Oh my what a strange day. I awoke this morning, to find the sun pouring into my room. Looking out the window, I saw not a single trace of fog in the air. It was as if San Francisco had decided on mocking me one last time.

I showered, dressed and packed my bags for the final time. I went outside to meet my airport transfer. A rather grumpy man, short with long grey hair, clumped together in a ponytail that was more like a single giant dreadlock. His driving scared me more then anything else I’ve experienced in America. I was sitting up front as I’d been picked up first and he said I’d be more comfortable. In reality all this meant was that I had a better view of the oncoming traffic as he overtook cabs from seemingly impossible positions. Ignored lights, pavements, pedestrians of anything else that may have slowed him down. With each further pickup, the doors would be slung open with such voracity that a straining crack could be heard as the doors reached the limits of their hinges. The van would then shake violently as the boot was slammed shut. Knowing glances were shared with the other passengers in the rearview mirror. The unspoken words were obvious - ‘I hope we get out of this alive’.

We eventually arrived at San Francisco International. With a screech of tires we pulled up. “All British Virgins get out now” he barked. It wasn’t a request. I looked at the terminal signs and spotted one that stated - British Airways, and Virgin Atlantic check-in desks with an arrow. I turned to my fellow passengers (victims?) and said, “anyone here on Virgin Atlantic”. Two lads put up their hands. “This is our stop, he’s not not casting aspersions”. Once the van had squealed away, one of the Brits said that suddenly he’d got over his fear of flying as he’s used up all his fear when we were on the freeway.

As I checked in the BA hostess asked if I’d like to make a little money on the flight. Now I’ll admit, my first thought was along the lines of, ‘is a BA stewardess about to ask me to be a drug mule’. “What would I need to do?” I asked. As it turns out, BA had oversold the flight. In return for me volunteering to miss my flight and catch the next, BA would pay me $400. As the next flight was only two hours after my own, I was quite happy to do this.

It’s a very strange feeling watching your flight arrive, be boarded and then take off without you. But it was only a two hour delay, and it meant that I could grab a seat in the departure lounge next to a powerpoint. BA were effectively paying me to browse the next and edit photos. Nice work if you can get it. Somehow, I’d also managed to spend a lot less money then I thought I would in the States. So last night, I booked a hotel in London and changed my flight back to Guernsey. This little windfall had already more then paid for that.

Eventually it came time to board my flight. Like the one before it, this was packed as well. I sat in my window seat and watched as we taxied to the runway. But we never made it there. We sat on the tarmac for a good half an hour until the pilot announced that we would have to return to the terminal to offload a drunken passenger that had tried to assault a steward. As soon as the gangway was connected, four cops walked onto the plane and headed down the aisles behind me. Then three more followed. Then finally another couple stood either side of the exit. The cops swiftly returned sandwiching a man that I had earlier stood directly behind and watched fumble with his passport as he tried to present it at security. He’d spent 5 minutes talking to the official then, becoming more and more animated as the official tried to move him on. When I presented my passport the official had said she’s not understood a word he’d said, but if he didn’t sober up in the next couple of hours he’s probably not get on whatever flight he was on. She was almost right.

For security reasons we had to wait as they removed the drunkards luggage from the hold. This done, we waited some more. Over 90 minutes had now passed since we began to taxi and people were starting to grumble. The pilot announced that as the plane had been in motion when the idiot took his swing at the steward, we had to await permission from the FBI before we could get moving. It was only later when we were airborne did it occur to me that this meant that every passenger on board was most likely vetted before we departed. When we eventually got airborne, we were nearly three hours delayed. If I had caught my original flight, I’d have been halfway to London by now.

My usual curse of being unable to sleep in moving vehicles came back to haunt me and by the time I arrived in London, I’d been up for a good 24 hours. Astoundingly my bag was the first off the conveyor belt and so I was off the plane and on the Heathrow Express in under 30 minutes.

