Reflections 9 years later

Reflections 9 years later 

Here I am in 2026, and somehow the opportunity to go back still hasn't quite presented itself. It's strange how much can change in nine years, yet as I've worked through this journal again, parts of it have felt like they only happened yesterday. 

Rewriting it with the technology that's available now has given me something I didn't have the first time around: the ability to find the words I always struggled to put to what I was actually feeling. Going back through the photographs has filled in the gaps left by time and brought memories back into sharper focus. More than anything, it reminded me just how much those years without travel made me appreciate these journeys, and it was that realisation that finally inspired me to revisit all of my old journals properly. 

Travel & Accessibility What We Learned 

We don't own a car, and I have no intention of driving while on holiday. I'm not sure I could ever get my head around being on the opposite side of the road, and honestly, it's not a chance I'd want to take. Fortunately, San Francisco has always been one of those cities where a car is more of a burden than a necessity, with a public transport network that was already impressive during our visit and has continued to evolve ever since. 

Over the same period, Jane's mobility has worsened considerably—we even moved house because of it—but it has never stopped her determination to keep travelling. Looking back now, I'm even more grateful that we experienced the city when we did. 

Transport in San Francisco has changed enormously. COVID reshuffled the deck in ways nobody could have predicted. Gone is the 76X that carried us across the Golden Gate Bridge, along with several other routes we came to rely on. In many ways, our journal captures a version of the city that no longer exists.

Not all of it is doom and gloom, though. After years of construction work that began tunnelling back in 2012, the T Line extension finally opened in 2023, running from the ballpark through to Chinatown. Some things, it turns out, really are worth the wait. 

The changing skyline & city evolution 

Like all cities, the skyline is forever shifting, though San Francisco has always seemed to move at its own pace. Towering skyscrapers remain very much a downtown affair, and there still aren't that many of them. But change happens in other ways too. 

The Vaillancourt Fountain—that magnificently baffling concrete tangle we spent a good paragraph trying to make sense of—is now in the process of being removed. It hadn't worked in years, and the cost of repairing it turned out to be roughly the same as redeveloping the entire plaza into a new park. Even brutalism, it seems, has a budget. 

AT&T Park is now Oracle Park, still home to the Giants and, depending on the season, still probably not winning enough. China Basin, just a short walk away, has become expensive apartments, although they did build a new waterfront park alongside them, so swings and roundabouts. The Transbay Transit Center—arguably the most expensive bus station ever built— opened and then promptly closed again after a crack appeared in one of its main support beams. To their credit, they fixed it fairly quickly. The rooftop park, complete with a free gondola ride to the top, is exactly the sort of thing we'd have made a beeline for. 

Not every change has been by choice. Rouge Bar was lost to fire. The Nob Hill Theatre didn't survive the pandemic. COVID, more than anything else, reshaped the city in ways that still linger. As a city built around the tech industry, San Francisco emptied almost overnight when office workers went remote. Many left the Bay Area altogether. Large companies reduced their office space, and the effects rippled through cafés, shops and restaurants across downtown. The Westfield Shopping Centre is now largely hollow, its flagship stores long gone. The Crocker Galleria—where we happily ate our weight in Jimmy John's sandwiches—survives, but as a shadow of what it once was. Even out in the Marin Headlands, the visitor centre has closed, and the bus service that took us there has disappeared with it.

But it isn't all bleak. Tunnel Tops opened in 2022, creating a sweeping new park linking the Presidio with Crissy Field—exactly the sort of public space San Francisco has always done well. Cities are living things: they lose places, gain new ones, stumble, adapt and reinvent themselves. Looking back now, this journal has become more than a record of our holiday; it's a snapshot of a version of San Francisco that can never quite exist again. 

How This Trip Shapes Our Future Plans 

When it comes to transport, we never stop learning—and some things never change, whatever city you're in. We're looking at you, Vendy-bots. 

Time, however, brings its own adjustments. Jane's mobility has continued to decline, and retracing exactly what we did on this trip simply isn't practical anymore. That doesn't stop us planning, though. A disability isn't a reason to stay home; it just means you travel differently. You build in more time, think further ahead, and accept that the route might look a little different from the one you first imagined. I'm not getting any younger either, and pushing a wheelchair uphill on a pavement with even the slightest camber is considerably more of a workout than it sounds. 

In many ways, that change has been a positive one. Spending more time working out public transport, finding accessible routes, and slowing the pace means you notice far more of the place you're actually visiting. We've never been interested in racing from one famous landmark to the next just to tick boxes. If anything, this trip confirmed that the best memories usually happen somewhere in between. 

From Journal to Legacy — A Creative Journey 

I started rewriting these journals over a year ago. The original idea was simple enough: correct the spelling and grammar, upload everything back to Blogger where it all lives alongside the photo albums, and call it done. Then I made a few changes to the site layout, decided I could make it look a bit smarter, and promptly opened a rather large can of worms. 

With the arrival of AI, I've been able to achieve things on Blogger that I'd never have managed on my own. I've got some basic coding skills, but Blogger has always done things its own way. Describe a problem clearly enough, though, and AI can often point you towards a solution in seconds. It doesn't do the work for you—you still have to experiment, tweak, and occasionally wonder why two seemingly identical templates behave completely differently—but it has become an invaluable tool rather than a shortcut. 

Back in 2012, when we travelled to New York, I never imagined I'd still be working on these journals more than a decade later. In many ways, they've grown up alongside me. What began as a straightforward tidy-up became a complete reimagining: rewritten narratives, a redesigned website, audio versions, e-books, online photo books, and now this appendix, looking back with the benefit of time. The technology will keep evolving, and no doubt these journals will evolve with it. But at their heart they'll always be the same thing: a way of preserving not just where we went, but how it felt to be there. 

Rediscovering Memories Through Writing, My Final Thoughts 

Going back through the photographs, notes, and everything I'd written all those years ago has brought back so much. Not just the images of where we went, but the sounds, the smells, and the emotions that surrounded them. You'd think those things would fade with time, but many of them still feel as though they happened yesterday. Others catch me completely off guard: did we really do that? A single, slightly blurry photograph with a wonky skyline can unlock a memory I thought had disappeared forever. Those are often the moments I treasure most. 

There may come a time when we're no longer able to travel, and perhaps that's why I've devoted so much time to bringing these journals back to life. The photographs preserve what we saw. The writing preserves what happened. And I hope the audio preserves what it felt like. 

If these journals have taught me anything, it's that journeys don't really end when you come home. They wait patiently until you're ready to relive them again. 

Never give up dreaming of your next adventure. 

To Jane — my true love, my travelling companion, and the person who made every one of these adventures worth taking. 

Con 2026

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Afterword

Although we faced more than a few challenges getting around the city — the steep hills, the uneven pavements, the stops that looked perfectly accessible on Street View until you were actually standing at them — it goes to show that where there's a will, there's a way. Usually involving a bit of creative route planning, the occasional bout of mild profanity, and a cold beer at the end of it. 

