San Francisco By Day. The End.

Checking out at 10, I stuck my bag straight into storage and headed downstairs for my free all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast. Only it finished at 10. Bugger. Wandering around the kitchen in search of anything else to munch on, I found one of the hostel staff and asked her if breakfast really was truly, absolutely and totally over. She said yeah, but must have seen how gutted I was and took pity - “I’ll make you up some more pancake mix, it’s okay,” Awwww thanks, that’s so unbelievably kind, etc, etc. Also there was unlimited muesli and coffee, so I filled myself up completely, and after thanking her a million more times went back to reception to work out what I was gonna do with my remaining seven hours in America. “I’ve done the mega-touristy stuff before, so what else is there to do in your city?” Spying my Smiths T-shirt, she asked if I’d been to the Haight district, suggesting I’d fit right in. A bit offended, I asked if I looked like a Klansman or queer-basher?! No, H-A-I-G-H-T. Ah okay fine, having to comment my joke wouldn’t work nearly as well in written form. Agreeing, she went on to tell me it was an area close to the San Francisco State University campus and has a ton of head shops and general bohemian quirkiness. Plus one of the world’s biggest record stores and right next the Golden Gate Park. Sold! Jumping on the street car/tram at Powell Street station for $1.50, I got there in no time, once more vaguely following the directions, but not being that bothered because I had the sense-of-directionless’ best friend in my BlackBerry and cheap compass. So after a bit of walking I found myself in the middle of Haight Street, taking in the graffiti art, odd (mostly in a good way) people and the more upmarket homelessness. Visiting the city a few years back, I stayed near the Mission District, a place you couldn’t walk a block without encountering at least fifteen of the sorriest and most heart-breakingly beaten-down men and women of the vagrant persuasion. The beggars in the Haight though hardly looked homeless at all. They had the trademark K9 companion and assorted blankets, but looked more like extras from Dazed and Confused than desperate hobos. Anyway, I quickly found Amoeba Records and spent almost an hour, standing in awe of their massive stocks of every artist imaginable. Plus they had a $3 or less range spanning several long rows, and I eventually picked up a Beth Orton CD for $1.99. I also did my obligatory search for The Wire, in the vain hope I might pick it up cheaply overseas. Unfortunately it was more expensive everywhere I went, due to our stupid, properly-valued Sterling.

Next I walked down Haight Street in search of somewhere to eat and drink. It wasn’t long before I saw a place called Magnolia, billing itself a ‘gastro-pub & brewery’, claiming to make all its beer and cider onsite. It sounded a bit pretentious and it wasn’t exactly cheap, but meh, last day and all that. I ordered dark ale for $6 and a ‘Home-Made Sausage Sandwich’ for $11, that came on a big plate with loads of fries and other side stuff. Apart from the mould on my bread, it was lovely. After telling them, they looked mortified and offered to make me a new one. I lied about having to be somewhere, so just picked it off, didn’t eat the bread, and got my beer comped as compensation. Sorted. It wasn’t actually that much of a lie - it was already half one, giving me approximately three hours before I had to leave. So feeling full, I headed into the Golden Gate Park to do a bit of hippy-spotting. It was a beautiful day, and as I ambled along the footpath, a George Carlin sound-alike with severe dental problems and long shaggy hair beckoned me over. “Hey! How are you doing? You wanna join us?” Looking at his group, he was in the company of the sitting-wasted of all ages, checking almost every stereotypical hippy-appearance box there is. Of course I accepted his gracious offer and nuzzled in between him and a middle-aged woman in a flowery dress, swaying and strumming a beaten-up guitar. Introducing myself, I asked what they were doing here. “Smoking weed…. medicinal, of course,” A large sign in the middle read “WE WILL SMOKE YOUR WEED FOR FREE”. Brilliant. Plenty of smokables were passed around and plenty of classic stoner comments were made. “Great music can’t be all good, all the time. It’s like life - it has highs and lows.” Nicely put - this was right before another man smashed a water bomb on his own face, brushed himself off and left like nothing happened, saying he’d see everyone next week. At their request, I had a quick go on the guitar long enough to play some Ocean Colour Scene, Belle and Sebastian and Elbow, all of which went down reasonably well. After about an hour it felt time to move on, so thanking the first man, whose name he himself couldn’t remember (who had gone on to talk about hanging around with the Grateful Dead for most of the 70’s and 80’s on private jets and masses of drugs), I left the hippie circle.

