These early-morning starts are always a killer for me. It’s not just the alarm going off at an hour
normally reserved for bakers and insomniacs — it’s knowing you’ve got an eleven-hour flight
ahead of you. Daunting doesn’t quite cover it. Still, this wasn’t our first rodeo to San Francisco, and
at least we knew what we were in for. Even so, the thought that by the time we finally crawled into
bed tonight — around 10 p.m. local time — it would be six in the morning back in the UK was not
exactly comforting. More than twenty-four hours awake. Lovely.
We’d booked a taxi for 05:20, £153 return to Heathrow, which is an absolute bargain when you
consider the alternatives. With a wheelchair to take, the coach simply isn’t practical — unless we
fancied travelling the night before, after a ten-hour shift at work, paying for a hotel, and still
needing a taxi to the terminal. No thanks. The taxi was the only sensible option.
Bleary-Eyed & Heathrow-Bound
After an hour speeding down the motorway, we arrived at Heathrow. We weren’t looking forward to
the flight, but we were looking forward to getting there. It had been eighteen months since our last
trip to Chicago and just over two years since we’d last set foot in San Francisco.
We reached the airport around 6:50 a.m. and were greeted by a very helpful man who scanned our
passports for us. It’s always quicker when someone who knows what they’re doing handles it —
and it usually means you end up seated together. We’ve learned that if you scan both passports in
quick succession, you’re far more likely to be placed side by side. If you’ve read any of our past
journals, you’ll know the ongoing saga we have with those vendy-bot self-service machines.
As it turned out, I got a window seat and Jane got an aisle seat — ideal for getting in and out
without disturbing half the plane.
We always seem to fly from a different terminal every time, so we never know where the best
breakfast options are. This time we went for the pre-security choice.
By now we were starving, so we grabbed sausage and egg rolls from Wetherspoon. At £3.75, they
weren’t overpriced, and they hit the spot. We knew we probably wouldn’t get anything decent to eat
again until about 6:30 p.m., because airline food is… well, airline food. It’s become a running joke
with us: “What’s it going to be this time? Chicken and rice or beef and rice?” Both usually taste
identical anyway.
Pre-Boarding Privileges — Wheelchair Edition
Boarding was scheduled for 9:40, but from past experience I knew the walk to the gate could easily
take fifteen minutes — longer if my legs decided to remind me that I’m not twenty anymore. So we
aimed to leave around nine. That gave us just enough time to grab some crisps and a drink from the
shop, or maybe even treat myself to a coffee if the queue wasn’t too soul-destroying.
As it turned out, the walk wasn’t nearly as long as I’d remembered. Either the gate had moved
closer, or I’d somehow become fitter without noticing — unlikely, but I’ll take the win. With time
to spare, all that was left to do was wait for boarding to begin.
Because we had the wheelchair, we were invited to board first. Every time this happens, I get a tiny
glimpse into what life must be like for the rich and famous — strolling past the crowds, no elbows,
no panic, no wrestling for overhead space. Of course, the illusion ends the moment we turn left
towards economy rather than right into first class, but for those few seconds it’s glorious.
Pre-boarding also gives us a fighting chance to get down the aisle and stash our carry-on bags
before the great overhead-bin battle begins. It’s always a bun fight at this stage. People guard those
compartments like they’re protecting family heirlooms, shoving bags into every available inch of
space because they’re too lazy — or too optimistic — to check them in. I’ve never understood the
logic. By the time you’ve crawled through immigration at the other end, your checked bag will have
been doing laps of the carousel waiting for you anyway. And you still have to go through customs
with everyone else, so what exactly is being saved here?
For us, it makes no difference. We go through the disabled lane at immigration, which means
straight to the front, fingerprints taken, mugshot captured, and through we go — usually before the
airline crew have even finished processing. But still, the overhead-bin Olympics continue flight
after flight, and I remain baffled.