San Francisco is a city we both fell for on our first visit back in 2013, and that hasn't changed. It has become a less straightforward tourist destination in recent years — you do notice things that weren't quite so visible before — but we've never been the sort to let what you see on the news make decisions for us. If you thought that way, you probably wouldn't get out of bed in the morning, let alone board an eleven-hour flight. 

I've spoken to plenty of people who've been here, though most of them visited years ago and haven't been back. I've only ever found one other person who loves it the way we do. There are plenty more cities across the USA on our list, but I suspect San Francisco will always be the one we keep coming back to — particularly in the quieter months, when the fog rolls in off the bay and the city does that thing where it feels like it belongs entirely to you. 

It's a city of extraordinary contrasts — friendly and chaotic, beautiful and baffling, with people from every corner of the world and restaurants to match just about every taste. Some of which, it has to be said, you'll probably want to avoid — the famed seafood restaurants down at Fisherman's Wharf being a case very much in point. 

There's still plenty we want to see, both in the city and beyond. But we'll get back to it. It'll probably be a few years yet and, in the meantime, the hearts we left here in 2013 will just have to keep the city company. 

One day we'll be back to check on them. 

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." 

Mark Twain.

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Nothing To Look Guilty About

The cabin lights have finally come up. It has been daylight outside for quite some time, but nobody seems particularly keen to open the blinds — and quite right too. At this altitude it's essentially permanent, unfiltered sunshine. One enthusiastic blind opener and half the cabin would be temporarily blinded. Breakfast has been served and somewhere below us Ireland is sliding past beneath the clouds. Not long now.

A little later comes Wales, then the Bristol Channel, and slowly the familiar patchwork of home begins to reassemble itself beneath us. There is something reassuring about seeing recognisable places again after nearly two weeks away. From up here the countryside looks neat, organised and almost peaceful. You can nearly pick out our house from the flight path, which is either comforting or a stark reminder that reality is waiting patiently for us on the ground.

Watching the world drift by from a window seat is one of the best parts of travelling home. It's a quiet moment between one chapter and the next. If a long-haul flight has to be endured, overnight is definitely the way to do it. At least you arrive in the morning with some chance of functioning like a normal person rather than spending an entire day wondering what continent your body thinks it's on. The approach into London was particularly enjoyable, with familiar landmarks appearing through the morning haze. From 4,000 feet up it almost looks like a pleasant place. Mind you, there is still that muddy trench running through the middle of it that they insist on calling the River Thames.

Nothing To Look Guilty About

We don't normally book assistance on the return journey, which in hindsight was probably a mistake. The people who use it are whisked through the airport like visiting heads of state while the rest of us shuffle along behind looking slightly crumpled and sleep deprived. Thankfully we hadn't landed at Terminal 5. That place appears to have been designed by someone who felt airports should double as endurance events. You walk for what feels like several counties before boarding a self driving train that travels for approximately thirty seconds. I've never entirely understood the logic of it. 

The bags appeared surprisingly quickly and before long we were making the traditional walk through the Nothing to Declare channel. It's one of life's great mysteries that even people carrying absolutely nothing of interest suddenly feel guilty at this point. We never buy duty free. We had nothing to declare. Yet there we were, staring determinedly into the middle distance, trying to project the confidence of innocent travellers while secretly wondering if an overpriced hoodie from Walgreens somehow counts as international smuggling. 

Nobody wants their bags tossed out and their life examined at seven in the morning, least of all after ten hours in a tin tube over the Atlantic. Nobody stopped us, nobody searched us, and within minutes we were through. The trip was over. All that remained was the final journey home, a cup of tea, and the gradual process of convincing ourselves that San Francisco had really happened and wasn't just a particularly vivid dream.

Final Steps, The Journey Home

We cleared the airport fairly quickly — which, after fourteen days of navigating San Francisco's finest public transport adventures, felt almost suspiciously straightforward. It always seems to be the same driver who picks us up, and after a bit of cheerful chit-chat somewhere around the M25, we both quietly surrendered to sleep for most of the eighty-minute ride home, arriving back around ten in the morning. We'd booked the return journey in advance because, after everything this trip had thrown at us, the idea of wrestling with luggage, a wheelchair, and a series of connections across the south of England held absolutely no appeal whatsoever. After what we'd spent on the trip, a taxi home wasn't exactly extravagant — it was just common sense wearing a sensible coat. 

After a quick nap, Jane headed out to do some shopping because we'd come home to an entirely empty fridge, in the way that only returning travellers truly understand. I went to the pub for a bit. Priorities. I wasn't back at work for a few days, which gave us both some time to ease back into reality and shake off the jet lag — although whether it counts as jet lag when you haven't actually slept is a philosophical question I'll leave for another day. 

And that, as they say, concludes our San Francisco adventure. Thanks for reading. Do make sure you have a look at the afterword, and there's a handy collection of facts and figures at the back if you enjoy that sort of thing.

A Note from Jane and Con

Every trip we take is, in some ways, a small act of defiance. Against the hills, the broken pavements, the ramps that aren't quite where they're supposed to be, and the buses that don't quite reach the kerb. Against the idea that travelling with a wheelchair means travelling with limitations. 

San Francisco has never made things easy for us — which may be exactly why we keep going back. 

This journal is dedicated to Jane, who rolls through life with more patience, good humour, and quiet determination than I could ever hope to manage on two functioning legs. None of this happens without her. 

Here's to the next one, Jane.

⇧

Adiós SF

We didn't get up too early this morning as it was going to be a very long day. This is always the worst part of our holidays; in fact, it's the worst part of any trip when it's time to leave. 

With hindsight, we should have got up earlier and gone for breakfast, but we just didn't have time in the end. There’s always that nagging feeling of have we got everything? Even though we've searched the room from top to bottom and looked under the bed, you still feel certain that something is missing. You look for it in the bags, have absolutely no chance of finding it, and eventually just hope for the best. By now, checking where the passports were had become borderline OCD.

Bye Bye San Francisco

We left the hotel at about 8:30. Jane got on the bus down to Powell and Market while I walked with the cases strapped onto the wheelchair. It was simply easier than trying to get everything onto a bus. 

 It also gave me time for one final farewell walk through Union Square — a quiet moment of solitary reflection on the trip. It was then down onto the subway to catch the BART train that takes you straight to the International Terminal at the airport. Thankfully, Saturday morning isn't a particularly busy time for people heading out of the city, so it was a pleasant ride. Once the train emerges onto the surface and passes through the outskirts of San Francisco, you enter the Silicon Valley area where all the big tech companies seem to live. You can't help but wonder what it would be like to live here. Of all the cities we've visited so far, this is the one where both of us could happily imagine spending the rest of our days.

