Parks & Garden's

 

We didn’t make it out until about 11 this morning, which tells you everything you need to know about our energy levels. Breakfast was a sausage, egg and mushroom bagel from the hotel — absolutely glorious, though tragically lacking a coffee. I could have wandered down to the lobby to grab one of the free ones they hand out in the mornings, but honestly, the motivation just wasn’t there. Sometimes laziness wins, and I’m not ashamed.

A Complex Cunning Plan

I’d spent part of last night re-checking the bus routes for today’s plans, and it quickly became clear that this was going to be a day defined almost entirely by public transport. A lot of buses. The sort of day where you start to feel like you should be on first-name terms with the drivers. Still, the routes were mapped, the bagel was eaten, and eventually we were ready to face whatever the Muni system had in store for us. 

Today was meant to be a full loop of the city, hopping between some of the best parks San Francisco has to offer. When I say “parks,” I really mean landscaped gardens perched on the city’s hills — the sort of places that make you feel like you’ve climbed halfway to the clouds without ever leaving an urban street. 

I’d spent a fair bit of time planning the bus routes for this little circuit, and on paper it all looked beautifully simple: most services running every ten minutes or so, everything linking neatly together. Of course, as we’ve learned, Muni timetables are more of a polite suggestion than a promise. You can plan it to a certain extent using the real-time bus tracking on my phone, helped along by the free Wi-Fi in many of the parks — a gift to the city from Google a few years back. It used to work brilliantly, but these days it drops out more often than our Wi-Fi at home. Still, it’s free, so there’s not much point complaining, and even less chance of anyone listening. 

It’s funny how much we take the internet for granted now. One moment you’re navigating a complex bus network with live updates, and the next you’re standing on a hill, waving your phone around like you’re trying to summon a signal from the gods.

Treading Carefully In The Tenderloin

First stop was the main library, a grand old beast from the outside and absolutely vast once you’re through the doors. The entrance drops you into a central atrium that opens out in every direction — two floors down, three floors up, all crowned by a dome that makes you feel like you’ve wandered into some civic cathedral dedicated to the worship of overdue books. 

From there we headed across towards City Hall, though not without a bit of unwanted entertainment. This part of town is the Tenderloin, famous — or infamous — for its concentration of homeless people and those clearly battling their own demons. It’s not the safest neighbourhood at the best of times, and today we got a bit of abuse from someone clearly having a moment. Nothing serious, just one of those reminders that this city has a very sharp edge beneath the postcard views. 

City Hall itself is only a short walk across the plaza, but getting inside is another matter. Like all federal buildings you have to go through bag checks and metal detectors, and judging by the number of people milling around in suits and dresses, there were a few weddings happening. It’s a popular spot to get married or at least pose for the photos, and the queue looked like it would take a while. With the sun out and the day warming up nicely, we decided to give it a miss and carry on with our loop instead.

Painted Ladies Above The City

From City Hall we caught the number 21 bus out to Alamo Square, a place that always feels strangely familiar even if you’ve never set foot there. So many films and TV shows have used this hilltop as a backdrop that when you arrive, there’s a moment where your brain goes, Oh — I’ve been here before, even though you haven’t. The park was in the final stages of a huge reconstruction project, though the famously wet winter had pushed everything behind schedule. Only part of it was open, but even from the limited sections you could see, the millions poured into the restoration were going to be worth every cent once the fences finally came down. 

Alamo Square has that rare quality of feeling both historic and alive at the same time. The neighbourhood grew up in the late 1800s, when San Francisco was booming after the Gold Rush, and wealthy residents built their ornate Victorian and Edwardian homes around the park. Bright colours, intricate woodwork, decorative flourishes — the sort of houses that look like they were designed by someone who never learned the meaning of the word “subtle.” Many of them survived the 1906 earthquake and fire, which gives the whole area a sense of stubborn endurance, like it’s quietly proud to have outlived so much of the old city. 

We spent about an hour there, just sitting on the grass and soaking in the view. The Painted Ladies lined up in front of us like a postcard, and beyond them the Financial District rose in the distance, all glass and steel. It’s one of those scenes that sums up San Francisco perfectly — the old and the new, the delicate and the imposing, all sharing the same skyline. 

Originally, I’d planned for us to walk a couple of blocks downhill to Divisadero, but when we reached the edge of the park and looked down, the street dropped away like a ski slope. One of those classic San Francisco hills where you start to wonder whether you should tie yourself to a lamppost for safety. We sensibly opted for the number 21 again, riding it just a couple of stops before hopping off near a Popeyes. 

We’d tried one of these in Chicago and weren’t impressed, but they’re franchises, so we figured we’d give this one a chance. I’m glad we did — the chicken was fantastic. The neighbourhood didn’t look like the sort of place you’d expect to find culinary joy, but it was absolutely worth it. Some of the best fried chicken we’ve ever had, and all for under $18. A small victory for both the stomach and the wallet.

Top Of The World

We crossed the road and hopped on the number 24 for the fifteen-minute ride up to Alta Plaza Park. I’d originally planned for us to carry on one more block to see the Lyon Street Steps, but the moment we looked up at that final monster of a hill, both of us silently agreed: absolutely not. We’d already learned our lesson at Dolores Park — steep hills plus a wheelchair equals disaster waiting to happen. And with no bus going right to the top, it would’ve meant climbing up only to retrace our steps back down again. No thanks. 