After five more minutes, I found a bench to sit and get my bearings for a moment. I couldn’t help overhearing a girl on the phone nearby, talking about having arrived in the city okay and having nothing to do for a few hours. Evidently she’d already chatted to a dorky British guy who seemed timid quite terrified by her attempt at social interaction. I giggled to myself. She finished the call sat at the other end of the bench, looking a bit unsure of what to do. I’ve got nothing to do, neither has she; what’s the harm in talking to her? That’s not creepy is it? Apparently not. We ended up hanging out for the rest of the day, heading back to Magnolia for a few more decent beers and great conversation. Even after making a subtle rape joke within the first ten minutes. She (Kezia, in case you needed a name) pissed herself laughing though, and appreciated my breaking of the ice with such needless filth. Anyway, tipsy, we headed back to the city centre and parted company around 5pm, satisfied I‘d convinced her not all British guys visiting San Francisco are socially retarded. Picking up my bag from the hostel, I took in the last of my Californian sunshine for a good few years before disappearing into the Powell Street BART station from whence I came less than eighteen hours previously. Nothing terribly exciting happened after that, other than at the airport eating expensive, but very tasty pizza and using a Dyson Airblade for the first time ever. Actually, that last one was terribly exciting. It makes washing your hands a whole new world of fun! If you’re heading state-side, make sure you fly out of San Francisco just for that.

Besides the flight I spent sandwiched between two large men for ten hours, getting sauced and watching films that constantly needed rewinding due to my nodding off, that was it. My trip over. Two weeks flew by, yet I felt a real sense of achievement. All three North American countries, seeing Amateur Night at the Apollo Theater and navigating two New York Boroughs, inebriated in the early hours, hanging out in a Baltimore bar with personnel from The Wire, doing Spring Break! in Cancun and surviving being robbed, heading to the Pacific north west with nothing but a broken Tesco bag, performing stand-up in Vancouver and buying alcohol for a minor in Seattle, meeting a ton of brilliant people along the way, and best of all, the vast majority of it completely unplanned. It was an amazing experience and truly I can’t recommend it enough. Thanks a bunch for reading this far, I really appreciate all your comments and feedback. The question is are you the first, second, third or fourth to finish?

San Francisco By Night

I emerged from the Powell Street BART station around 11:15pm to a pleasantly warm San Franciscan evening. Using my trusty Google maps and £1.99 keyring compass, I found the USA Hostel on Post Street in no time at all. Stating my intention to find a cool bar and drink some decent beers to a decent soundtrack, the guy checking me in suggested several waterholes that fit the bill just four or five blocks away. So after grabbing my linen and apologising to the other guys in the room as I made my bed, a swift exit was planned to get my groove on (the first and last time I’ll ever use that turn of phrase) ASAP before the confusingly early 2am state closing time. To add to the coincidence of the girl from the previous night studying in Bradford for a year, one of the said disturbed guys was from Norwich. Talking in hushed tones while fiddling with my pillowcase and fitted sheet, we discussed our magnificent city, both of us pining to be back there, spreading Colman‘s Mustard and pretending to tolerate foreigners. I would be less than 72 hours, but it was my last night and I needed to get my drink on (the first and last time I’ll ever use that turn of phrase too). The two places highly recommended were the Hemlock Tavern and the Blur Bar & Lounge around Polk and Post Street. Hemlocks looked more lively initially, so I headed inside and took a seat at the bar. Asking the barman what was good and local, he poured me various samples, recommending one in particular that I drank with gusto - the name is long gone from memory. The atmosphere was great, with a not-too-loud/not-too-quiet rock and punk musical backdrop, and a good, not-too-pretentious/not-too-scummy cliental. I chatted to various characters, the most interesting a pretty hammered, almost-middle-aged woman with a fake British accent who had a million stories about being in Seattle for the birth of grunge rock, working in the music industry and plainly stating to her superiors that Pearl Jam were never gonna make it. Ooops. Then I met the guy who was trying to pull her, Doug from Colorado who loved most British bands and had, amazingly, actually heard of The Bluetones. Although I was really enjoying myself, after another pint I thought I ought to check out the other place for some variety.