Pocket Watch At The Airport

Thinking about it, we probably should have given ourselves a bit more time. You need to check in three hours before the flight leaves, and we only checked our bags in at 10:00 a.m. for a 1:30 p.m. departure. There's very little to do in Terminal I. Sure, there are the usual coffee shops and souvenir stores, one of which relieved me of some money in exchange for another pocket watch. My collection is growing nicely now. We then thought we might as well head through security after checking the one case we had kept with us. This is always a fun part of the journey because I invariably set off the metal detector and then receive what can only be described as a public groping courtesy of the TSA. By the time we had made it through security, there wasn't that much time left to kill, so it was a quick bite to eat and a beer. There's actually far less in this terminal airside than you might expect in terms of shops and bars. There are only two pubs, one of which is a trendy bar and the other so small that there aren't even any seats inside. We ended up buying a massive sandwich to share and a beer for me, but had to sit out in the concourse to eat and drink it. Next time we'll either buy something from one of the shops before heading through security or have something to eat beforehand, as there seem to be slightly better options pre security. After that we headed over to a cash machine to withdraw whatever was left on the prepaid credit card. Normally this would just be the hotel deposit being returned, but with the way things had gone on this trip there was considerably more left on the card than usual. We could exchange the cash when we got home and use it towards the next adventure. At only a couple of dollars for the withdrawal fee, it worked out far better value than accepting the exchange rate offered elsewhere.

Floating Through The Night

Then it was time to start boarding, which always seems to turn into a bun fight. We went to the wrong gate first — don't ask me how — and by the time we'd figured that out, they were calling us over the PA system because the wheelchair needed to go down into the hold. When we finally made it to the right gate, we had a struggle getting past everyone in front of us, as nobody seemed remotely inclined to shift out of the way. 

The way it works is straightforward enough. If you have a disability, you board first regardless of which group you're in, so you're not holding anyone up behind you. After that comes first class, then business class, then the most expensive tiers of economy, before finally the cattle-class herd is let loose. By the time all that had played out, we were already settled comfortably in our seats, watching the ensuing battle for overhead bin space with the quiet satisfaction of people who had absolutely nothing to do with it. 

It wasn't long before we pushed back from the gate and began taxiing towards the runway — my favourite part of flying. There's that moment when the aircraft sits at the end of the runway, engines idling as it waits for the all-clear. Then you hear the power build, the brakes release, and suddenly you're hurtling towards the Bay. 

The rumbling of the wheels stops almost without warning and you know you're airborne. The undercarriage thumps up into the fuselage, the nose pitches steeper, and below you the bay and the city begin to shrink away. With a wide banking turn, we arced out over Golden Gate Park, the bridge sitting crisp and clear in the window. It was as if the city were giving us one last fond adios.

Thoughts Throughout The Flight

What follows are my thoughts while zooming through the sky at 39,000 feet, somewhere around 500 miles an hour and a long way from anywhere. This is the time when I start to reflect on the trip just gone. It happens on every journey home from America, without fail.

16:00 PDT

The evening meal has been served — regulation chicken and rice, naturally — and most people are fixed on the screen in front of them. Others are already wandering up and down the aisle, as people do when they're not quite sure what else to do with themselves. I know the feeling. 

I can't really get into watching TV on the way home. It's not the same as the outward trip. Flying west, the eternal daylight seems to trick the brain into staying alert, keeping you present and forward-looking. But heading east, you're flying into the darkness, chasing the night, and somehow the mood follows. You sit with your thoughts whether you want to or not. 

There's something oddly comforting about watching the broken clouds and distant land drift silently below. I do this on every flight — just stare out of the window and let the mind wander. I often spot another aircraft high in the sky and find myself thinking about all the people on board, each one mid-journey, mid-story. Has someone looked up at this plane and wondered the same thing about us? 

Sleep is impossible and I know it, so there's no point pretending otherwise. Instead, I pass the time adding notes to the journal I've kept throughout the trip — the rough bones of everything you've read here.

21:00 PDT

The cabin lights are dimmer now. Most of the screens have gone dark, save for a few, including mine — though I'm not really watching it. It's just something to occasionally drag my eyes towards when the thoughts get a little too loud. 

The hours are collapsing now. Before long it'll be getting light again, that eight-hour time difference quietly asserting itself whether you're ready for it or not. 

There's something strange about moving through time zones. It gives you a faint feeling of time travel, like being in the TV show Sliders, except the slide is considerably longer and, unfortunately, far less colourful. 

Thoughts turn to home. Back to work. Back to the ordinary shape of things. 

The city we love is a long way behind us now, growing smaller with every passing mile, but no less vivid for it. The quiet monotony of everyday life waits patiently ahead, as it always does, utterly unbothered by the fact that we've been off having the time of our lives. 

But tucked underneath all of that — the tiredness, the slight sadness of leaving, the dread of the alarm on a Monday morning — is something steadier. The knowledge that there will be other trips. Other cities. Other days that catch you off guard with how good they are. 

And that one day, not too far off, we'll find ourselves stepping off a BART train at Montgomery Street again, cases in hand, wondering what took us so long. 

San Francisco has a way of doing that to people. 

Maybe that's why they say you leave your heart there.

Reflection On The Day

Today carried that familiar mixture of gratitude and sadness that comes at the end of a great trip. The excitement of discovering new places had given way to the quiet process of saying goodbye, not just to a city, but to a version of life that exists only when you're travelling. There was time to reflect on everything we'd seen, done and experienced, and to appreciate just how much this journey had meant to us. 

Yet beneath the reluctance to leave was a comforting thought: great trips don't really end when the plane takes off. They stay with you in memories, photographs and stories, quietly waiting to be revisited. And perhaps the best feeling of all was knowing that one day we'd be back, ready to do it all over again.

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Anything can happen Friday

The last full day. I always feel it coming before it arrives — that quiet, unspoken thing that hangs over the final twenty-four hours of any holiday, equal parts wistfulness and the creeping knowledge that the suitcases are going to need packing. The only cure, as far as I can tell, is to fill every remaining minute with something worth remembering.

Anything Can Happen Friday

So that's exactly what we did. Jane had shopping in mind; I had steep hills and a camera. First though, we did what we always do when we need to ease ourselves gently into the day — we headed to Union Sqare for a coffee. It's my second favourite spot in the city, after Pier 39, and the kind of place where you can sit with a drink, watch the cable cars grind their way up Powell Street, and feel like San Francisco is putting on a show just for you. 

It never gets old. 

We sat for a while longer than we probably needed to, because we both knew, without saying it, that this was one of the last times we'd be doing exactly this for quite some time. There was no rush to move on. The city wasn't going anywhere, but our time in it was. 

From there I walked Jane over to the Cheesecake Factory in Macy's — she was set for the morning — and then I turned myself loose on the city. 