Alta Plaza sits high above the city, covering four square blocks and rising to around 400 feet above sea level — easily one of the highest parks in San Francisco. This is Pacific Heights, where even the “cheap” houses start at two million dollars, and the views alone feel like they should come with a price tag. From up here you get sweeping vistas out toward the bay, the Bay Bridge peeking through the haze, and Treasure Island sitting out in the water like a stubborn old relic. 

It’s strange to stand somewhere so peaceful and imagine what it must have looked like in 1906, when this hill became an emergency refuge camp after the earthquake and fire. Thousands of people living in temporary shelters, looking down at a city they loved that had been reduced to rubble and smoke. Standing there in the cold wind, it wasn’t hard to picture the mix of heartbreak and resilience that must have filled this place. 

Apart from a few dog walkers, we had the park almost entirely to ourselves — probably because the wind was absolutely cutting at this height. There are plenty of facilities here: tennis courts, play areas, picnic spots, even toilets. But the pavements are a nightmare. Most of them are uneven, and the few smooth sections are so steep that rolling down them would’ve been like launching a bobsled. So we zig-zagged our way through the park, taking the gentlest slopes we could find, and eventually came out on a corner where we could start heading downhill. 

We walked and rolled a couple of blocks to catch the Number 1 bus — and this is where I made my mistake. Because they drive on the opposite side of the road to the UK, I got myself completely turned around and put us on the bus going the wrong way. It happens to the best of us, even after days of planning routes so we’d always be walking downhill when we got off. At least I realised before we’d gone too far. We hopped off, crossed the road, and thankfully didn’t have to wait long for the right one.

Lafayette Park And A Bus Lift

We reached Lafayette Park but had to give it a miss almost immediately. The path leading up was far too steep, and while we could have taken a couple more buses to loop around the block and approach from the top, it just wasn’t worth the time or the effort. Some hills you look at and think, maybe. This one was a very firm nope. 

The only other point of interest in the area was the Arthur Conan Doyle plaque, proudly claiming he lived at 2151 Sacramento Street, right opposite the park, around 1923. Except… he probably didn’t. He owned the property and had an office here, but there’s no solid proof he ever actually lived in the building. One of those slightly dodgy claims to fame — the sort of thing a neighbourhood clings to because it sounds good on a walking tour. 

Next on the list was to get back on the Number 1 bus and head down Clay Street toward Taylor. The buses on this route are ancient — easily twenty years old, maybe more — and the last of their kind still rattling around the city. They all have three high steps to climb, and with no raised kerbs anywhere along here, Jane had to use the concealed lift. It slides out from the top step, lowers to the pavement, you climb on, grab the rails, and it hoists you up before tucking itself neatly back into the bus. For something designed decades ago, it’s an impressive bit of engineering, and the fact it still works flawlessly is nothing short of miraculous.

Pondering Life In A Park

Once we got off the bus, it was only a short walk around the corner to Huntington Park — and, for once, a wonderfully flat block. After a day spent climbing San Francisco's hills, even the smallest stretch of level ground felt like a luxury. 

Perched high on Nob Hill, almost 400 feet above sea level, the park occupies some of the most prestigious real estate in the city. In the late nineteenth century, San Francisco's wealthiest families built grand mansions here, drawn by the commanding views across the bay. That world came to an abrupt end after the 1906 earthquake and the devastating fires that followed, which raged for three days and destroyed almost everything on the hill, including the original Grace Cathedral across the road. 

The park itself exists thanks to the widow of railroad magnate Collis P. Huntington, who donated the land of their former mansion to the city in 1915. More than a century later, Nob Hill remains one of San Francisco's most desirable neighbourhoods, yet surprisingly few visitors seem to make it this far. Perhaps it's the steep climb, perhaps it's the cable car fare, or perhaps it's simply one of those rare places that still feels like a local secret. 

I'd visited Huntington Park on my own back in 2013, during what turned out to be one of the hottest Christmas Days on record, and I'd always wanted to bring Jane here. One of the things I remembered most were the hummingbirds. Anna's Hummingbirds live here year-round, tiny emerald flashes darting between the trees and flowerbeds. They're easy to miss at first, but once your eyes tune in to them, you begin spotting them everywhere. 

The weather was much cooler this time, but the park still had the same peaceful charm I remembered. Water trickled quietly from the fountains, cable cars rattled past on nearby California Street, and the park seemed to be hosting an unofficial gathering of local dogs. Technically they're not allowed, but judging by the number of wagging tails, flying tennis balls and owners deep in conversation, enforcement appeared to be taking the day off. 

We found a bench and simply sat for a while, watching the world go by. In a city that often feels busy and energetic, Huntington Park has a way of slowing everything down. It wasn't the most dramatic stop of the day, but it was easily one of the most relaxing. 

Eventually we crossed the road to Grace Cathedral for a few photographs. Since my last visit, someone had added what appeared to be an acrylic artwork across the front steps, designed to create the illusion of clouds rising into the sky. From a distance I could appreciate the idea, but personally it felt a little out of place against the cathedral's timeless stone architecture. Still, art is subjective, and no doubt somebody thought it was the perfect addition.

Edge Of The Old City

We'd originally planned to visit the Cable Car Museum next, but by the time we got there it would have been brushing up against closing time. Instead, we jumped back on the Number 1 bus and rode down to Kearny Street, from where it was only a short walk to Portsmouth Square Plaza. 

To be honest, Portsmouth Square isn't going to win any beauty contests. It's a rather tired-looking patch of concrete surrounded by busy streets, and if you stumbled across it without knowing its history, you'd probably wonder what all the fuss was about. Yet this unassuming square was once the very heart of San Francisco. 