My hotel in London is cheap, ideally placed, and tiny. Really tiny, with a wonderful view of a wall. At least I think its a wall. The window is one of those high placed frosted glass jobs that tend to be found in toilets. Its a hell of a difference from the Little America in Flagstaff. Most of the beds I’ve slept in over the last month, could not physically fit in here. But it is clean and tidy, and in that regard is all that I need.

I made the mistake of laying on the bed when I arrived. I awoke four hours later in pitch black, with a quiet moment of terror. Where was I, how did I get here, why is it dark and where the hell is the light switch? Once I gathered my wits, I went for a very short walk around the area. Such a short walk that I didn’t make it past the first half decent restaurant that I saw.

I stopped at the Golden Dragon Chinese. The food was tasty, cheap and came in a portion size that didn’t make me gasp. Around me the waitress scrubbed tables, breaking out into a line or two of Chinese songs. On another table a couple were having a thundering row. Tears were shed, voices were raised and the arguing only stopped for the occasional “what the fuck you looking at” if newcomers so much as glanced in their direction.

I stepped out into the cramped streets, the slight drizzle and noticed the folded out cardboard and crushed cans of Special Brew where the tramps had settled in for the night. Three cop cars went past, sirens blaring, lights ablaze. I was back in London once again.

Today started with a lie in. I awoke at 7am and on reflex jumped out of bed and into the bathroom. Only in the midst of brushing my teeth did I realise that for the first time since leaving Washington I had absolutely no reason to be up and about at this hour. I returned to my bed and dozed for another two hours of the most welcome and needed sleep I’ve ever had.

Some people are morning people and would regard returning to bed with scorn. I am most certainly not one of them. I’ve seen many daybreaks in my time, but the vast majority of these have been witnessed prior to retiring for the night.

Leaving the hotel at the much more reasonable hour of 10am, I tried once again to have my first experience with the San Francisco trams. My first attempt was aborted when I saw the queue at Fishermans Wharf and and realised it would take about 90 minutes to get aboard. The second attempt was only marginally smoother. I hopped straight onto the tram and enjoyed my trip to the top of the hill. After jumping off the California line and onto the tram on the route to Union Square we came to a complete standstill. “I’m going to need all the males to jump off” announced the brakeman. Most just looked at each other and stayed where they were. Myself and a few other blokes jumped off and walked to the brakeman. He explained that the tram had slipped the driving cable and that if we could push the tram a few foot back up the hill then he could re-attach and we could get going again.

The makeshift team, including the brakeman took our positions and braced. “Right on the count of three”. 1-2-3 heave.” One queue my pushed, we felt the tram give ever so slightly but if remained lodged in place. “Hold it. We’re going to do that again, but this time ‘you’ are going to release the brake when I say heave” he said whilst jabbing an accusing finger at the other brakeman. This time things went much smoother. With momentum building we managed to push the fully loaded tram back up the hill a few foot with surprising ease. I gather that this isn’t the normal procedure for catching one of the San Francisco trams, but it certainly made it memorable.

Together with Penny, a member of the tour party, the destination was the Museum of Modern Art. I’d read that they had a large portfolio of photographic work and that I was very interested in seeing. Penny particularly wanted to see the Matisse sculpture collection. We were both keen to see the current Richard Avedon portrait exhibition.

Viewing the exhibition with company was a much more pleasurable experience then solo viewing. Being able to exchange viewpoints and ideas about the presented works brought the work to life that much more. I came away from the Avedon exhibition with a great appreciation of his work - both subjectively and technically. He seemed to have a gift in capturing a subject in a distracted or vulnerable moment. Seemingly unaware of the camera even though they were in the process of a photoshoot. Of course given my own interest in photography, my eye was drawn to other details - such as specular lighting in the eyes in portraits of the Beatles, or the framing and focus on other shots. He really was a master in his chosen field. Each piece almost becoming a tutorial without words. It really does make you aware of just how much difference there is between those that are at the top of their profession and the rest of us.