Once we were settled into our seats, bags safely tucked away, the rest of the plane began its slow
shuffle down the aisle. People squeezed past each other, bumped elbows, argued with gravity, and
tried to wedge bags into spaces that clearly weren’t designed for them. We watched it all unfold
with the quiet satisfaction of people who had already completed the hardest part of the journey:
getting on board without breaking a sweat.
Life At 39,000 Feet
We left on time for the eleven-hour haul — or, as the seat-back screen cheerfully reminded us,
5,369 miles in the air. Everything seemed to be working fine, although this particular aircraft did
have the usual little TVs on the back of the seats they didn’t show programs. Instead, you had to
download the airline’s app if you wanted to watch anything. The reviews online made it sound like
the app had been coded by someone using oven gloves, but it worked perfectly well on Jane’s phone
and on the tablet we’d brought along. Not that it mattered much — the film selection was dreadful.
A few of the TV shows were watchable, but nothing worth writing home about.
At least they’d finally installed power sockets at the seats. The catch? One socket for three people.
A sort of electrical Hunger Games. Still, we weren’t complaining — the middle seat in our row was
empty, which meant we weren’t crammed in like sardines, and there was even a respectable amount
of legroom. The beer was free too, and since the flight had cost us around £750 each, I felt it would
be rude not to get my money’s worth.
Lunch arrived, and — shock of shocks — it was chicken. Chicken and… something. I’m still not
entirely sure what the “something” was, but the chicken itself was decent enough. And let’s be
honest: once you’ve eaten that, you’re not getting anything else until you land except a snack. As
long as the beer kept flowing, I was perfectly content to sit there for another eight hours.
Sleep, however, was out of the question. This plane seemed noisier than most we’d flown on, so I
gave up trying and settled in with the tablet for some reading. If that failed, I could always fire up
the laptop and tinker with the photo, video, and document apps I’d downloaded — something that
usually keeps me quiet for hours. Failing that, Jane could always jangle a set of keys in front of me.
Halfway through the flight, the afternoon snack arrived: crackers with cheese spread (the only thing
that tasted genuinely nice), a KitKat, and a small bag of spicy nut-mix-type stuff that defied
classification. It would have been helpful if they’d provided something to spread the cheese with,
but fingers exist for a reason. Naturally, it would have been rude not to wash the whole lot down
with another beer.
Eight hours in, the tablet app started buffering every few minutes, which was irritating but
survivable — there were only a couple of hours left. Tea and coffee would be coming round soon,
hopefully with something edible, because by this point I was starving. I was very glad we’d brought
crisps with us, though I wished we’d bought a couple more bags each. Long-haul flights always
seem to turn into endurance tests where snacks become a form of emotional support.
Welcome To California (Eventually)
About an hour before landing, the flight path dipped south over the city, giving us the kind of views
that make eleven hours in a metal tube feel almost worth it. Approaching from the north, you glide
over Marin County, The Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the Presidio — all laid out beneath you
like a postcard someone forgot to stop colouring in. Even from ten or fifteen thousand feet, San
Francisco has a way of showing off.
Just before the plane lines up for its final descent, you pass directly over the San Andreas Fault and
the long, narrow lake that sits inside it. I’d always imagined the fault as a dramatic crack in the
earth — something out of a disaster film — but from above it looks more like a Welsh valley that’s
wandered into the wrong country. Still, seeing it from the air was one of those quietly astonishing
moments you don’t forget.
Once we were off the plane, we had a twenty-minute walk to immigration. This is where the
wheelchair earns its keep: straight to the front of the queue. Unfortunately, that doesn’t speed up the
wait for the bags, which always seem to take their sweet time.
There’s always that moment at immigration when the officer starts asking questions and you
suddenly become convinced you look guilty of something — anything — despite having done
absolutely nothing wrong. You half-expect them to whisk you off to “the room” like in the TV
shows, where your suitcase is already waiting to be tipped out and examined item by item. But, as
on every previous trip, there were no issues. Fingerprints taken, a mugshot captured (which I’m sure
is lovely, though we never get to see it), and we were waved through to baggage reclaim.
