coach pulled up nearby and the driver climbed out to get bottled
water from the luggage rack to give to his passengers. He spotted us sitting there in the heat and,
without hesitation, brought one over for us as well.
It was a small gesture, but a genuinely kind one.
I don't think he spoke much English, but he certainly understood my attempt at saying thank you.
Looking back, I probably should have thanked him in Spanish. Unfortunately, my entire Spanish
vocabulary consists of roughly one word.
Gracias.
Cookies, Crosswalks, & The Legacy Of Harvey Milk
The Castro is perhaps the most famous neighbourhood in San Francisco, known around the world
as the historic heart of the city's gay and inclusive community. It's always a busy place, packed with
cafés, bars, restaurants, boutique shops, and, of course, the iconic Castro Theatre.
Walking around, it's easy to imagine what the area must have been like during the 1960s and 70s,
when it became a centre of activism, community, and social change. Like Haight-Ashbury, though,
the Castro hasn't escaped the effects of gentrification. Property prices soared, many long-term
residents found themselves priced out, and what was once a largely working and middle-class
neighbourhood has gradually become one of the city's more fashionable and expensive districts.
Some of the old character remains, but parts of it now feel polished enough to be a tourist attraction
in their own right.
One place we were specifically looking for was Hot Cookie, a small bakery I'd read about that
supposedly sold some of the best cookies in the city, which does the best giant, freshly baked hot
cookies we’ve ever had. They were certainly worth the $3 each. They also sell pants—underpants,
that is—with their logo on them. People then send photos of themselves wearing said pants, which
the shop pins to the wall. Thankfully, judging by the photos, they at least wait until they get home or
back to the hotel before putting them on and having their picture taken. Even in a city like this,
dropping your trolleys in the street is probably going to be frowned upon.
With the cookie situation successfully dealt with, we moved on to the equally important matter of
lunch. Fortunately, there was a Posh Bagel nearby, and it would have been downright rude not to
investigate. Armed with food, we crossed the famous rainbow pedestrian crossing and headed over
to Harvey Milk Plaza.
Harvey Milk was the first openly gay man elected to public office in California, winning a seat on
San Francisco's Board of Supervisors in 1977. At the time, discrimination against gay people was
widespread and often legally sanctioned. Many professions were effectively closed to them, and
equal rights protections were almost non-existent.
Milk became one of the most visible advocates for equality in the United States, campaigning
tirelessly for civil rights and representation. His influence extended far beyond San Francisco,
helping to change public attitudes across the country and inspiring generations of activists who
followed.
Just along the road from the plaza stands his former campaign headquarters. In the window is a
cardboard cut-out of Harvey Milk himself. It sounds like a small detail, but there's something
surprisingly moving about seeing it there, as though the office is still quietly waiting for him to
return. A commemorative plaque is set into the pavement outside, easy to walk past without
noticing, but well worth stopping for if you know it's there.
Sadly, Harvey Milk's story ends in tragedy.
On 27th November 1978, he and Mayor George Moscone were shot and killed inside City Hall by
former Supervisor Dan White. White was convicted of voluntary manslaughter rather than murder
after successfully arguing diminished responsibility. The verdict outraged many San Franciscans
and sparked the White Night Riots, one of the most significant civil disturbances in the city's
modern history.
White ultimately served less than five years in prison before being released. In October 1985, he
took his own life.
It's a sobering story, and standing there in Harvey Milk Plaza, it feels less like history and more like
memory. The events took place within living memory, and the impact they had on San Francisco
can still be felt today.
It's a heavy place to stand and reflect, but an important one.
Trams, Taxes, & The Terrifying Head Of Jack
By this point, both of us were starting to run out of steam, so we decided it was probably time to
head back towards the hotel.
The obvious route would normally have been the J-Church line, which is much easier for Jane to
board than the historic streetcars on the F Line. Unfortunately, public transport had chosen this
particular moment to descend into chaos, and there was a 45-minute gap in the J service. That left
us with the F Line as the least worst option.
We only made it about three stops before hopping off again to have a look at the San Francisco
Mint.
The building sits on a rocky rise overlooking Market Street and looks rather like a modern fortress
that someone forgot to camouflage. Gleaming white in the afternoon sunshine, it's an impressive
sight and impossible to miss. This is actually the third location used by the San Francisco Mint
during the city's history, replacing the earlier sites that helped process the vast quantities of gold
arriving during and after the Gold Rush years.
Although the mint no longer produces everyday circulating coins, you'll still occasionally find San
Francisco-minted coins in your change, identifiable by the small "S" mint mark. Regular production
of circulation coinage ended in the 1970s, but the facility still manufactures proof sets,
commemorative coins, medals, and various limited-edition releases.
Conveniently, there was also a Safeway right next door, and passing a supermarket without going in
would have been a missed opportunity.