Back in the 1850s, before the Financial District existed, this was effectively the city's waterfront. It's hard to picture today, standing among the chess tables and concrete paving, but the shoreline of Yerba Buena Cove once stretched right up to this spot. As the city expanded, the bay was gradually filled in, creating the land where the skyscrapers now stand. If you know where to look, small plaques set into the pavement mark the locations of ships that still lie buried beneath the streets. 

Most of those vessels arrived during the Gold Rush. Their crews, lured by dreams of striking it rich, often abandoned them as soon as they reached San Francisco. Some ships were converted into warehouses, hotels and shops before eventually being swallowed by the growing city. Others were deliberately sunk to help create new land. The remains of one can still be seen beneath the aptly named Old Ship Inn, while one of the Muni subway tunnels reportedly passes straight through the hull of another — though you'd never know it as the train rattles past. 

There's something oddly fascinating about Portsmouth Square. On the surface it feels ordinary, even a little neglected in places, yet beneath your feet are layers of San Francisco's earliest history. We didn't linger for long, but it was enough to appreciate how dramatically the city has transformed. Few places tell that story quite so literally as Portsmouth Square, where the past is quite literally buried beneath the present.

Food & Free Wi-Fi

From Portsmouth Square we wandered over to the Crocker Galleria and grabbed something to eat from Jimmy John’s, then made our way back to the hotel just in time for the six o’clock news. By this point we were both pretty knackered, and Jane’s leg had been giving her trouble all day, so a couple of things on the list had to be sacrificed. Even so, we were managing to see most of what we set out to do each day, which feels like a small victory in itself. 

The rest of the evening was spent doing exactly what tired travellers do best: collapsing in front of the TV while half-heartedly poking at the laptop. The hotel internet could be painfully slow at times — the sort of slow where you start to wonder if the signal is being relayed by carrier pigeon — and it took ages to upload all the photos from the compact camera. But doing it daily seemed to help, and we’d just leave the laptop running in the mornings so it could carry on doing its thing. 

Our phones weren’t a problem at all; they’d start uploading the moment they sniffed out any free Wi-Fi, whether it was in a café, a shop, a park, or anywhere along Market Street, which seems to be one giant hotspot. A small mercy in a city where you spend half your time chasing buses and the other half chasing a signal.

Refections On The Day

Today felt like a day of persistence. Not the dramatic kind, just the quiet determination that comes from wanting to make the most of your time, even when your legs are tired, the hills seem steeper than they should be, and the weather isn't entirely on your side. San Francisco has a habit of making you work for everything, and today was no exception. 

What I'll remember most aren't the historic buildings or the stories of buried ships beneath the streets, but the quieter moments in between. Sitting in Huntington Park watching the world go by, spotting hummingbirds darting through the trees, and finding little pockets of calm amidst the noise and bustle of the city. Those brief pauses somehow felt more valuable than the landmarks themselves. 

Looking back, there's a simple satisfaction in days like this. Plans changed, distances felt longer than expected, and nothing came particularly easily, but we kept going and discovered things we might otherwise have missed. Sometimes that's what travel is really about — not ticking off attractions, but sharing the experience together and finding enjoyment in whatever the day happens to bring.

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Marin Headlands, Missiles In The Mountains

 

We were both feeling our age today. All the walking and warm weather had finally caught up with us, leaving us a bit slower than usual. We stopped at the bagel shop first — now a firm favourite — and I had my usual strong coffee to get things moving. 

The plan was simple: take the bus out to the Marin Headlands and enjoy a quieter day with big views and not too much effort. Whether our legs agreed was another matter, but we set off anyway.

Marin County, Missiles In The Mountains

We left the hotel around 10:30 and wandered round the corner for the short walk to Sutter Street, picking up snacks and drinks for the day. A wise move — once you’re out in the Marin Headlands, you’re on your own. No shops, no cafés, just wind, hills, and whatever you remembered to bring with you. 

With supplies secured, we caught the 76X limited-stop bus for the 45-minute ride out of the city and across the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s one of those journeys where the city slowly falls away behind you, replaced by open hills and that huge sweep of coastline. Even the bus ride feels like part of the adventure. 

Now, full disclosure: the main thing I’d wanted to see out here was the Nike Missile Site — one of those wonderfully strange Cold War relics that are equal parts eerie and fascinating. The Nike sites around San Francisco were part of a 1950s air-defence system built to protect the Bay Area from potential Soviet bomber attacks carrying nuclear weapons. Radar stations, underground launch bays, and missile silos were scattered around the region, forming a defensive ring that thankfully never had to be used. 

The Marin Headlands site, SF-88, is the only fully restored Nike missile site left in the United States. You can normally go underground, see the missiles up close, and wander through the old control rooms. It’s surreal to think that beneath these peaceful hills — now full of hikers, cyclists, and tourists — there were once nuclear-armed missiles waiting for a war that never came. 

Unfortunately, I discovered slightly too late that it only opens on Fridays and Saturdays. Friday had no bus service, and Saturday we’d been in the Mission District — which, with hindsight, we probably could have shuffled around. A shame, but hardly the first thing we’d missed on this trip, and certainly not the last. Three visits to this city and there’s still more to see than time allows. Not that we ever need much of an excuse to come back. 

Our first stop was Battery Spencer, just across the bridge on the Marin side. Built in the 1890s, it was part of a network of coastal defences guarding the Golden Gate Straits, and it remained in military use right up to the end of the Second World War. These old batteries are wonderfully accessible — no tickets, no queues, just wander in and explore at your own pace. 