Other then the photography collections, in which I had an obvious interest. I was surprised just how much I enjoyed the rest of the collections in the museum. As I think I mentioned after visiting the gallery in Chicago, I find modern art very hit and miss. Some works can be stunning. Others have you searching for the hidden camera as you wonder if the real installation is the screening of reactions to the plain white wall that the patron is confronted with. In short and put in much plainer language - San Francisco’s gallery appears to be far less stuck up its own rear then Chicago’s. Now I have just effectively banned myself from ever entering Chicago’s Museum of Contemporary Art again, I shall move on.

I seem to have subconsciously developed a routine in the larger cities. I plan to visit a couple of locations. I work out my route to the first - which bus route, street etc. I then head off and visit it. Leaving, I then wonder in a rough direction of the second stop on my itinerary. Of course when I say rough, what I mean is I know its say north of here. I end up walking for quite a while and get hopelessly lost with practically no clue where I am. Only when I realise that there is no hope of getting back on track, or I notice that time is ticking away do I make an attempt to figure out where I am and how to get to my intended destination.

Granted this is not the most time efficient way of exploring a city. But it does mean that I have gotten to see many buildings and pathways that I’d have missed if I just jumped on the nearest subway train. The strategy seems to work well in cities as it doesn’t seem to matter where you go you will find something interesting.

It was during my walkabout that it dawned on me what seemed so out of place about San Francisco. The city itself just appears to be dull. Not dull in the boring sense. But dull in the sense of lack of colour. Walking through Denver or Chicago they were full of colour, and life. San Francisco just appeared to be dull and lifeless. I saw more trash on the streets then I saw in most cities combined. The roads were cracked and full of holes. Even in coaches the day before, we would hit the occasional spin jarring pot hole. But now walking around the city appeared to be full of them. In some ways the city reminded me of myself just a few days before - tired and a little grubby. In need of a good clean and a little refreshing. California’s money problems are well publicised and I wonder just how much of an impact this has had on the general appearance of the city. Films and photos show a city with much more colour and life then I saw. So what is it that I missed?

One interesting thing that I did find what something so completely out of place and unexpected that I fell in love with it immediately and I want one in Guernsey. Trust me, its not that often that you will hear me wax lyrical about a plastic park bench, but this is that time. Supplied by Toyota as a promotion for the Prius. This was an example of advertising done almost perfectly. I say almost, because I still have no desire to buy a Prius. These were green molded plastic park benches. Above them stand giant daisy’s, the leaves coated in solar panels. Embedded into each bench are a number of of electric plug points. A small sign on each bench invites you to recharge your laptop or mobile phone, and whilst you’re doing that why not surf web using the free wi-fi? How fantastic is that? Free solar powered, Wi-Fi hotspots and recharging points. Yes ladies and gentlemen. I have travelled thousands of miles. I have seen the declaration of independence, and some of the most spectacular views that nature can provide. But a bit of injection molding and some free Wi-Fi and I’m on my feet applauding. Jaded? No. Geek? Oh yes!

Dinner that night was a farewell meal of sorts with the others in the tour party. In the last week of the journey,I had gotten to know a few of the group. In the cities, I would just go and do my own exploring and so did not really mix with everyone. But though the spine of America when we would be on long drives between destinations, everyone jelled much more. We went to a lovely Italian restaurant where I had very nice piece of pork, followed by an absolutely delicious chocolate cheesecake.

The others would be leaving in the morning, but I had arranged different flights and still had another full day, and a morning before my late afternoon flight.

I planned to visit the Exploratorium. A touch based science museum that I had seen advertised all over San Francisco. My plan was perfect. They opened at 10am and were fairly out of the way. I would get up around 8am, go out and find a diner and have a good breakfast for a change. Then go for a walk heading off in the general direction of the Exploratorium. Then if I was nowhere near it by 10am, I’d either jump in a cab or if I was near the bus route then I’d get that instead.

I found my diner, and did indeed have a good breakfast. I then went for my walk as planned. After a while I found that I was beginning to recognise places from the previous tour. Only this time they weren’t obscured by fog. After finding myself at the Civic Center, my hazy recollection of the map told me it was time to jump in a cab.