This is a tradition we've quietly fallen into over the years: setting aside one or two days on a longer trip where we go off on our own and do whatever we want, no agenda, no compromise, no "well, I suppose we could." After eleven days together — brilliant days, but eleven of them — a few hours of separate wandering does wonders for the soul. And for the marriage, if we're being honest. 

This time around, staying in touch was easy enough — free Wi-Fi dotted across the city, and Google Maps' location sharing meant we could keep tabs on each other without having to coordinate like a military operation. Jane could see I was working my way up something impossibly steep; I could see she was, sensibly, not. 

There were a couple of places I still wanted to tick off the list. One Jane had already visited on a previous trip, and the other involved a hill that I'd have been pushing my luck to suggest. These things happen when you plan a fortnight in San Francisco — some places are simply better suited to solo expeditions, and rather than spend time finding workarounds, it makes more sense to have a day like this baked into the itinerary from the start. 

That way nobody misses out, nobody has to pretend they're fine about standing at the bottom of something spectacular while someone else climbs it, and we both get to come back to the hotel in the evening with our own stories to tell. 

Which, if you ask me, is what a good holiday should feel like. Not spending every minute side by side, but giving each other the space to enjoy it in our own way before coming back together to share it all afterwards. On the last full day of the trip, it felt like exactly the right thing to do.

Take My Breath Away

After leaving Jane to her shopping, I headed down to Market Street and caught a bus to California Street. The original plan had been to take the cable car up to the top of Nob Hill, but there was nothing at the turnaround and nothing coming back down the hill either, which meant it was probably going to be a long wait for the privilege of an eight-dollar ride. I decided to cut my losses, caught the number 12 bus to Taylor Street instead, and set off on foot for Ina Coolbrith Park. 

They say that if the climb up the hill doesn't take your breath away, the view certainly will. I can confirm it achieved both, in that order, without much of a gap between them. 

You don't really arrive at Ina Coolbrith Park so much as stumble upon it. One minute you're walking past elegant old apartment buildings and streets so steep they seem more like a dare than a road, and the next there's a narrow staircase disappearing into greenery, with postcard views already bursting out between the trees before you've even reached the top. 

The park was dedicated in 1911 to Ina Coolbrith, California's first Poet Laureate — a fitting tribute to someone who dealt in beauty, because the view from up here is something else entirely. The park itself is tiny — barely more than terraced paths, stairways, benches and densely planted gardens tumbling down the hillside — but it feels enormous because of what you can see from it. At almost 300 feet above the bay, the downtown skyline rises straight ahead, the Bay Bridge stretches across the water to the east, Coit Tower pokes up from Telegraph Hill, and Alcatraz Island sits out in the bay looking exactly like it knows it's famous. 

Apart from one other person quietly reading on a bench, I had the whole place to myself. I spent the best part of an hour up there, taking photos and simply soaking it all in, which is about as close to perfect as a solo morning gets. It's one of those places that somehow feels both hidden and iconic at the same time. Looking back at the photographs now, they're a nice reminder of the view, but they still don't quite capture what it felt like to stand there. The words I've written here don't really do it justice either.

Cable Curiosity

After spending time at the park, I headed back the way I came, cut through a few side streets, and made my way to the Cable Car Museum — or the cable car barn, as it's more accurately known, because that's exactly what it is. I'd been here before, but it's one of those places that earns a return visit without having to try very hard. 

What makes it genuinely special is that it isn't just a museum in the traditional sense — it's a working powerhouse, and it has been since the day it opened in 1887, although it only opened to the public as a museum in 1984. This is the beating heart of the entire cable car network, the place where four enormous winding wheels, each one the size of a small house, turn continuously day and night, pulling the cables that run beneath the city streets. 

Those cables never stop moving, except for maintenance. They travel at a constant nine and a half miles per hour beneath the road surface, and the cable cars above grip and release them to start and stop. It's an elegantly simple idea that hasn't changed in any meaningful way since Andrew Hallidie first introduced it to San Francisco in 1873, which tells you everything you need to know about how well it works. 

The upper floor is given over to displays tracing the history of the system — how it evolved, how it survived earthquakes, near abolition, and the relentless march of progress to become the last manually operated cable car network in the world. There's a gantry up here where you can lean over and look down to the lower floor, watching the winding gear turning with a deep, rhythmic thrum that you feel as much as hear. 

It's the kind of thing that makes you stop and stare longer than you expect to, partly because it's impressive, and partly because it seems almost absurd that this Victorian-era engineering is still, right now, hauling cable cars up some of the steepest streets in America. 

Admission is free, which feels like a minor miracle given how good it is. 

After I'd had my fill, I couldn't be bothered waiting for a bus, so I wandered through the side streets instead, camera out, no particular plan in mind beyond heading roughly downhill. This is one of those cities where you could never run out of things to photograph — every corner throws up a different angle, a new combination of hills and painted wood, brick, and sky. 

I filmed a few cable cars grinding their way past and just drifted, which is sometimes the best thing you can do. Some of my favourite travel memories come from moments like this, when there isn't really a destination, just a direction. 

I knew that if I kept heading downhill I'd eventually come out near Chinatown, and from there it was a short walk to the pub — any pub. A well-earned beer, I told myself. Maybe just one. Though experience suggested that was a promise I wasn't especially likely to keep.

Getting Tipsy in Topsy's

I walked down through Chinatown and nearly straight past the hotel without stopping, which tells you everything you need to know about Chinatown: chaos. We've never really gone out of our way to spend time there across any of our three visits, and having now walked through it properly, I can confirm that instinct was sound. It's not for us, in my entirely personal and completely unscientific opinion. Moving on. 

It was mid-afternoon by now, and by my count I'd only been in two pubs since arriving in San Francisco, which felt like a situation in need of addressing. I'd walked past Topsy's Bar on Montgomery Street several times over the fortnight and always hesitated — it's the kind of place that looks almost deliberately uninviting from the outside, dark enough that you can't quite see in and aren't entirely sure you're supposed to. But this was the last day, caution could go and do one, and in I went. 

I'm glad I did. Inside, it was exactly what a proper American bar should be — small, unhurried, and comfortable in the way that only places with no interest in being fashionable ever manage to be. Spinning bar stools, a couple of deep sofas to sink into, and the kind of lighting that suggests the bulbs were chosen specifically to discourage anyone from leaving in a hurry. 

I took a seat at the bar, which is always the right move if you want to get a feel for a place. You see who comes in, catch the odd fragment of conversation, and get a quiet sense of how the city works for the people who actually live in it rather than photograph it. The beer was a locally brewed pint at $7, which in US terms is a slightly smaller glass than you'd get at home but considerably stronger, so it evens itself out rather nicely. 

They didn't have Wi-Fi, but I discovered that the Subway a couple of doors down had a signal just strong enough to reach my bar stool if I held the phone at a specific and slightly undignified angle. Sometimes you take what you can get. 