The view from Battery Spencer is nothing short of spectacular. It’s the classic postcard angle of the Golden Gate Bridge — the one you see on calendars, posters, and screensavers — and it’s every bit as impressive in person. What surprised me was how few people bothered with the fort itself. Most visitors made a beeline for the viewpoint, took their photos, and moved on, leaving the old concrete structures almost completely empty. Perfect for us. 

Standing among the ruins, it’s easy to let your imagination drift. What must it have been like on a fog-shrouded morning, scanning the horizon for threats that never materialised? The place has a quiet, atmospheric weight to it — history without the crowds. 

And speaking of fog: I was very glad I’d packed my hoodie. It had been warm enough in the city, but up here the wind came slicing in off the ocean, sharp and cold, turning the sunshine into something of a decoy. Classic San Francisco — warm at street level, winter on a hill.

History In The Hills

We crossed back over the road to pick up the bus again and continue deeper into Marin County. This required a bit of timing — the morning buses only run once an hour — but even then we ended up waiting an extra fifteen minutes because it was late. Not ideal when you’re standing on a roadside with no shelter, no bench, and an endless stream of traffic roaring past. The wind had picked up too, and after a while the cold started to creep in. It’s amazing how long fifteen minutes can feel when you’re just standing still. 

Once the bus finally arrived, we climbed aboard and carried on up into the Headlands. The ride from here is about twenty minutes, winding through some truly spectacular countryside — rolling hills, wide open spaces, and that feeling of being far from the city even though it’s only a few miles behind you. 

The Marin Headlands Visitor Centre is tucked inside the beautifully preserved Fort Barry Chapel, and for such a small building it packs in a surprising amount. The exhibits cover the whole sweep of the area’s history: the Miwok people who lived here first; the Portuguese dairy farmers who worked the land in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries; and the soldiers who were stationed across the Headlands during the military years. It’s presented with a real human touch — not just dates and facts, but stories of the people who actually lived and worked out here. 

Because the surrounding area is now a protected nature reserve, the visitor centre also dives into the local wildlife. Displays on bobcats, coyotes, the endangered Mission Blue butterfly, and the raptors that migrate over Hawk Hill each autumn sit alongside the historical material. Somehow it all fits together — the natural and the human history layered over one another, just like the landscape itself. 

Outside, the scenery was breathtaking. It reminded me a little of the Lake District, but softer — the same sweeping green hills and sense of space, just without the jagged rocks breaking up the skyline. We watched large birds circling high overhead. At the time I couldn’t identify them, but later learned they were Turkey Vultures, with the occasional Harrier or Hawk drifting through. They were too high up for a proper look, which was mildly frustrating, but watching them glide on the thermals was impressive enough. 

I wandered a short way down one of the trails into a small patch of woodland and found several species of dragonflies flickering through the dappled light — one of those unexpected little bonuses that makes you glad you took a detour. The hiking paths stretch off in every direction around here, and I can only imagine how stunning it must be at sunrise or sunset. 

What struck me most, though, was the quiet. No traffic noise, no city hum, no pollution — just clean air, green hills, and the simple pleasure of standing there with the person you love, sharing the shade. It’s astonishing how quickly you can forget that one of America’s great cities is sitting just over the ridge. Some moments on a holiday don’t need much embellishment, and this was one of them.

Hunt The Bus Stop

Now came the tricky part: finding the bus stop for the ride back. It’s only a short walk down a footpath behind the visitor centre, but in the afternoon the bus runs just once every ninety minutes, so timing is everything. We could have got one earlier and ridden it to the end of the route before it looping back, but the sun was warm, the grass was inviting, and we decided to wait it out. 

The “bus stop” — and I use that term generously — was nothing more than a worn, twelve-inch strip of yellow paint on the road, half buried under gravel. No sign, no shelter, nowhere to sit, and an endless stream of cars flying past. Not exactly confidence-inspiring, especially in a place where the fog can roll in faster than you can say “where’s the path gone?” 

After a few minutes we were joined by a small group of hikers on a guided tour. None of them spoke English, and even their guide wasn’t entirely sure whether this was the right place to stand. That didn’t exactly help the nerves. At least we’d stuck to the roads — these people had been trekking across open land that looked like the moors back home, and if the fog had swept in, they’d have been in real trouble. 

We ended up with about half an hour to wait, but it was surprisingly pleasant. There was no wind at all, just warm sunshine and the occasional bird circling overhead. After the chill earlier in the day, this felt like bliss. 

The reason the bus only runs every ninety minutes in the afternoon is simple: traffic. Once it gets caught in the city bottlenecks, the whole timetable stretches like elastic. And of course, the longer you wait, the more you start thinking, What if it doesn’t turn up? There was one more scheduled after this, but if that one failed too, we’d have been well and truly stranded. Plan B would have been to hitch-hike back to civilisation — or at least as far as the Golden Gate Bridge. 

In the end, it was just me being paranoid. Have faith, as Jane would say. It hasn’t gone wrong yet, so don’t fret. And sure enough, right on cue — or as close to “cue” as Marin County buses ever get — the bus rolled into view.

Step Away From The knick-knacks

The ride back down from the Headlands was every bit as spectacular as the journey up. It felt like something out of the Swiss Alps — steep winding roads, huge drops, and those vast views stretching out over the Pacific Ocean. I never imagined a simple bus ride could be worth the trip on its own, but with the road sitting around 800 feet above the water, the scenery was nothing short of breathtaking. 

