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Monday August 15

Thankfully, there’s a laundry opposite, and I drop a large bag in to be washed. Walking along Van Ness, I see that is actually 101, so I needn’t have turned off it yesterday afternoon. A few blocks up, there is an internet café, and I drop in and catch up on news from home and send a few e mails. Further up is a Bank of America; and that have the temerity to charge me an additional 5% to cash my cheques; I laugh at them. The tell me to try the Wells Fargo on the other side of the street. I thought Wells Fargo was something from western movies; but it turns out that it’s a bank; and they love to cash cheques. Bo yah, Bank of America!

In-between the two banks, in the centre of the street is the terminus for a cable car line; too an opportunity to pass up. A single ride cost $1.50, which was not too bad. You did, however, have to deal with the driver, who had the worst public relations skills I have ever seen. Every sentence was spoken as one long word; when I say spoken, it was really barked; and he had no time for anyone who did not speak English.

Thankfully, it was not one of the most popular lines, so the car was not crowded, so I was able to hang out of the car and take some pictures; the views down the steep street were really stunning. I got off at Chinatown, and had a while wandering around the streets. It is incredible that this place is in America, it really could have been in any city in Asia; the smells were great, even this early in the morning. I bought a few postcards and continued to walk around.

I thought that if I followed this street all the way along its length, it would end up at Fisherman’s Warf, so I set off. Chinatown ended abruptly at a major intersection, but my road continued straight up the hill. Over the intersection, there were a number of Italian restaurants and some record shops. There was nothing of interest in the shops, although they must have had every Hoodoo Guru’s record ever made.

The street entered a quiet residential neighbourhood. The streets sometimes were on the steepest of hills, sometimes at nearly 45 degrees. Parking was a challenge, and the front wheel of the car had to be jammed on the kerb, as the brakes were not reliable at such steep angles. When I passed over the cable car tracks, I could hear the cable whirring under the street. Soon enough, the street began to head down towards the waterfront again; and in time I indeed came to the Wharf.

Last night I had ordered some more prints off my digital camera, and it was to the chemists I headed to first. Just outside, a boat captain was trying to drum up business for his bay trip; I decided if he was still there when I came out, I would go on it.

Sure enough, he was still there; and it cost just ten bucks, which seemed like a bargain. The weather was not being kind; it was chilly and misty; as it is in August, apparently. The warm water of the bay reacts with the cold water of the ocean to create mist; lots of mist: hence all pictures I took of the Golden Gate Bridge, you cannot see the tops of the supports.

I sat next to a couple from Knaresborough, and they were really quite nice, they had landed only last night; down the side of the boat were a quartet of Latino girls from Orange County, and they were pretty juiced up at this early hour. The mist was thicker in the bay, and I had to keep cleaning my glasses, and keep the lenses of my cameras covered up. The view from underneath was great, we all shouted out to hear the echoes. From the bridge, the city was invisible; and Alcatraz only was only just in view.

We turned around and headed for Alcatraz; the island is in a pretty poor state of repair; most of the blocks are falling down, or have been on fire at some point. Some of the old warning signs are still in place; threatening prison time for anyone who helped an inmate escape; long since defunct. The fur Latinos were now drinking bottles of Sol from brown paper bags; classy. The girls had run away from their boyfriends for the week, and thought it very funny. Or that could have been the beer laughing. Tourists on other boats were getting off at the dock, I thought that it was something I probably would not do; being this close was enough. We headed back to the city, dodging yachts that were racing around the island. Behind us, the bridge was almost invisible now, lost in the swirling mist. As we approached the dock, a lone seal followed us in, in the hope we had been fishing and had scraps for him. As we tied up, I saw a restaurant overlooking the dock, and I thought it would be a fine place to have lunch in. Walking in, there were few customers, and I got the table I wanted, overlooking the dock; watching the tour boats pull in and out. I had a shrimp Caesar salad, and ice tea, followed by a double espresso. What a civilised way to spend lunch.