After four drinks — which felt entirely reasonable given the circumstances — it was time to move on. I crossed the road to Murphy's, which holds a particular place in my personal history as the pub where I got thoroughly drunk on Christmas Eve back in 2013. Some places leave a lasting impression because of the architecture, the atmosphere, or the history. Murphy's managed it through a combination of local brews and poor decision-making. 

It was busy by now, well into the late-afternoon rush, but I managed to squeeze onto a bar stool and ordered another local brew for the road. Murphy's does good beer, a decent atmosphere, and absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, which is more than can be said for some places. 

By now Jane was somewhere nearby, doing whatever it is Jane does when left unsupervised with a credit card and a city full of shops. We weren't far from the hotel, so we arranged to meet just around the corner — the perfect end to a very satisfying afternoon's independent research, as I shall officially be calling it.

Return To Murphy’s Bar

For our last night, we had grand plans — a proper sit-down meal at a restaurant not far from the hotel that had come recommended. I'd read the reviews, it sounded promising, and we were prepared to push the boat out. 

There was just one small problem: when we turned up at 6:30 on a busy Friday evening, the place was completely empty. Not quiet. Not winding down or gearing up. Empty. 

And as any seasoned traveller will tell you, there is always a reason for that, and it is never a good one. 

We looked at each other, looked at the restaurant, and kept walking. 

The last thing either of us needed — with a ten-hour flight home the following morning — was a culinary adventure of the wrong kind. Some risks are simply not worth taking at altitude. 

With the Italian option now firmly off the table, we did what any sensible person does when faced with an uncertain dining landscape in an unfamiliar city: we went back to the pub. 

Specifically, back to Murphy's, which at least had the advantage of being a known quantity. Now, Murphy's will tell you — with some confidence — that they serve the best fish and chips in the area. What they perhaps haven't accounted for is that neither Jane nor I have ever been to the area they're comparing themselves to, and it certainly isn't anywhere in the UK. 

Jane ordered it anyway, in the spirit of fairness, while I went for the mac and cheese, which turned out to be the significantly better call at roughly half the price. I had a taste of the fish and chips to satisfy my curiosity, which was all the convincing either of us needed. We quietly consolidated our efforts onto my plate and shared the mac and cheese between us, which was enormous and still defeated us completely. 

With hindsight, we should have ordered a single portion from the start. Unlike back home, nobody here looks at you sideways for sharing a meal — the waiter simply brings an extra fork and gets on with it. No judgement, no raised eyebrow, no sense that you've committed some minor social offence against the restaurant trade. A lesson learned and filed away for next time. 

Besides, there was something rather fitting about ending the trip not with an expensive meal in a fancy restaurant, but in a familiar pub, sharing a plate of comfort food and laughing about how our carefully considered dinner plans had lasted all of thirty seconds.

The Hoodie Quest

After having our photo taken outside the pub — because if it isn't documented, it didn't happen — we walked our evening meal off and headed back to the hotel. Jane set about packing the rest of our things while I did what I always do in that situation, which is sit in front of the television and offer absolutely no help whatsoever. 

Eventually, with the bags sorted and the room looking considerably less like a jumble sale, I decided to go for one last walk. 

It was going to be three or four years before we'd be back here at the earliest. That thought had been sitting quietly at the back of my mind all day, and the only sensible response to it was to go out and squeeze a little more of the city in before bed. 

By 9:30 it was a warm, still evening, and Union Square was doing that thing it does at night where the department stores glow, the cable cars rattle past, and the whole place feels like it's been lit specifically for your benefit. There were just as many photo opportunities as during the day, if not more — the kind of shots that only work when the artificial light is doing the heavy lifting and everything looks slightly more cinematic than it has any right to be. 

I'm not sure how long I spent just wandering, but it didn't feel wasted. In fact, it felt like exactly what the evening was for. 

I also had one last mission to complete before leaving San Francisco. Every city I visit, I buy a hoodie with the location on it. I have no idea when this became a thing, but it has, and the collection is growing. Simple as that. 

What is not simple, as it turns out, is finding one that actually fits. Every hoodie I picked up was labelled large and sized for someone considerably more compact than me. Sizes make no sense in this city. 

After working my way around no fewer than five Walgreens stores — which felt like a lot of effort for a sweatshirt, and probably was — I eventually found what I was looking for back down on Market Street in an XL. I can only assume that the majority of San Francisco's souvenir-buying visitors are not built like a bloke from Gosport, but there we go. Worth every step. 

By 10:30 I was heading back, strolling through the quiet streets at a pace that suited the occasion. I'd have liked to stop for a swift one at Johnny Foley's just off Union Square, but it was out of the way and tomorrow was going to be a long day. Some things you leave for next time. 

And there would be a next time. There always is with this city. 

Back at the hotel by eleven, I took one last look out at the lights beyond the window before closing the curtains and turning in for the night. The holiday was effectively over now; only the journey home remained. 

A few hours later I'd close the hotel room door behind me for the final time, but in my mind this was the moment the trip really ended. For now, though, San Francisco could wait patiently for our return.

Refections On The Day

Today felt like a gentle goodbye. 

Not a dramatic one, nor a sad one exactly, just the quiet acceptance that comes when you've had enough time somewhere to stop feeling like a visitor and start feeling comfortable. There was no pressure to tick off landmarks or cram in one last big experience. Instead, the day became about enjoying the city for what it was — familiar streets, favourite places, unexpected moments, and the simple pleasure of wandering without much purpose. 

What stayed with me most was how easy everything felt. Jane and I spent part of the day doing our own thing, then came back together with different stories to tell. There was something reassuring in that. After nearly two weeks away, we'd settled into the rhythm of the place and into the rhythm of the holiday itself. 

As the evening drew in, there was an awareness that this chapter was coming to an end, but it didn't feel final. San Francisco has a habit of doing that. No matter how many times you leave, it never really feels like goodbye — more like pressing pause on a conversation you know you'll return to one day. 

And somehow that's a comforting thought.

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Ferry Plaza & Bay Front Trail

It would appear that the weather forecasts here are every bit as accurate as the ones back home. Today's prediction was for much cooler temperatures, but whoever made that forecast clearly hadn't looked out of the window. Knowing we were planning to spend most of the day down on the Bay waterfront, I packed a light jacket just in case. As it turned out, it spent most of the day stuffed in my bag doing absolutely nothing. 

We didn't head out until around 11 o'clock. From the hotel, we walked down to Market Street and caught the bus to the Ferry Plaza, ready for another day of exploring the waterfront and seeing where the day would take us.

A Temple To Transit

One of our favourite places in the city is the San Francisco Railway Museum, still affectionately known by many locals and transit enthusiasts as the Market Street Railway Museum. It's only a small museum, but what it lacks in size it more than makes up for in character, explaining just about everything you could ever want to know about San Francisco's historic streetcars and the golden age of public transport. Couple that with the vintage trams rumbling past outside every few minutes and it feels less like a museum and more like a living exhibit. 