After the long descent we got off at the toll booths on the Golden Gate Bridge. The 76X bypasses the main plaza, but it’s only a short walk under the highway to reach it. We’ve been here a few times over the years, but it’s one of those places that never gets old. So, after a much-needed cup of tea in the café, we wandered into the gift shop. 

They had some lovely items — most of them exclusive to the National Park store — including a really nice bridge plaque and a replica rivet like the ones originally used in the bridge’s construction. You can’t buy these anywhere else, which makes them feel a bit more special than the usual tourist souvenirs. 

From there we retraced our steps back under the road. I left Jane at the bus stop while I went off to explore a few more of the old batteries scattered around the hillside. Much of the ground here is uneven, with steep gravel paths and awkward slopes, so it wasn’t really suitable for Jane to get around safely. It’s one of those areas where you have to pick your battles — and in this case, the sensible option was for her to wait in comfort while I indulged my curiosity.

The Battery’s Above The Bluffs

Battery Cranston, Marcus, Boutelle, and Godfrey form a line along the cliff edge, stretching for nearly a mile and sitting roughly 300 feet above the ocean and were built built between 1877 and 1900. They’re an impressive sight — four great concrete fortifications perched above the entrance to the Bay, each one once armed and ready to defend the coastline. Set back in the trees behind them are all the old subsidiary buildings: barracks, storage rooms, and support structures that would have been completely hidden from view, even if you’d managed to climb the hills on the opposite side of the strait. 

I’ve no idea how many gun emplacements are scattered around this area, but it’s a lot. They range from the huge, fortress-like Fort Point — which the Golden Gate Bridge was literally built over — to the batteries I’d just walked through, right down to tiny cannon positions dug deep into the cliffs. Some of those smaller ones are almost impossible to reach, but you can spot them from higher up in the hills if you know where to look. 

What surprised me most was how intact everything still feels. Considering none of these places are fenced off, there’s remarkably little vandalism. It gives the whole area a kind of ghost-town atmosphere — abandoned, but not forgotten. I could easily have spent the entire afternoon wandering around with my camera, exploring every corner. 

The views from up here are incredible. The sky was the deepest blue I’ve ever seen, and the coastline seemed to stretch on forever. But time was getting away from us, and we needed to catch the 76X back. If we missed it, our only options would have been the number 28 followed by the dreaded 30, or the PresidiGo shuttle and then the number 43 — both of which would have taken well over an hour to get us back to the hotel. So, reluctantly, I headed back to where I’d left Jane waiting. 

It’s a good thing we didn’t rely on the timetable posted at the stop. According to that, the bus was supposed to leave fifteen minutes later than it actually did. We ended up getting back to the stop almost exactly ninety minutes after we’d stepped off the previous bus — which made sense, since they only run every hour and a half. What annoyed me was that I’d downloaded the timetable directly from the Muni website, and even that had the wrong information for this stop.

Photography In The Square

Before long we were back on the bus for the twenty-five-minute ride to Union Square. We grabbed something to eat, then headed straight to the hotel for a well-earned beer and a sit-down. It had turned into a much longer day than we’d planned, but it was worth every moment — one of those days that leaves you tired in the best possible way. 

After transferring the day’s photographs onto the laptop, I realised it was the perfect chance to head back out for some night photography around Union Square. Most of the big department stores — Macy’s, Saks, and the hotels that line the square — are beautifully lit after dark. Compared to the daytime, the whole area feels almost empty, despite the bars and clubs scattered around the nearby streets. It gives the square a completely different atmosphere, quieter and somehow more cinematic. 

I spent a while sitting on the edge of the square watching the cable cars trundle up and down Powell Street, their bells echoing through the night. It’s one of those simple pleasures that never gets old. 

I dropped into Johnny Foley’s for a quick drink, but it was absolutely packed, so I only stayed for one before calling it a night and heading back to the hotel.

Reflections On The Day

Today felt like one of those rare days where the world slows down just enough for you to notice it. The Headlands had a way of stripping everything back — the noise, the rush, the usual clutter in your head — until all that was left was space, sunlight, and the quiet reassurance of being exactly where you were meant to be. 

There was a calmness to it all, even in the moments that should have been stressful. Waiting for buses that may or may not appear, standing on windswept hills, wandering through old military ruins — somehow it all felt part of the same gentle rhythm. Maybe it was the scenery, maybe it was the company, or maybe it was just the kind of day that reminds you how good it feels to be alive and curious. 

What stayed with me most wasn’t the views or the history, but the stillness — that rare sense of breathing a little deeper, thinking a little clearer, and realising that even the long, tiring days can leave you feeling quietly grateful.

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Mission & The Castro

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.

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Aquatic Park

Today started with a ham, mushroom, and egg bagel while we enjoyed a lazy morning in the hotel. We'd been out late the night before, so the plan was to keep everything fairly local and avoid spending half the day bouncing around on buses.

Gravity Wins Again

What I hadn't realised was that we could have caught a bus near the hotel and then changed onto the Number 19, which runs along Polk Street. Still, you live and learn.

The plan had been simple enough: get off the Number 19 at Lombard Street and walk a couple of blocks uphill to what is often claimed to be the most crooked road in the world. This was always going to be the toughest part of the day because, no matter which direction you approach it from, this hill is steep. And when I say steep, I mean the sort of steep where you start wondering whether the road planners accidentally confused a street with a ski slope. Some of the parked cars look as though they're hanging on through sheer determination.

This wasn't our first attempt at getting there either. The previous time we'd tried to scale what felt like the south face of a city-centre mountain, we'd met exactly the same problem. Honestly, I think even a mountain goat would take one look at this hill, quietly mutter "not today," and turn around.

