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?