Inside are old fare boxes, vintage signs, historic photographs, route maps, uniforms, and all sorts of wonderfully specific transport oddities that make you realise San Francisco once treated streetcars almost like a civic religion. One of the highlights is a full-size replica of the driving platform from a 1911 streetcar, where you can stand at the controls and pretend you're piloting several tons of noisy electric machinery down Market Street while pedestrians casually ignore your existence. 

The museum does a fantastic job of showing how San Francisco grew around its transit system. Before cars took over, the city was stitched together by streetcars and cable cars carrying people to work, parks, baseball games and neighbourhoods perched on seemingly impossible hills. There's a lovely sense that transit wasn't just a way of getting around — it was part of the city's identity and daily life. 

It's also refreshingly unpretentious. There are no giant queues, no flashy interactive displays, and no over-produced tourist spectacle. Just passionate volunteers and preservationists keeping an important piece of San Francisco's histor alive for anyone curious enough to step through the door.

Coffee With Movie History

Once outside, we crossed the road and passed the concrete tube fountain before arriving at the Ferry Building. 

Completed in 1898, it is one of San Francisco's most iconic buildings. Its imposing clock tower rises 245 feet above the waterfront and has survived both the devastating earthquakes of 1906 and 1989. Unfortunately, with the construction of bridges across the bay from the 1930s onwards, ferry traffic steadily declined. As services became less frequent, the building lost much of its original purpose and was gradually divided into office space, with little regard for its grand architecture. 

The building suffered another blow in the late 1950s when the Embarcadero Freeway was constructed directly in front of it. The elevated road almost completely obscured the Ferry Building from public view and severed much of its connection with the waterfront. Following the 1989 earthquake, sections of the freeway were badly damaged, with parts collapsing altogether. Rather than rebuild it, the decision was made to demolish the structure and redevelop the area. The result was the creation of the plaza that now stands in front of the building, along with the extension of the F-Line streetcars along the waterfront to Fisherman's Wharf. It was during this redevelopment that the Ferry Building was restored to its former glory. 

Today happened to be farmers market day, with stalls spread across the plaza outside. Inside, the building is packed with food shops and artisan producers. One of our favourites is the Golden Gate Meat Company, which sells the best turkey pies I've ever tasted. At seven dollars each they're certainly not cheap, but they're worth every penny. 

Just around the corner is Peet's Coffee, so we grabbed a drink to go with our pies and found a seat by the window overlooking the bay. This is the same location used for several scenes in one of the Clint Eastwood Dirty Harry films, although I can never remember exactly which one. With views across the water towards Treasure Island and the immense structure of the Bay Bridge stretching away to the right, it's the perfect place to stop for lunch. The bridge is one of those landmarks that never quite looks real until you're standing beside it. No matter how many photographs you've seen, it's difficult to appreciate just how enormous it actually is.

Bimballing Along The Bay

From the Ferry Building we headed along The Bay Front Trail, pausing at the rather pleasant courtyard outside the local offices of Google and Firefox — not somewhere you'd normally put on a must-see list, but a decent spot to sit and feel vaguely important for a few minutes — before crossing the road and hopping on a tram for a couple of stops to AT&T Park, home of the San Francisco Giants, who were gearing up for their first home game in a couple of weeks. 

Even three hours before first pitch, there was a buzz in the air. Fans in orange and black drifted steadily towards the stadium, conversations filled with optimism, ritual and hope. There's something infectious about baseball crowds. Even when you don't have a ticket, you can't help but get swept up in the anticipation of it all. 

We'd actually planned on going to see a game, but both fixtures were 7 pm starts, which meant you wouldn't be getting out of the ballpark until gone 11 pm, then still having to get back to the hotel. Add to that the fact that ticket prices seemed to have shot up considerably this year, and that the Giants hadn't exactly been setting the world alight on the field, and the decision more or less made itself. 

There was a small pang of disappointment though. Watching a Giants game had become one of those traditions that felt tied to our visits here, and it was strange being on the outside looking in. Still, sometimes travel is about knowing when not to force things. The atmosphere was free, the sunshine was free, and neither required a ticket. 

We still had a wander round the team shop, which was a treat — until you looked at the price tags, at which point it became considerably less of one. I did manage to justify a pen at $2, because frankly I had to buy something in there. A man has his principles. 

And honestly, it didn't matter that we hadn't ticked off a great long list of things today. For most of the trip we'd been chasing sights, covering miles, hopping on buses, trams and cable cars in an effort to make the most of every day. But somewhere along the way I'd forgotten that some of my favourite travel memories aren't the big attractions at all. 

Sometimes they're just moments. 

A warm afternoon. A walk with nowhere particular to be. The sound of the bay. Watching the city go about its business while you slow down long enough to appreciate being part of it for a little while. 

We strolled the Embarcadero between Cupid's Span and Pier 7, breathing in the bay air, with the paddle steamer San Francisco Belle sitting gleaming white in the sun like she hadn't a care in the world. After everything we'd packed into the previous week and a half, the lack of a plan felt almost luxurious. No rush. No timetable. Just the two of us enjoying the simple pleasure of being there. 

As the afternoon drifted towards evening, there was also the quiet awareness that our time in San Francisco was beginning to run short. Tomorrow would be our last full day. The city that had felt so vast and unfamiliar when we arrived now felt strangely comfortable, almost familiar. Those final days of a trip always carry a slightly bittersweet edge — wanting to make the most of every remaining hour while already knowing you'll miss the place when it's gone.

Reflections On The Day

Today was a reminder that not every memorable day needs a packed itinerary. There was something wonderfully relaxing about simply wandering the waterfront, soaking up the atmosphere, and enjoying the city at a slower pace. As the trip began to edge towards its final days, I found myself appreciating the small moments more than the big attractions — a good view, a warm afternoon, a quiet walk, and the simple pleasure of having nowhere in particular to be. Sometimes that's enough, and today it felt exactly right. 

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Stow lake & Stairways

Today was all about catching up on a few things we had missed earlier in the trip when the wheelchair decided to have its mechanical meltdown. We caught the 38R and then changed onto the 44 bus heading into Golden Gate Park.

Come on Brain, We Can Do It

This also provided another reminder that my British road-crossing instincts were still very much alive and well. Despite knowing perfectly well which direction we needed to travel, my brain kept insisting that the bus would arrive on the left-hand side of the road. Thankfully, a last-minute moment of clarity struck before we stood there looking foolish as our bus disappeared into the distance from the stop opposite. 

By this point, Jane had also developed a useful San Francisco transit skill of her own. She had learned how to tell the older buses with steps from the newer low-floor accessible ones. The secret lies entirely in the paintwork on the front and the shape of the headlights. Jane could now spot the difference from a surprising distance, making her something of an honorary Muni bus expert.