Even if you don't have any mobility issues, it's a challenging climb. It quickly became obvious that there was no way Jane was going to manage the two-block ascent. The only realistic alternative would have been taking the cable car, but the high steps make boarding difficult for her. I'm fairly sure we'd attempted this exact route on a previous trip with exactly the same outcome.

Still, I haven't given up hope of getting up here with Jane one day. The views from the top across downtown San Francisco are spectacular when the weather is clear, as it was today. We just need to be a bit smarter about it and approach from the eastern side next time rather than trying to tackle the hill head-on.

With the plan defeated by gravity once again, there wasn't much else to do except head back towards the bus stop where we'd got off. The Number 19 can be a little unpredictable when it comes to actually appearing, so we decided it would be quicker to walk the five or so blocks downhill to Ghirardelli Square instead.

Of course, downhill isn't always the easy option when you're pushing a wheelchair. Going up is hard work on the legs; going down is hard work on the arms, the brakes, and occasionally the nerves. San Francisco has a wonderful ability to turn even a simple downhill stroll into a team sport'

Free Samples & A Live Stream Fail

Never mind. There were plenty of other places to visit today, and reaching the top of Lombard Street would have added at least another couple of hours to the day. Instead, we continued down what remained of Polk Street and headed into Ghirardelli Square.

Today, it's a mixture of luxury shops, high-end restaurants, and eye-wateringly expensive apartments occupying the upper floors. But long before it became a destination for ice-cream sundaes and boutique shopping, it was a bustling industrial powerhouse.

Its story is a fascinating blend of Gold Rush ambition, chocolate-making innovation, and one of San Francisco's earliest historic preservation success stories.

Domingo Ghirardelli arrived in California in 1849 during the Gold Rush and quickly realised that selling supplies and sweets to miners was considerably more profitable than digging for gold himself. After opening a number of successful stores across Northern California, he founded the Ghirardelli Chocolate Company in San Francisco in 1852.

In 1893, the company purchased an entire city block near the northern waterfront. Over the following decades, a collection of handsome red-brick industrial buildings rose on the site, culminating in 1915 with the installation of the giant illuminated Ghirardelli sign that still dominates the skyline today.

By the 1960s, however, the factory operations had largely moved elsewhere, and many of the buildings stood partially vacant. Given the location, developers saw prime waterfront real estate and proposed demolishing the complex to make way for apartments. Thankfully, the site was purchased by the Roth family, who transformed it through one of the country's earliest large-scale adaptive reuse projects, preserving the historic buildings and giving them a new purpose.

It's hard to imagine now, wandering through the neat courtyards and cafés, that this was once a working chocolate factory producing thousands of pounds of chocolate every day.

There are still two Ghirardelli retail stores within the square, which is spread across two split levels. Better yet, there always seems to be somebody standing at the entrance handing out free chocolate samples.

Naturally, we visited both shops and collected a sample from each.

Then we needed to use the lift in the first shop to get down to the lower level, which meant walking back through the entrance and, rather inconveniently, being offered another free sample. I suggested to Jane that we'd missed a trick by not bringing disguises. You can just picture it: fake moustaches, oversized glasses, perhaps a suspiciously obvious wig. "No, sorry, you've mistaken us for somebody else. I am clearly not the same person who was here thirty seconds ago collecting free chocolate." I'm sure nobody would have suspected a thing.

The square also has free Wi-Fi, which seemed like the perfect opportunity to experiment with Facebook Live. This turned out to be considerably less exciting than I'd imagined because the only person watching was Jane, who was sitting right next to me.

What made it even stranger was the delay. Despite being connected to exactly the same Wi-Fi network, what appeared on Jane's phone lagged behind what I was actually saying. Once the audio started feeding back into itself, the whole thing descended into technological chaos until she finally muted her phone. Even then, she remained my entire audience.

Still, it was fun to try. I probably won't use Facebook Live very often, but I like understanding how these things work. Besides, it seemed wise to stop before we accidentally crossed the live streams and opened some sort of internet-based portal to another dimension. The Ghostbusters warned us about that sort of thing.

Remains Of The Past & Tense Situation

We left Ghirardelli Square via the lower level, which brings you straight out into the Aquatic Park area. The weather was far too nice to rush anywhere, so I parked Jane in a sunny spot overlooking the water while I took a stroll along Municipal Pier. The surface along here isn’t exactly wheelchair friendly.

The pier curves gently out into the bay and offers some wonderful views back towards the city. It's also one of those places where San Francisco's history feels surprisingly close. This was once part of the city's busy maritime and fishing district before being transformed into a fashionable swimming destination during the 1930s. Back then, Aquatic Park was home to a grand Art Deco bathhouse and attracted swimmers from across the city.

If you look carefully, you can still spot traces of that past. The old tram tracks remain embedded in places, reminders of the streetcars that once ran along the waterfront and through the tunnel towards Crissy Field.

That tunnel is now permanently gated off. From what I've read, the closure was largely due to problems with people camping inside and the constant maintenance issues that followed. It's a shame, really, because it would provide a useful shortcut for anyone wanting to avoid the substantial hill between Aquatic Park and Fort Mason. Unfortunately, some places reach the point where keeping them clean, safe, and accessible becomes an ongoing battle.

The area is also home to several historic ships, their masts and rigging standing out against the skyline. We didn't venture aboard any of them today, but they're fascinating to look at from the shore. Every now and then, a sea lion would pop up in the water and perform a few acrobatic manoeuvres before disappearing beneath the surface again, seemingly determined to entertain anyone willing to watch.