The cabbie did indeed take me all the way to the Exploratorium. Dropping me off right at the front door. 10:20am on a Monday morning. The kids would be back at school from the holidays and it wasn’t the weekend. I’d be able to be a big kid myself and play with all the exhibits myself. Mwahahhahah! *Ahem*.

My cabbie gleefully accepted his tip and drive off rather sharpish. I quickly realised why. A large poster board outside the door exclaiming ‘Closed Mondays’. A couple of frustrated Aussies stood near the door. “Taxi ripped you off as well?” one of them called. Indeed he had. My patience with San Francisco growing more strained by the second. Every time I find something to like, something else cancels it out.

The Exploratorium was thankfully in the grounds of the Palace of Fine Arts. I went for a stroll around the grounds to calm down and decide what to do. I remembered on the tour being taken nearby Golden Gate Park. The guide had mentioned that there was a museum with an exhibition of artifacts from Howard Carters’ discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb. Out with the iPhone, and another few quid piled onto an already large phone bill later, and I knew where I was headed. Now I just needed to figure out how to get there. I walked along the waterfront, hoping to spot a bus stop or even a taxi. The waterfront did give me a second opportunity to see the Golden Gate Bridge. However, despite the sun beating down, and this being by far the best weather I’d yet seen in San Francisco the tops of the bridge remained stubbornly engulfed in fog. I can look at photographs I took of the Palace of Fine Arts and see a glorious blue sky. Yet the Golden Gate Bridge, not even half a mile away every shot has a dull gray sky, and looks washed out. I guess the bridge and I were never meant to be.

I walked along the shore, being overtaken by joggers and cyclists (or bi-cyclists as they call them here. Given this is San Francisco, I wonder if this is a clever double entendre, or another Americanism like ‘straightaway’.) Given the density of the other pavement users, I was wondering whether to take my chances in the road.

Then I saw it, a bus parked up on the side of the road. The driver on a break and a short queue forming waiting for him to finish. Frankly, I didn’t care where this bus was going, just so long as it headed back into the main city. The doors opened at last and we all jumped on. The screen at the front of the bus then displayed the route number.

Surreptitiously, I looked up the route on the iPhone. I’d somehow managed to blunder my way right onto the very bus that would take me directly to the door of the De Young museum where the exhibition was being held. I’d like to claim it was my innate homing ability that led me directly to this particular bus. But we all know I’d be lying.

The Tutankhamun (or King Tut as the Americans seem to insist on calling him) find has long held fascination for me. My mother took a particular interest in it when I was younger. I can always recall her buying magazines or watching TV programs if they featured the find. Later on in fiction, the tomb would be the site of one Henry Jones Jr’s first adventure.

I’d love to be able to say that the exhibition blew me away, and that I felt history pouring from every surface - but I can not. The artifacts themselves are indeed generally incredible. Beautifully preserved, and the workmanship exquisite. However the way they were presented reminded me more of the showroom of an auction room. History, it would be fair to say, was not brought to life. From the $25 ticket price, and the surprise that the rest of the museum being closed except the Tutankhamun exhibit. The way that I felt rushed through the exhibition and that little information or background was presented, unless you opted for (at additional cost) an audio tour. The entire thing felt like a missed opportunity. To quote Lord Ventinari, they wished to “extract the maximum milk, with the minimum of moo”. I still have my fascination with the times of the Pharaohs. But much like the stuffed animals of the London Natural History Museum, I would rather see the natural setting then these glass cases and spotlights.

Across the road was the California Academy of Sciences. Now this was more like it. A huge and modern center, encompassing an indoor rainforest, an aquarium, a natural history museum and all below a living roof. The roof is covered in soil and grass. Providing heat in winter and cooling in summer. It collects rainwater that is used throughout the building. It is also covered in solar panels contributing to a reduction in energy requirements for the entire building. I wonder how long it will be before we see this kind of design used on new homes.