I set off up the hill to explore more of the city; I found a Tower Records, and spent far too long listening to music; I bought a few cd’s. Walking up the hill, I was sure I would come to Van Ness eventually. The views from the top of the hill, looking back to Fisherman’s Warf were great; I was just glad I did not have to walk this city every day.

Back at the hotel, I watched the Steelers cream the Eagles in a pre-season game. I grabbed a shower, and headed back to Fisherman’s Warf and headed for a blues club I had heard music thumping from the night before. I had Jambalaya and several beers before calling it a night, and hailing a taxi back to the hotel; taxi driver from Estonia; English level: ok.

Tuesday August 16

For today, I thought I would head to the Presidio, which is right next to the Golden Gate Bridge, and from there walk to the bridge. I went to the internet café first and caught up on the news, etc. I hailed another cab and told the driver my plans; he said that the fog at the bridge was really bad this morning; thinking, I said to go to the Golden Gate Park, which is no where near the bridge; but the weather should be better there. I had read that the Japanese tea Gardens were worth going to see; so that is where I told the driver to go.

They were digging up most of the road near the tea gardens; so he dropped me as near as he could. I had to walk past the ugliest building I have ever seen; clashing as it did with the surrounding botanical gardens. The De Young Museum was holding an open day for the great and good of central California, as they had just refurbished the museum and I guess had to raise money. So I had to mix with the rich and orange that was making their way to the museum. To describe the museum is hard; it is concrete, all dramatic angles and covered with brushed copper mesh. It looked like a set from Star Wars or something. And it had a something that looked like an air traffic control tower, still covered in the hideous copper mesh.

Thankfully, I got past that and found the entrance to the tea garden. The gardens were fine, but a pale imitation of the ones in Portland. I guess the weather did not help. The centre of the garden was this amazing bridge; semi-circular, and not very high, it had really high steps; I guess it was less than three metres high, and was certainly unusual. It would never have been built in Europe; the builders would never have got it past health and safety, and it’s not wheelchair accessible.

So, I wandered around the garden, and pretty soon I had seen all of it; the tea garden, where you could get a cup of tea at, was full. So, I went outside to see what else there was. Directly opposite, there were the Botanical Gardens. A friendly guide was handing leaflets out at the entrance, showing a map of the gardens.

I had time; so I thought I would have a look around. The garden was split into continental areas; also there was a primitive plants are; full of ferns and the such from the early days of life. I walked through the Californian areas, to see what the state was like before oranges and people arrived. I sat down on a park bench in the shade; almost at ones, a few grey squirrels scampered around hoping for some food; I looked in my bag, and a few morsels from the bag of trail mix had escaped; I offered a Brazil nit to the first one. He grabbed it, much to the interest of his friends. Unfortunately, I had just a few other pieces, and said sorry to the squirrels.

I walked to the edge of the gardens to try to hail a taxi; no luck. I was not brave enough to get on a bus; maybe I should have. I walked back through the gardens to where the taxi had dropped me off; but it did not seem a popular destination for tourists. Further on, I crossed a main road, and saw there was a café on a side street; I thought I could call from a taxi there. I had lunch, just a pannini and a coffee; but it was enough.

I got a taxi number from the Yellow Pages, and rang them up; a turn out the name of the café was not good enough, they wanted the exact address. The money ran out; I called again telling them which street it was on; the line went dead. Frustrated, I went outside to look for a taxi to flag down. In a few minutes a taxi pulled in, seems like they dispatched one to me anyway; they just failed to tell me.

I said to drive to the Presidio, and off we went, lurching into the traffic. We went through really smart residential areas, lovely clapperboard houses which backed onto the Presidio itself. He drove round before telling me we had been in the Presidio for the last 5 minutes; I said I wanted to walk to the bridge, so he let me out on a main road; seemingly happy to have me out of his cab. And he had the cheek to give me a card with his mobile number on if I needed another cab!