From there, we wandered over to Hyde Street Pier with a slightly unusual mission.

For months before the trip, we'd been watching one of the EarthCam live streams from San Francisco on the tablet back home. It had become one of those little routines that makes you feel connected to a place you're looking forward to visiting. Naturally, once we were actually here, we wanted to find out exactly where the camera was mounted.

And we found it.

The camera sits on top of a two-storey building mounted on a pole, quietly broadcasting San Francisco to living rooms all over the world. It felt oddly satisfying finally seeing it in person. From that vantage point, the camera captures fantastic views across the bay towards Alcatraz, over Fisherman's Wharf, and all the way to the Bay Bridge.

It's funny how something so ordinary can become familiar. Watching that camera feed at home always gave us a little glimpse of San Francisco whenever we felt like escaping for a few minutes. Just across the road sits the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park and Museum, which tells the story of the city's maritime heritage and how San Francisco grew from a small settlement into one of the most important ports on the west coast.

Much of this waterfront stands on reclaimed land, created from the debris left behind by the 1906 earthquake and subsequent rebuilding efforts. Over time, it developed into the city's main fishing port. While most of the commercial fishing fleet has long since disappeared, the area remains closely associated with seafood. Fresh crab stalls, fish markets, and seafood restaurants line much of the waterfront.

As two people who aren't particularly enthusiastic about seafood, however, the smell alone was enough to keep us moving.

We continued into Fisherman's Wharf before taking a look around The Cannery. Once an enormous industrial complex producing canned goods, it's now home to restaurants, cafés, and shops. Like many former industrial buildings in San Francisco, it's been transformed into something considerably more upmarket than its original purpose ever suggested.

Unfortunately, this was also the point where we encountered one of the more unpleasant aspects of the tourist areas.

A man started trying to sell us CDs and simply refused to take no for an answer. At first it was merely annoying, but he became increasingly persistent and noticeably more aggressive the longer we ignored him.

In situations like this, we've learned that the best approach is usually to avoid engaging altogether. Most eventually lose interest and move on once they realise you're not buying whatever they're selling.

This one, however, seemed determined to hang around.

For a few uncomfortable minutes, I genuinely wondered whether the situation was about to escalate into something more serious. Thankfully, just as suddenly as he'd appeared, he lost interest and wandered off in search of somebody else to bother.

It was a good reminder that even in places as beautiful as San Francisco, not every encounter becomes a happy travel story.

Retro Games, Quarters & Curiosity

From there we continued past the endless rows of tourist shops and headed for the Musée Mécanique, one of my favourite places on the waterfront.

The museum houses arcade and amusement machines spanning more than a hundred years, and remarkably, most of them still work. You can actually play the exhibits rather than just look at them, which immediately makes it far more interesting than the average museum. They even have a two player Pac-Man machine, and the attendants glide around on roller skates, which somehow feels perfectly in keeping with the place.

The atmosphere inside is loud, nostalgic, and wonderfully chaotic. Rather than rows of exhibits sitting silently behind glass, everything here is alive. The air is filled with the sounds of player pianos, clanging metal, mechanical laughter, bells ringing, and the constant whirring and clicking of century-old gears. It feels less like a museum and more like stepping into an old seaside amusement arcade from another era.

Housed inside a large warehouse-like building on Pier 45, the collection exists largely because one family spent decades preserving these machines. From what I understand, the collection was passed down from father to son, and the philosophy was always that these machines were built to be played, not locked away behind barriers.

Keeping a place like this running can't be easy. The building itself needs maintaining, staff need paying, and many of the machines require constant restoration and repair. Yet much of that is funded by the steady stream of quarters people feed into the games every day. Every coin dropped into a machine helps keep another little piece of history alive.

They even have a large red button on the wall with a sign that clearly says, "Do Not Push."

Naturally, you have to push it.

As it turns out, the button doesn't launch missiles, trigger alarms, or unleash mechanical chaos. It simply adds one more number to a counter showing how many people have ignored the instruction not to press it.

Human curiosity remains undefeated.

By this point it was feeding time, so we stopped at McDonald's for a quick bite to eat before crossing the road to buy a coat I'd spotted on Pier 39 a few days earlier.

This was exactly the sort of coat I'd been looking for back home but had never quite managed to find. At $28, which worked out at roughly £20, it seemed like a bargain. Better still, it had "San Francisco" embroidered across it, making it both practical and an acceptable holiday souvenir.

What amused me most was that, as soon as I'd bought it, I suddenly noticed dozens of other people wearing exactly the same coat.

Clearly, I wasn't the first tourist to arrive dressed for a warm California afternoon only to discover the reality of San Francisco's weather.

Some of them had probably been caught out by Karl making one of his surprise appearances. Others had likely fallen victim to the city's unique ability to be sunny, windy, cold, and warm all at exactly the same time.

Whatever the reason, there seemed to be an unofficial club of people who had underestimated San Francisco and ended up buying emergency outerwear.

Membership apparently cost $28.

With that important purchase completed, we crossed back over the road and caught an F-Line streetcar back towards Market Street.

E not F to Market Street

Travelling back towards Market Street is never one of our favourite San Francisco experiences. The historic streetcars are great to look at, but once they're packed solid with tourists, the novelty wears off fairly quickly.

Thankfully, they had recently introduced the E Line, which runs along the Embarcadero but doesn't continue up Market Street like the F Line. The idea is simple enough and works rather well, at least in theory.