That’s when the real chaos began.
The screens kept changing which carousel our bags would appear on, sending everyone scurrying
back and forth like confused penguins. Eventually, the bags started appearing — just not on the
carousel anyone was standing at. Ours had apparently been doing lazy laps for a while, completely
unbothered by the fact that we were nowhere near them. Naturally, our suitcase was one of the last
to arrive. There’s always that moment, when the crowds thin out and the belt goes quiet, where you
start to wonder whether you’ll be spending the evening in Old Navy buying emergency clothes.
BARTY To The City
With our bags finally in hand, we headed up one level to the arrivals hall to catch the BART train
into the city. But before we could even think about boarding a train, we had to face an old enemy —
the vendy-bot self-serve ticket machine. Yes. Those again.
If you’ve read any of our previous journals, you’ll know these machines have a long and colourful
history with us. They never simply dispense a ticket. Oh no. They test your patience, your reflexes,
your sanity, and occasionally your vocabulary. But after years of trial and error — and more than a
few muttered threats — we’ve learned their ways. This wasn’t our first San Francisco rodeo.
This time, vendy-bot would obey.
Miraculously, it did. Tickets in hand, we had about a fifteen-minute wait for the next BART train,
having just missed one. I’m convinced this was vendy- bot’s final act of spite, but I can’t prove it.
The BART trains have a wonderfully retro sci- fi feel to them — like something from a 1970s
vision of the future where everyone owns a hovercar and eats dinner in pill form. For their age, the
accessibility is surprisingly good: minimal gap between train and platform, no awkward step, and
plenty of space once you’re inside. The ride into the city takes around thirty minutes, half of it
above ground. You glide past the brightly painted houses and rolling hills of Colma before diving
underground for the final squeaky-wheel stretch to Montgomery Street.
Once we arrived, it was easier to walk the rest of the way. After sitting for so long, stretching our
legs felt like a luxury, and the fresh air did us good. I already had a route in mind — a shortcut
through a few side streets — and before long we were rolling up to the hotel at around 4 p.m., tired
but relieved to finally be in the city.
Welcome To The Triton
The Hotel Triton is a funky, borderline-hippie sort of place — the kind of hotel that looks like it was
decorated by someone who owns too many scarves and has strong opinions about incense. The walk
up the road to get there was steeper than I remembered, though in San Francisco terms it probably
counts as a gentle incline. Anything that doesn’t require ropes and crampons is basically flat here.
Check-in, however, was a bit touch-and-go. Normally, hotels take a deposit of around $50 per night,
capped at a few hundred dollars. This place wanted $100 per night for the entire stay — a grand
total of $1,400. My prepaid card only had $600 on it, so I was already rehearsing my “We can
explain…” speech. Strangely, the transaction went through anyway. Later, when we checked the
balance, only $200 had actually been taken. The receptionist must have given us the wrong
information — not that we were about to complain. Still, it was another reminder that travel
agencies will tell you anything to get you out the door with a brochure in your hand.
The room itself was fine. They even upgraded us to a “better” room with funky wallpaper, though
I’m not entirely sure what the original room would have looked like if this was the improved
version. It felt like a standard double to me — comfortable enough, but nothing to write home
about.
The air-conditioning unit, however, was straight out of an American sitcom: one of those big metal
boxes wedged into an open window, humming away like an elderly fridge. Temperature wasn’t the
issue — it kept the room cool enough — but the noise from the street poured in through the gaps
around it. Between the late-night drinkers and the constant bustle of being right on the edge of
Chinatown, it was lively to say the least. Popular area, lots of tourists, lots of noise. Still, after a day
like ours, even the soundtrack of midnight chaos wasn’t going to keep us awake for long.
