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.