Turtles, Steps And What A View

When we got off the bus at the De Young Museum, we spent about twenty minutes rolling through the park toward Stow Lake — a place that always feels like its own little world tucked away inside Golden Gate Park. The lake is absolutely teeming with wildlife, including what looks like hundreds of turtles sunning themselves on rocks and logs. A legacy of the Ninja Turtle craze, I suspect, judging by the sheer number of them. Stow Lake was the first man-made lake in the park, created thanks to a $60,000 donation from W.W. 

Stow. It was built around a tall rocky outcrop that became Strawberry Hill, with Huntington Falls cascading down its eastern side. The waterfall is fed by water pumped up to a reservoir hidden among the trees before making its way back down the hillside. Unfortunately, the falls weren't running during our visit. The same thing had happened on previous trips, so perhaps we're simply unlucky with our timing. 

This whole area isn't really suitable for Jane, so I crossed the bridge onto the island in the middle of the lake and headed toward the Chinese pagoda before tackling the steep climb up the steps to the summit. There are a couple of small bridges crossing the waterfall route on the way up — scenic even without the water — and the climb is definitely a proper calf-burner. 

Once at the top, though, the effort is rewarded with some spectacular views. You don't get a full 360-degree panorama, but you do get a real sense of just how rugged San Francisco is, with hills and rocky outcrops rising and falling in every direction.

Boats, Brews And A Breather

From there, I carefully made my way back down the very steep steps to where I had left Jane. We then wandered around the edge of the lake, admiring the wildlife and soaking up the peaceful atmosphere. It really is a beautiful corner of the park and feels a world away from the busy city beyond its borders. 

Before long we arrived at the boathouse. They hire out both rowing boats and paddle boats, but I think I'm probably too old for either these days. In fact, I'd likely have had more trouble climbing into one than Jane would. Instead, we did the sensible thing and headed into the café for a coffee for me and a hot chocolate for Jane. 

Although it wasn't particularly cold, it wasn't especially warm either, so it was nice to sit down and warm up for a while. When I say it wasn't warm, you still didn't need a coat, but as I've mentioned before, San Francisco's microclimates can make the temperature feel completely different after only a short walk. 

Eventually, it was time to move on, so we retraced our steps around the lake to the De Young Museum and caught the number 44 bus for a couple of stops to Irving Street.

Inner Sunset, Pies, Glorious Pies

The area around 9th Avenue and Irving Street in the Inner Sunset feels like one of those neighbourhoods where the city suddenly remembers to breathe. It's busy, lively and full of people, but not in the frantic way you find downtown. Instead, it feels more like a village built around coffee, food, bookshops and the constant rumble of the N-Judah tram squeezing its way past parked cars and pedestrians who have clearly made their peace with it. 

This crossroads is essentially the heart of the Inner Sunset. Irving Street is lined with restaurants, bakeries, ramen shops, tiny independent stores, bubble tea cafés, old pubs and coffee shops packed so tightly together that a simple walk down the street usually turns into accidental window shopping. It's energetic without being overwhelming, urban without losing its community feel. You get a real sense of local life here — the kind of place that makes you slow your pace and start studying lunch menus you had no intention of reading five minutes earlier. 

Which brings me neatly to Peasant Pies. Sweet and savoury homemade pies for four dollars each. I went for the beef and potato, while Jane chose the ham and egg. Add a coffee and the whole lot came to less than eight dollars between us. This is exactly what I mean when I talk about living like a local: proper independent shops, simple food done well and no crowds of tourists getting in the way. You can't beat it. 

A little further along the street was a Radio Shack which, I'll admit, I thought had disappeared years ago. This one was holding a closing-down sale, so at least it was making its exit in style, even if I couldn't find anything worth buying. It had that familiar air of a place that was once essential and was now quietly packing up its things. The kind of street where, if you stumbled across a Blockbuster Video somehow still trading, you probably wouldn't be shocked. You'd just nod knowingly, wander inside and spend twenty minutes browsing DVDs for old times' sake.

A Stairway To The Skyline

We headed back to Irving Street to catch the number 66 bus. This is where something rather strange happened with the real-time information display. I'd heard people talk about it before but had never actually seen it myself. It's known as a "ghost bus" — when the tracking system shows a bus moving along its route and the countdown clock happily ticks away, yet the bus itself never appears. 

The really odd part is that the same information is fed to the phone apps, so they often show exactly the same thing. As far as anyone seems to know, nobody has ever fully explained why it happens. Whatever causes it, it appears to affect buses far more often than the trams. 

After a thirty-minute wait, a bus finally materialised and carried us up some of San Francisco's famously steep hills to the 16th Avenue Tiled Steps Project. 

Created by the local community and opened in 2005, the project transformed 163 ordinary steps into a giant mosaic artwork depicting a journey from sea to stars. This is one of those places that somehow manages to feel both hidden and famous at the same time. Tucked away in the residential streets of Golden Gate Heights, the staircase climbs between ordinary houses before suddenly exploding into colour, as though someone had tipped an enormous box of mosaic tiles down the hillside. 

Officially known as the Moraga Steps, every section forms part of a single flowing artwork. At the bottom, underwater scenes feature fish, shells and rolling waves. Higher up, the designs gradually transition through plants, birds and flowers before ending among the stars and sun motifs at the top. Climbing the staircase feels a little like moving through different layers of nature. 

San Francisco is full of stairways. Many began life simply as practical shortcuts connecting streets built across the city's countless hills and have been used by local residents for generations. The Moraga Steps take that idea and turn it into something far more memorable. They're not the easiest place to reach, which perhaps explains why relatively few tourists make the journey, but they're well worth the effort. 

Jane decided she was quite happy to admire the artwork from the bottom, so after taking a few photographs I began the climb alone. I'm not as young as I once was, and the ascent felt rather longer than 163 steps would suggest. By the time I reached the top, it felt as though I'd climbed the equivalent of a ten-storey building.

Grand View Park, A Bench Above The City

It's a real slog to get up here. 

The tiled staircase itself climbs around 90 feet over 163 mosaic-covered steps, but that's only the first stage. Once you've reached the top of the artwork, there's still another series of wooden and concrete stairways leading up into Grand View Park itself. The summit stands 666 feet above sea level, which is probably why it's such a devil to climb. 

In total, from Moraga Street to the summit viewpoint, you're gaining somewhere around 190 feet of elevation. It's hardly mountain-hiking territory, but San Francisco's hills are basically nature's StairMaster, and they do a very good job of reminding your legs that gravity exists. Most people seem to adopt the classic "pause to admire the view" technique about halfway up, which just happens to coincide with the point where breathing becomes noticeably more important. 

When I finally reached the top of the tiled steps, there was still work to do. First you cross a road, climb another set of concrete steps, cross yet another road, and then tackle the final stairway up to Grand View Park itself. 