The Presidio is an old naval base, but seems to have fallen out of use. You could see the old barracks from the road, as well as all the old base’s buildings. About half a mile further on, I came to a military cemetery; which stretched as far as the eye could see: rows and rows of identical white stones in neat lines; some with flowers, most without. Its a chilling thought; all those dead young men and women. The road carried on until it was level with the onramp to the bridge, before heading down a steep hill, giving a brief view of how the bridge was built; all a mesh of red ironwork.

At the bottom of the hill, right under the onramp, was the cemetery of the base personnel’s pets; some of the memorials going back to the 1940’s. The road joined up with the promenade which runs from the end of Jefferson. I walked along, getting closer to the bridge. The view was amazing; I know I have overused that word, but it was. I mean, it’s just about the most famous bridge in the world, and here I was. Once again, the towers were lost in the low clouds, but just across the bay, clear blue sky could be seen. Almost underneath the bridge there is a café; and I stopped to get a bottle of water. The girl behind the counter said ‘So you’re a Canaries fan then!’ I was wearing a football shirt. Flabbergasted I said yes, and how did she know. Turns out she did some part time studies at the University last year. All I could say was ‘Great.’

There were a steep set of steps leading up to the level of the bridge; soon enough I was huffing and puffing. There was a steady stream of people going across the bridge; pedestrians too their chances dodging manic cyclists who also thought the bridge was theirs. There is a large car park at each end of the bridge, so some had come just a few hundred yards; it was cold and windy on the bridge, and I wished I had brought something warmer than a football shirt to wear.

Standing underneath the bridge’s towers, still it was impossible to see their tops; as they were lost in the low cloud. I walked to the middle of the bridge; and there seemed little point in walking all the way over; I mean the bridge was exactly the same there. So, I turned round and headed back to the shore. By now my blister was giving me hell like you would not believe; and there really was no where to get a taxi.

I headed to the city along the promenade; it was not paved, but had gravel; and every stone seemed to find the right place on my foot to press into the blister: it felt like I was walking on razor blades. As I walked, joggers and other walkers left me behind as I struggled along. In time, I came to the marina, filled as usual with huge yachts and motor boats. At least I was back on paved roads again. As I passed Fort Mason, the path climbed a hill and through a park that overlooked the bay; giving one last look back at the bridge before the mist claimed her for the night. At the other side of the park, the path descended back to the waterside, and I was at the marina near the maritime museum.

Once back in Jefferson, I headed into the first bar I came to, and seated myself at the bar; not really too clever, but it was just great to have the weight off my foot. It was a good bar, with a large selection of beers on tap and in bottles. I made do with Bitburger. Whilst sitting there, an argument started in the kitchen, and one of the chefs stormed out, throwing his white coat down as he headed for the door; I made a flippant comment to the guys sitting next to me.

Anyway, we got talking, and turns out the guys were in town for a conference; they were both from Pennsylvania, and one was a huge Steelers fan; he was amazed that me, from England, should have heard of the Steelers, let alone be a fan. We shared a few beers, and they said they were going to get something to eat.

I drained my glass, and was wondering what to eat myself, when they came back into the bar looking for me; they wanted to buy me dinner. Their names were Fred and Ken, and so, we headed back into Jefferson looking for a place to eat. The chose a really nice place, and ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir to be getting on with. The both tucked into a huge platter of fresh oysters, and I just could not bring myself to try one. I made do with chowder, and followed it with crab stuffed shrimp tails, which were wonderful. The guys had to make a presentation first thing in the morning; so could not really stay out too late, and so headed back to their hotel.

I go to another bar, the blues place from last night; but my heart really is not in it; I limp back outside and hail a taxi driven by an Iranian. Back at the hotel, I pack and realise that time is running out fast; in four days I will be in Arkansas; and my stuff still will not fit in my case.