Ironically, even though this was not a place that had intended to visit. It was everything that I was expecting the Aquarium of the Bay to be. Giant tanks, from floor to ceiling, contained thousands of varieties of fish. From large to tiny, and from all over the world. Once again, I had the opportunity to sit and watch the penguins frolic in their giant pond. I think photographing penguins in the wild is going to have to be made as an entry onto my bucket list.

The indoor rainforest is incredible. Four floors of rainforest from a small river, with plants growing up to the ceiling. Parrots and other bright and exotic birds fly freely around the dome, whilst butterflies appear to occupy all non-moving surfaces - including me whenever I paused to take in the view.

One thing that always surprises me when I visit places like this is the reaction of the other visitors. Something like this is designed to be experienced. It cannot be taken in at a single glance. Wherever the eye falls there is something to see. Whether that be a macaw that you’ve just spotted sheltering from the fine mist under a large leaf, or trying to spot the bird that is making that song. Instead people just walk straight through. Up four floors and out in under a minute. I don’t mean that people should be bringing their packed lunches and staying for a morning. But surely 5 to 10 minutes is not out of the question? I just feel like asking people why did they spend the entrance fee if they are going to ignore everything. Maybe its just me.

My last night in America ended as many other had done - in a bar. After returning to the hotel. I decided to forgo the complete repacking of my suitcase until the following morning. Instead I found a bar, had a pizza and settled back to watch the American Football.

I don’t know what it is, but sitting in a pub in America on my own feels completely different to home. It could just be the greater feeling of anonymity in the cities. After all, your just another face. But in the smaller towns it is a more comfortable feeling as well. Guernsey, doesn’t feel like that. It doesn’t feel welcoming in comparison.

That will probably be my summation of America. It doesn’t really matter who you are, but you’re welcome to pull up a chair.

As soon as I knew I was doing this trip, San Francisco was the first place that I started looking at for places to visit. There were just so many things about the city that I was looking forward to visiting and find out more about. With this in mind its very hard to write about San francisco as anything other then a disappointment. However, this would probably be doing this city an injustice. Mainly the disappointment came from my own building up of the city in my mind as to be the icing on the cake for the entire journey. Possibly to a level it could never live up to.

My overriding impression of San Francisco is that it is a city that cannot be judged on the first impression. I don’t feel that I even began to scratch the surface and I have the feeling that what I was hoping to find has either moved on or has now far deeper below the surface then it previously was.

I have a sinking feeling that I arrived here 40 years too late.

After the previous nights late arrival and journey into a city illuminated in spectacular fashion the first impression after waking could best be described as ominous.

Standing in the shower trying to shake the desire to crawl right back into bed there came almighty boom, the rumbling continuing for a good 5 seconds or so. The building trembled and then the air was filled with the melody of the car alarm concerto. My reaction was quite obvious. Stifle a yawn and ask the question - “what the fuck was that”? It was of course thunder, but the other options running through the mind were earthquake, plane crash or bomb.

Grabbing a towel and running to the window, I pulled back the curtains to get my first view of San Francisco. Except that there was nothing to see. Only a blanket of fog that would have made Hitchcock or Herbert weep with joy. My view was so obscured that I could barely make out the cafes and restaurants across the street. Given that my reason for being awake at this hour was to join a tour a of the city taking in the Golden Gate Bridge my hopes this was was not filing me with much hope for the tour to come.

The tour began badly. Our tour guide was a German lady who has apparently lived in the city for the last 40 years. I can only imagine how severe her accent must have been all those years ago prior to the softening that comes with living in a foreign country for so long. When I think of accents that have changed over the years, my mind immediately springs to two - Jan Molby the Danish Scouser and Peter Schmeichel and the Danish Mancunian. Over ten years or so their accents amalgamated with the local dialect creating a whole new accent of their own. Todays guide was nothing like this at all. In fact she must be made from the same stuff as the worlds most Scottish man - Sean Connery. No matter what the part - American, Russian, Spanish - you know what you’re going to get with Connery and that is a Scottish accent. Over the years I’ve worked with Germans, and I’ve been to Germany - twice. This was without doubt the harshest German accent I have ever heard. Some sentences actually caused physical pain.