Beer, Sunshine & Union Square
It was finally time to get out into the city, find something to eat, and pick up a few essentials. The
late afternoon had turned beautifully warm — around 26°C — the kind of weather that makes you
forget you’ve been awake for the better part of a day and a half.
We wandered through Union Square first. It’s one of those places we always end up lingering in, no
matter how many times we’ve been. There’s something comforting about watching the cable cars
trundle up and down Powell Street while the world drifts by. After the stress of a long flight, it’s the
perfect place to unwind — especially with a coffee in hand. Oddly enough, despite being one of the
busiest tourist spots in the city, a coffee here is only about three dollars. A small miracle in San
Francisco.
A short walk later we reached Walgreens, where we stocked up on snacks and drinks, then ducked
into McDonald’s for a quick bite. After a day like this, anything more ambitious than fast food was
firmly off the table.
The slow walk back to the hotel felt good — a chance to stretch our legs and breathe in the warm
evening air. Once inside, we collapsed in front of the TV for a bit. It was the early hours of the
morning back in the UK, and we still hadn’t had anything resembling proper sleep.
Around six o’clock, I decided to nip out to the little shop down the road that sold beer. It was only a
five-minute walk, but in America it’s always wise to take ID, even if you clearly look over twenty
one. Some places insist on checking everyone. Thankfully, this wasn’t one of those places.
That shop quickly became my go-to for booze, and I’m fairly sure the bloke behind the counter
thought I had a drinking problem. On one occasion he even slipped my two large cans of Bud into
little brown paper bags — the kind you see in American TV dramas when someone’s drinking on a
street corner. I couldn’t decide whether to be offended or impressed by the customer service. Maybe
he thought I was planning to drink them on the walk back to the hotel. Maybe he was just being
helpful. Hard to say.
Comfy Bed Time
Back at the hotel, I settled onto the bed with a cold beer in hand, the TV on, and the laptop out so I
could type up the day for the blog. By ten o’clock I was completely done in. With the eight-hour
time difference, that was six in the morning back home — no wonder my body was staging a quiet
protest.
One thing you can always rely on after a travel day like this is a solid night’s sleep, and I wasn’t
wrong. Even the noise from the street didn’t keep us awake. Our room overlooked the main road,
with the entrance to Chinatown almost directly opposite, so there was always something going on
— voices, traffic, the general hum of city life. But none of it mattered. It was just lovely to curl up
in a big, comfortable bed in a city we love. It felt like years since our last visit.
Refections On The Day
There's a particular kind of tiredness that only comes from long-haul travel — the sort that settles
into your bones and makes your brain feel like it's running on dial-up. Today had that in abundance.
From the 5:20 a.m. taxi ride to the eleven-hour flight, the endless queues, wandering luggage, and
the battle with Vendy-Bot, it felt as though we'd somehow lived three days in one.
And yet, stepping out into the warm San Francisco afternoon made it all feel worthwhile.
After months of planning and the marathon of actually getting here, that first moment back in the
city is always the one that hits hardest. Union Square was its usual mix of sunshine, noise, and
cable-car charm, but more than anything it felt familiar. That's the strange thing about San
Francisco. Every visit feels exciting, yet comfortingly familiar at the same time — like returning to
a place that remembers you, even if it doesn't know your name.
The small things stood out today: a warm breeze after hours in an aircraft cabin, the simple pleasure
of walking through the city again, and even the beer run, complete with cans hidden inside brown
paper bags as though I'd wandered into a low-budget detective film. Travel days are rarely
glamorous, but they do have their moments.
By the time we finally crawled into bed, with the sounds of Chinatown drifting up from the street
below, exhaustion had well and truly won. But it was the good kind of exhaustion — the kind that
comes from knowing you've made it.
You're here.
The planning is over.
The journey is done.
And two weeks of adventure lie ahead.
It had been more than two years since we'd last set foot in San Francisco, but lying there listening to
the distant sounds of the city, it felt less like arriving somewhere new and more like coming home.
Maybe that's why so many people leave their heart here.