The name makes perfect sense once you get there. From the summit, you are rewarded with sweeping views stretching all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Standing on this rocky outcrop, with the city spread out below and the ocean beyond, you get a real appreciation for just how hilly and rugged San Francisco actually is. 

The wind up there was ferocious. Although the temperature was probably around 12°C, the combination of the elevation and a wind of around 25 miles per hour made it feel closer to 6°C. I even had to tighten my hat to stop it disappearing into the next neighbourhood. 

The summit itself is surprisingly small, little more than a rocky platform with a single bench and enough room for a handful of people. On this occasion, though, I had it completely to myself. It felt like a private viewing platform suspended above the city. Sadly, there was no realistic way Jane could have made it up there. 

After taking a few photographs and spending a few minutes admiring the view, it was time to head back down before I froze to death and became the first casualty of suburban Mount Everest.

Hidden Garden Steps, The Secret Sibling

Back at the bottom, I found a rather chilly Jane waiting patiently, so we continued a little further along the road to the Hidden Garden Steps. 

These are another set of mosaic-covered stairs, but they attract far fewer visitors than their famous neighbour. Part of the reason is that the staircase bends halfway up, so you can never see the entire artwork in one glance. They feel like the quieter, slightly more secretive sibling of the 16th Avenue Tiled Steps. 

Located on 16th Avenue between Kirkham and Lawton Streets, they're only a short walk away, yet many visitors never discover them because they're too busy photographing the more famous staircase nearby. Instead of the ocean-to-stars theme of the Moraga Steps, these mosaics celebrate gardens and wildlife. As you climb, you pass giant flowers, mushrooms, butterflies, birds, insects, snails and twisting plants, all created from brightly coloured tiles. 

What really makes the place special, though, is the atmosphere. It's noticeably quieter than the nearby tiled steps. Instead of crowds, you hear birdsong, the wind rustling through the plants and the occasional distant sound of the city. Succulents and native plants line the staircase, making it feel less like a public footpath and more like a hidden passageway through somebody's surreal mosaic garden. 

With 148 steps, there's not a huge difference in height compared with the Moraga Steps, but personally I thought the artwork here was even better. The challenge was photographing it properly. Because the staircase is lined with trees on both sides, the light is surprisingly subdued even on a bright day. Capturing the colours meant experimenting with different angles, including the slightly ridiculous technique of holding the camera above my head and hoping for the best. 

I don't think I'd fancy walking down here at night. There didn't seem to be much street lighting, although that's not unusual in many American residential areas. If you tripped and fell, you'd become a human bowling ball. Knowing my luck, I'd finally come to a halt at the bottom only to get run over, Wile E. Coyote style. 

By now my legs had started filing formal complaints. This was supposed to be a holiday, not a boot camp for the vertically challenged and moderately unfit. It was time to go and find the ever-patient Jane once again.

A Tale Of Two Bus Stops 

It was now time to climb back up to where I had parked Lady Jane and wait for the bus back down the hill. The route only runs every twenty minutes, but I had seen one go past not long beforehand, so I reckoned we had about a fifteen-minute wait. 

Standing patiently beside the line painted on the lamppost that marked the bus stop, I suddenly realised something rather important. 

We were on the wrong side of the road. 

Again. 

For some reason, over the last couple of days I had managed to do this two or three times. I know perfectly well that Americans drive on the right, yet my brain kept insisting otherwise. What's even stranger is that I never seemed to have this problem on previous visits to San Francisco or other American cities. Perhaps I'm getting old. Come on brain, help me out here — we're supposed to be a team. 

Fortunately, the stop on the correct side of the road was only a short walk away, although finding it wasn't quite so straightforward. Unlike the clearly marked stop we had been standing at, this one appeared to consist of a yellow line roughly a foot long painted on the edge of a junction. Bus stops can be a little mysterious in San Francisco. 

By the time we relocated ourselves, there were only about five minutes left to wait. When the bus arrived, the driver lowered the suspension and deployed the wheelchair ramp, which unfolded rather dramatically like a hydraulic drawbridge. Unfortunately, despite all this engineering wizardry, it still didn't quite reach the ground. In the end, both Jane and I stood on it to persuade it down the last few inches. 

That probably wasn't helped by the fact that the road was being dug up and covered by a temporary steel plate. Roadworks seem to be a universal pastime these days. Wherever you go, somebody is digging a hole. The strange thing is that you rarely see anyone actually working in it. Back at the bottom of the hill, we only had to walk around the corner to catch the N-Judah tram back towards the city. By now it was rush hour, and despite being made up of three coupled units, the tram quickly became packed. I found this slightly surprising because we were travelling into the city rather than away from it, but clearly everyone else had similar plans. 

The only downside of using the tram is dealing with some of the station lifts downtown. To say they have a distinctive aroma would be generous. Some are worse than others, but let's just say you don't press the buttons with your fingers. This is a job for elbows. Veteran San Francisco transit users probably develop a technique for it.

The Beer Shop Loyalty Scheme

It's surprising where the time goes on some days. Before we knew it, the evening had crept up on us and it was time to sort out the essentials — something to eat from Jimmy John's and a resupply run to the beer shop around the corner. 

By this point, I was beginning to think I'd become something of a regular in there, which is either a sign of customer loyalty or a mild cause for concern, depending on your point of view. 

The evidence for the latter arrived one evening when the chap behind the counter handed me my purchase in one of those beer-can-sized brown paper bags. You know the sort — the ones people carry around on American television while sitting in doorways wearing a coat they may or may not have slept in. 

I genuinely wasn't sure whether to be offended or touched by the gesture. Perhaps I give off a certain energy. Perhaps I just have one of those faces. 

What really sealed my status as a regular, though, was the day I brought my own bag. 

They still put it in another one. 

Whether that's a legal requirement, company policy, or a quiet editorial comment on my lifestyle choices, I never quite worked out. Either way, I was clearly now recognised as a valued customer — and apparently one who, in their professional opinion, needed his beer discreetly concealed for the journey back to the hotel. 

Assuming, of course, that the beer actually made it that far.

Reflections On The Day 

oday felt like a reminder that some of the best parts of travel aren't the famous landmarks or the postcard views, but the unexpected corners in between. There was something satisfying about venturing beyond the places most visitors see and discovering parts of the city that felt quieter, more personal and more connected to the people who actually live there. 

It was also a day that highlighted the contrast between what each of us could experience. There were places I could climb to that Jane couldn't reach, and moments where we had to split up briefly before finding each other again. Yet somehow that never diminished the day. If anything, it reinforced how much of travelling together is about sharing the experience afterwards, comparing perspectives and helping each other enjoy places in different ways. 

As the evening drew in, there was a comforting sense of familiarity beginning to creep into what had once felt like a completely foreign city. The buses, the neighbourhoods, the local shops and even the small routines of daily life were starting to feel familiar. San Francisco no longer felt like somewhere we were simply visiting; for a little while at least, it felt like somewhere we belonged.

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