After 15 minutes the coach broke down. We waited an hour for a replacement coach to be sent from the depot. In my mind this was the time for damage limitation from our guide. The time to tell us some facts about the area that we had broken down in, or tell us her impressions of the city. After all she decided to live her and has spent four decades here. Surely she must have formed an opinion or two by now. Instead the hour passed in silence.

When we did get going I quickly realised that I really was not going to enjoy this tour. The weather was poor - something of course completely out of the hands of the guide - and fog obscured everything. She seemed to have no backup for this, continuing to give a canned tour exactly as though we could not even begin to see what was being pointed out. Instead we were helpfully told that the weather was beautiful yesterday and that San Francisco had one of the most stable climates in the world and that you almost never get rain at this time of year. Again just part of a canned performance paying no head to the fact that right outside the window was fog and drizzle. Instead we carried on listening to how great the weather is here as though we were in midst of a glorious summers day.

In a city this large and with one of the most interesting histories in the 20th century, what our professional guide felt would be of most interest to us as travelers were the trees - because “I know the English like gardens”...... At least 5 times were eucalyptus trees pointed out in different locations around the city.

Finally she moved onto those subjects that this city is most famous for. The counter culture revolution - dismissed as “hippies”. The peace movement - dismissed as “drug addicts” and of course the gay rights movements. “we have a large population of gay people here in San Francisco. Around 14%, and thats enough”. All three subjects dismissed out of hand without any relevant information. No mention of the Castro district and the first elected gay official. Dismissing as drug takers the seeds of the Vietnam war protests sown at Berkeley, which would eventually see marches on Washington and the fall of Lyndon Johnson.

We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. Or at least I was told that we did. I have no proof of this, so thick was the fog that that I could barely make out the bridge itself!

The tour ended down at Fishermans Wharf, where we were scheduled to to catch the ferry over to Alcatraz island. As I departed the coach, I noticed that our guide was was not exactly being blessed with tips. Most people walking straight past, not even offering a goodbye. So that was that, a tour of one of the worlds most well known cities reduced to the pointing out of various trees and delivered with as much passion as I would muster for a triple maths lesson on a Friday afternoon at school. Its hard not to sound petty or bitter, but over the last month I seem to have gained some experience with guides, and this was a very poor showing.

Visiting San Francisco without visiting Alcatraz would be like traveling to Egypt and not seeing the pyramids. It is somewhere that demands to be seen, and it does not disappoint.
It is one of those places whose name conjures a different image dependent upon your age. To some, it is the jail that housed Al Capone. To another generation it was where Clint Eastwood escaped from. To me it is synonymous with Nicolas Cage and Sean Connery. Stepping off the ferry, I couldn’t help myself slipping into a faux-Scottish accent and proclaiming “Welcome to the Rock”.

This really is another place where history just pours from every surface. You have that strange feeling of familiarity as though you have been here before having seen parts of the island in so many films over the years.

Two things struck me as I wondered around Alcatraz. First and most obvious the state of disrepair. It is very surprising just how poor condition the majority of the buildings are in. However this is easily explained by the second thing that struck me - just how exposed to the elements that you are. Living on an island, I’m well used to coastal winds. But being battered by a biting wind when just a few miles away in San Francisco barely a breeze could be felt was something of a shock. I walked through the prisoners exercise yard, with the wind whipping around my clothes and realised that the only escape from this was the cover of a dark and dank cell house. I could imagine what conditions must be like for inmates. This was a fairly pleasant, if foggy, day. Conditions in the worst winter weather must have been intolerable.

Some impressions of the conditions were provided by the rather excellent cell audio tour. Narrated by former inmates and guards this was an entertaining and informative introduction to the Alcatraz as a living community and not a collection of buildings with a history as I have always known it.