A few doors down Polk Street, Blur was totally chilled out and relatively empty. Again sitting at the bar like a regular alcoholic barfly, I was once more treated to several testers of the on-tap tipple. The Racer IPA sticks in my mind for being almost 8% and tasting like it was 20! Declining that, I went for the Belgian Chimay, also around 8%, but it came in smaller, poncier glass. It was $6 (plus the obligatory dollar tip) - a price that encouraged responsible drinking better than any lame government campaign ever could! I somehow got into a conversation with another middle-aged woman who fell in love with my accent almost immediately. She was wasted too - so much so she bought me a cocktail I later found out cost $13, being almost entirely ‘Hard A’ (thanks Oregon State spring breakers for that one), save for a squeeze of lime and a sugary rim. She was quite hideous, and I was thankful when I saw her wedding ring. A night out with the girls, harmless flirting with a young Englishman. Fine. I’m not refusing free drinks! Only then her husband, a stocky, humourless-looking guy sits next to me as she’s visiting the bog. “Are you hitting on my wife?” Shit. “Naa, we’re just chatting. She’s a great talker!” What a horrendously dorky thing to say. I really ought to leave. “No,” he chuckles, “don’t worry, ‘cos if you turn her on, maybe I’ll get some action tonight, if you know what I mean!” A nervous laugh was all I could muster. Fortunately it was kicking-out time, and everyone trickled onto the street. I should leave. “But there’s a club open 24 hours across town, you should come!” Errr, I’m tired. Tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow. Bye! Needless to say, I got out of there sharpish, getting my apparently famous drunken ‘stomp on’ as I hurried back to the hostel. I headed down to the vending machine to grab some water before I hit the hay only to find the common area still a hotbed of social activity. My memory gets very hazy at this point, but I do remember talking to a group of Germans and being offered an unlimited stay at one girl’s apparently gigantic house in Hamburg, were I ever to want to hang out there. Anyway, the next day I had till about 5pm to explore some of the less touristy parts of the city, so had to get some sleep. So that’s what I did.