What we actually bought has completely escaped my memory, but I do remember one thing: finally
getting rid of the mountain of loose change we'd accumulated. The self-service checkouts were
perfect for the job. Between us, we must have fed nearly ten dollars' worth of nickels, dimes, and
assorted metal clutter into the machine.
American coins remain one of life's great mysteries.
If you've never visited the United States, the first thing to know is that the price displayed on the
shelf isn't necessarily the price you'll pay at the checkout. State taxes get added afterwards, and in
San Francisco there was city tax on top of that. As a result, something priced at a dollar might end
up costing $1.08, $1.09, or some other random figure that bears only a passing acquaintance with
the advertised price.
Working out the exact amount of change beforehand is therefore almost impossible, so most people
simply hand over a note and hope for the best.
Then there are the coins themselves. Logic would suggest that larger coins should be worth more
than smaller ones. America, however, has its own ideas. A nickel is worth five cents and is larger
than a dime, which is worth ten cents. The dime itself is only about the size of a British 5p piece. It
all makes perfect sense right up until the point where you think about it.
The original plan had been to catch the J-Church back towards the city centre. When I checked the
real-time transport app, though, it informed me there was a 27-minute wait, followed immediately
by three trams arriving together.
It was reassuring to discover that public transport behaves exactly the same all over the world.
Nothing for ages, then three at once.
With that plan abandoned, we climbed back aboard the F Line, rode it to Third Street, crossed the
road, and caught the Number 30 bus instead. That eventually deposited us near Jack in the Box,
which was tonight's destination for dinner.
Jack in the Box is a fast-food chain that does surprisingly good chicken sandwiches. Jane, however,
remains unconvinced by the company's mascot. If you've never seen him, imagine a businessman
with a giant white snooker ball for a head.
Personally, I think he's quite friendly.
Jane thinks he's the sort of thing that appears at the end of a long corridor in a horror film.
Best-Laid Plans
By now it was about 6:30 p.m., so we cut through Union Square and headed back to the hotel.
It had been a long day for both of us, with plenty of walking, rolling, buses, trams, and hills.
Originally, we'd planned to head up to Twin Peaks later in the evening. As the highest point in San
Francisco, it offers some of the best views in the city and would have been the perfect place to
watch the sunset with a few snacks and a drink.
Unfortunately, getting there wasn't quite as straightforward as I'd hoped. The route I'd planned
would probably have been a bit too challenging for Jane. It still seems strange to me that there isn't
a bus all the way to the top. You can get part of the way there on public transport, but the final
section involves footpaths and a fair amount of uphill effort. For most people that's probably fine;
for us it would have been turning a pleasant evening into an endurance event.
So instead, we made the sensible decision and called it a day.
Back at the hotel, it was time to put our feet up and watch the baseball.
Unfortunately, somewhere
along the line I'd completely messed up the timing. Either I'd misread the schedule or failed to
notice that the broadcast was coming from a different time zone. Whatever the reason, by the time I
switched it on the Chicago Cubs game was virtually over.
To make matters worse, they'd won.
Missing a defeat is disappointing enough, but missing a victory somehow feels worse.
Today marked the end of our first full week in San Francisco. Although we hadn't managed to
complete everything we'd originally planned, that had always been part of the strategy. When I was
putting the itinerary together, I'd deliberately built in plenty of overlap between days. It probably
isn't the most efficient way to see a city, and it certainly isn't the fastest, but it gives us the flexibility
to adapt when plans change, energy levels drop, or we simply discover something unexpected along
the way.
Looking back over the week, that flexibility had already proved its worth several times.
One thing I was still struggling to get used to, though, was remembering which side of the road to
stand on when waiting for a bus. It sounds ridiculous, but more than once during the trip I
confidently positioned us at what appeared to be the perfect stop, only to realise a few minutes later
that we'd been waiting on the wrong side of the street for the direction we wanted to travel.
After forty-odd years of instinctively looking the other way, old habits apparently die hard.
Reflections On The Day
Today felt like a reminder that not every day of travelling has to be packed with major sights or
ticking items off a list to be worthwhile. There was something satisfying about slowing down a
little, accepting that energy levels aren't unlimited, and letting the day unfold at its own pace.
What stood out most was the contrast between San Francisco's different personalities. In the space
of a few hours, the city could feel playful, reflective, chaotic, welcoming, and deeply historical. It's
one of the things I've come to appreciate most about being here. Every neighbourhood seems to tell
a different story, and sometimes the most memorable moments aren't the famous landmarks but the
unexpected encounters and small acts of kindness along the way.
As our first full week in the city came to an end, there was also a growing sense that we were
settling into the rhythm of the place. The buses, the trams, the hills, and even the occasional
transport mishap were starting to feel familiar. San Francisco was no longer just somewhere we
were visiting; for a little while at least, it was beginning to feel like somewhere we belonged.
⇧