Unfortunately, a surprising number of people seemed unable to grasp the fact that an E tram is not an F tram.

The driver would patiently explain where the tram was going. Then explain it again. Then again. By about the seventh explanation, it would finally dawn on somebody that they were on the wrong tram. At which point they would stand directly in the doorway looking confused while everyone else tried to board.

In the end, we simply pushed our way through the crowd to get on.

Our plan was to use the lightly loaded E Line to reach the Ferry Building, walk across the plaza where many of the bus routes begin, and then catch a bus up Market Street. Compared to squeezing onto a packed F Line tram, it seemed a much more civilised option.

As it turned out, it worked perfectly.

The driver was also incredibly helpful. We waited at the raised platform, he then get out and deploy what looked remarkably like a miniature drawbridge so Jane could board and leave the tram. The system is actually quite clever. Because the historic streetcars were built in different countries, in different decades, and to completely different designs, there isn't a single platform height that works for all of them. Think of the variety of old trams you might see in Blackpool and then imagine trying to make one platform fit every single model.

Instead, each tram carries its own specially designed boarding bridge. Stored in a cupboard onboard, it folds out across the gap between the tram and the platform, creating an accessible route for wheelchairs and mobility scooters.

The only downside was that once the bridge was in place, the effective height of the doorway dropped to somewhere around four feet. This meant I had to perform an awkward crouching manoeuvre when I got on or off while pushing the wheelchair.

It probably looked like I was attempting some sort of tram-related limbo competition.

Still, for a fleet of historic vehicles operating a modern public transport service, it's an impressively practical solution. I certainly couldn't think of a better way to make trams built decades apart accessible to everyone.

While waiting at one stop, we could see the next F Line streetcar approaching behind us. Out of curiosity, we watched it pull in. It was absolutely packed.

People were standing shoulder to shoulder, pressed against windows and doorways like tourists in a tin can. The whole point of introducing the E Line was to relieve some of that pressure and spread passengers between the two routes.

The irony was that once the F Line reached the start of Market Street, a large proportion of those passengers would probably get off anyway.

Meanwhile, we had been sitting comfortably on a relatively empty tram, feeling rather pleased with ourselves for having discovered what was possibly San Francisco's best-kept public transport secret.

Subs & Cupcakes

As luck would have it, and with a little assistance from the internet, there was a Number 9 bus due to leave in about five minutes. We jumped aboard and headed up to Kearny Street before making our way into Crocker Galleria for some more Jimmy John's subs to take back to the hotel.

These were quickly consumed alongside a well-earned beer, because after a day of battling hills, crowds, and public transport, it would have been rude not to.

By now it was around five o'clock, so we spent a relaxing hour or so back at the hotel before heading out again at about 6:30.

The evening was pleasantly warm as we wandered through Union Square towards the Giants Dugout Store, about a fifteen-minute walk from the hotel. Even though the Giants were having another less-than-stellar season, we still wanted to pick up a few bits of merchandise while we were in town.

Unfortunately, this branch is fairly small and carries only a limited range compared to the enormous store at the ballpark. After a good look around, we struck out and failed to find what we were looking for.

Still, it wasn't a wasted trip. Just a block away on O'Farrell Street is Cako, home to what may well be the best cupcakes I've ever eaten. They're not cheap either. At $3.50 each, plus tax, they're firmly in the "this had better be worth it" category. Thankfully, they absolutely are. The cakes are ridiculously rich, and almost impossible to eat gracefully.

Our arteries probably had a very different opinion on the matter, but fortunately they were off duty from the decision-making process. The only logical conclusion is that anything tasting this good must contain at least a billion calories. Either way, it was delicious and therefore completely justified.

A Cunning Plan

By this point Jane's leg was starting to hurt, so it was time to put my newly acquired public transport expertise to good use. I had a plan. A cunning plan.

Outside Cako, the Number 38 bus stops. Now, it doesn't go anywhere near our hotel, which might seem like a flaw in the plan, but bear with me.

The idea was to ride the Number 38 for two stops until it reached the end of its one-way loop. We would then cross the road, catch the Number 30, ride that for two stops around a different one-way loop, and end up just around the corner from the hotel.

Reading that back, I'm not entirely sure it makes sense. In fact, if somebody had explained it to me like that, I would probably have nodded politely while understanding absolutely none of it. What matters is that it worked.

Whether this was the result of me becoming some sort of San Francisco transport guru or simply getting spectacularly lucky remains open to debate.

Either way, Jane didn't have to walk back, and that's what counted.

Back at the hotel, I settled down with a beer safely stored in my thermal flask, although I knew I'd need to venture out later to replenish supplies. It's important to stay hydrated when travelling. Or at least that's the excuse I was using.

Refections On The Day

Today was a reminder that not every successful day has to go exactly to plan. San Francisco's hills once again proved that they don't really care what you've got written in your itinerary, but rather than feeling frustrated, it felt easier to adapt and enjoy wherever the day happened to take us.

What struck me most was how familiar the city was starting to feel. The transport routes that seemed complicated a few days ago were beginning to make sense, and places we'd only ever seen on webcams or maps now felt like part of our own San Francisco story. The city was slowly becoming less of a destination and more of a temporary home.

The best memories weren't the big attractions either. They were the small moments: free chocolate samples, a sunny spot by the bay, an unnecessarily complicated bus journey that somehow worked, and a cupcake that probably shortened my life expectancy by a few minutes.

Tomorrow will be louder and busier with the Cinco de Mayo celebrations, but today was a good reminder that sometimes the simplest days are the ones you enjoy the most.

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