A Good Night Seattle, We (sorry, I) Love You

I met several cool and quirky people during my single night's stay at the Green Tortoise Hostel in downtown Seattle. I was going to book back into the place up in Ballard, a posh and very pretty suburb to the north - it was cheaper and I had really enjoyed my stay, but thought I might as well check out the city's nightlife before I left. Tuesday meant free dinner in the hostel, so I headed downstairs for my portion of spag-bol and assorted veg when I realised this is a bloody boring read right now. I sat next to a guy who turned out to be exactly as upper-middle class as he appeared to be. Maybe even a bit more. 18 year-old Tom from north London was just starting his travels, yet was already something of a hostel celebrity, fulfilling every bit of the Hollywood-propagated toff stereotype fantasy to one and all. Especially the Japanese. With reason though - he was (and probably still is) a genuine guy, and I happily broke the law buying him some booze from the local convenience store. We sat around drinking with a group of Spring-breakers from Illinois and an Aussie, whose Brisbane accent I picked out almost instantly. At random of course. But it looked impressive. Of the girls from the Mid-West, I sat next to Kinzie, her name phonetically identical to that guy in that film. You know, the one with Liam Neeson. I found her company enjoyably interesting and hilarious, being smart, cutting and cynical (in the most positive of ways of course!). It was a good crowd with good conversation so I decided staying in was a better option than finding a bar in the cold and rain. After everyone else retired, Tom and I stayed up and segwayed (or possibly hijacked) our way into a game of Seattle Monopoly that a couple of southern California-based college girls had just started. O.C-esque in their accents, suntans and attention to hair and makeup, they were very friendly and seemed happy to let us join them. Bizarrely one of them had spent a year studying at Bradford university - my uninspired and uninspiring home (northern) town (actually city). Amazingly she really liked the place, so I can only assume she was off her face the entire time. The game was thoroughly confusing, the developers changed the colours completely - for noticing this and being clearly vexed, I was nicknamed Mr Monopoly - suddenly a Hasbro scholar, apparently knowing everything about every board game ever. Also, is it really a good idea to have two separate properties called almost exactly the same thing? Pike Place Market and Pike Place Fish Market were confusing the shit out of me, and I’d only had four beers! But anyway, Tom was being an unsporting tit by refusing to sell me any of his deeds to complete my sets, and the girls, perhaps ironically for people who lived in gigantic Orange County houses, had no interest in properties at all. So we played for an hour and a half, paying fractions of pittances for rent, the only excitement coming from being ‘stuck in traffic’ - their alternative to jail. It makes even less sense when you’re Just Visiting congestion. Also Big Fun! replaces Chance, and the Go square becomes Rain! All terribly mystifying!

I got up for 9 the next morning for the free pancake breakfast. I’d arranged to head over to the university district with Kinzie some time mid-morning, as my flight to San Francisco wasn’t till 7.30pm. After getting hopelessly lost, we eventually checked out a load of kooky shops and the huge Good Will store. All of the cowboy outfits, although numerous and stylish (in 1865), just weren’t quite right. We ended up getting some food in an excellent vegetarian Thai restaurant, where they asked you which meat you’d like your fake stuff to taste and feel like. That might be totally normal in a veggie place, but it made me laugh just a bit! It was a brief but very enjoyable morning/afternoon, and now I can say I’ve met someone who was at Obama’s inauguration. Woo! Or something.

I had two beers left over from the previous night’s six-pack, so when I arrived at the airport I asked one of the Alaskan Airlines check-in staff if it was possible to drink one of them before heading through security - with no checked baggage and that irritating liquids-in-hand-luggage ban, the alternative was to just throw them away. It wasn’t that I wanted to get tanked up, just it was good, locally-brewed beer and I hate to waste decent booze. After explaining this, he politely informed me it was illegal to drink in a public place, but beckoned me closer and, lowering his voice, suggested I head out to the parking lot across the street and stay hidden. Sod that. So instead of just binning them I had the idea of donating them to the airline. Maybe they’d give me a free upgrade. Or priority boarding. Or a free pen. Or, as it turned out, jack shit. I got a hearty thank you though, which should have been enough. And actually, it was. Despite joking to the guy I asked that I wasn’t an alcoholic, the bar was first port-of-call post security. A US Air Force engineer sat next to me at the bar was a self-proclaimed ‘beer connoisseur’ and informed me I couldn’t leave the North-West without trying Alaskan Amber Ale. Served in a twenty-ounce glass, I was assured it was bigger than a pint. It better had been for $6.50. Plus tip. But it was decent and I thanked the man for his tip. Sorry, beer suggestion. I tried to act sober boarding the plane, and it worked. Like every other flight so far this trip, our takeoff was delayed, but we made up good time and looked as if we would arrive on schedule. It wasn’t to be. We flew around the city for almost an hour waiting for landing clearance. Having already counted all the fibres in my complementary woollen blanket and seen enough of the city to sketch it from memory (blindfolded and unconscious), I was starting to go really nuts. Forty-nine minutes and twenty ounces of medium-strength beer was enough to push me to the brink of a Peter Buck-style air rage meltdown. Thankfully, with seconds to spare, the captain announced we were making our final approach. I rushed off the plane and headed straight to the airport’s Bay Area Rapid Transport station to get to central San Francisco before the bars closed!