I returned to San Francisco with my rucksack weighing a little heavier on my back. This thanks to a lump of concrete from one of the demolished buildings. The National Parks now sell these ‘Rocks from the Rock’ to raise money for their restoration problems. My immediate thoughts range from ‘sucker’ to ‘how cool’, ‘customs will have a field day’ and ‘can I attach a magnet to it?’

I went for a walk along Fishermans Wharf in search of the Aquarium of the Bay. Another thing that I’d been looking forward to seeing since my initial search of San Francisco. The website for the Aquarium showed that they had two walk through tunnels filled with all kinds of species of fish that can be found around the bay. This was entirely accurate and really very good. What I wasn’t expecting was for this to be all that there was. I was expecting something more akin to the aquarium in Chicago. So despite what was available looking fantastic, I again could not shake that feeling of disappointment.

Fishermans Wharf was for me my least favourite place of everywhere that I have visited. As strange as my reasoning will will sound given that I’ve been to places like the Statue of Liberty, Times Square and the Washington monuments - I just found the whole area to be far too touristy. The entire place was crawling, and felt even more crowded then Times Square. Seagull swooped overheard hoping to get the bread bowls in which clam chowder was served that people discarded, mainly in the street it appeared. I find that I don’t mind the crowds so much when there is something to be learnt. Or like myself at the monuments, just wanting to get a feeling for the history of the area. the Wharf just did not appear to have any of these things. It was a collection of gift shops and food outlets. I’ve read that the Wharf is now the 3rd most visited destination in America. I cannot see why personally. It is lightweight and I had the feeling that many people where there simply because they had been told that was the place to go.

After making my way back to the hotel for a short rest and to drop off my big lump of concrete. I went to Union Square.

The main shopping district and where most of the ‘name’ stores are. I actually quite enjoyed the area. Other people I spoke to disliked it as much as I disliked the Wharf. I think that the difference was that I visited fairly late in the evening. Shopping is not my forte, and most stores were now closed. Most that is except the Apple store which was my reason for visiting Union Square in the first place. When I was in New York Apple released Snow Leopard. The latest version of the OSX operating system. Rather then have to baby a DVD across the country, I resolved to pick up my copy here in San Francisco. I entered the store with the intention of spending the $29 that Snow Leopard would cost. I left having spent rather more then that. A couple of days earlier Apple had held an even and released new iPods, including a new Nano with a video camera. Honestly, I just meant to look but when the assistant asked ‘and is there anything else?’ when I asked for Snow Leopard the words “Orange 16gb Nano” just kind of slipped out.

It is very pretty though.

Walking though the Union Square to the sounds of buskers and later a saxophonist that had me checking I wasn’t wearing a trilby and overcoat so spooky was the feeling that I was now on a film noir set. I walked back towards the hotel taking a pretty major detour through Chinatown. The sights and the smells reminded me, more specifically my stomach that todays food has consisted solely of a bun at the Alcatraz ferry terminal a good 10 hours earlier. Rather then doing the sensible thing and reading menus, I decided to pop right into the next establishment that I saw.

I walked in, to be greeted with a friendly “takeaway for you?”. Looking at the empty tables and chairs I asked if I could sit in. There was a moments hesitation before being shown to a chair. After taking my drinks order I was handed a menu. I now realised two things - first despite being in the middle of Chinatown, I’d just walked into a Thai restaurant. Secondly the opening hours for the sit-in part of the restaurant where quite clearly stated to close at 9pm. It was now 10:45pm. Realisation dawned that they had just opened up the seating area just for me. I felt a little foolish, but the hosts just laughed it off. Given I’ve been in pubs in Guernsey where they are putting chairs on tables around you a good couple of hours before closing. I can’t quite imagine the same reaction happening at home. The food was excellent, and despite being the smallest portions I’ve yet to see in America, were still much to large for me. Of course I left a healthy tip. I mean they opened up the seating area, served an excellent meal and despite the late hour I didn’t feel as though I was being rushed to the door.

I tried waddling back to the hotel. But a combination of the food and the now falling rain decreed against it. I stuck out my thumb and caught a cab back to the hotel to finish my first night in the city by the bay.