Embarcadero walk

We got up around 9 o’clock this morning—yesterday had taken a lot out of us, so we’d planned to take it easy for the first couple of days.

First port of call: Muni transit passes. At $28 each for unlimited travel, not a bad deal. We dodged the beggars and made our way down into the hole in the ground where the tourist information centre lives.

Hallidie Plaza

I’m sure back in the ’70s this was a lovely place to be. Now it’s past its prime, though it still clings to a retro vibe. The plaza sits in what resembles a giant concrete crater, and you’ve got two options to descend: a long flight of steps or a lift that’s usually repurposed as a moving toilet. The lift was broken, so stairs it was. I later realised we could’ve gone back into the Westfield, down to the mezzanine level, and exited into the plaza from there—but you live and learn.

Once inside, it’s actually a pretty handy spot. The tourist office sells Muni Passports (unlimited 7-day travel), transit maps, and souvenirs—so naturally, I was in my element. The passes themselves are odd little things: flimsy cardboard, like oversized scratchcards. We quickly learned not to fold them, as the ink rubs off easily and can erase other days. Apparently, they’ve been in use for years.

Best of all, there’s a replica cable car down there that sells coffee for a couple of bucks. Nothing fancy, but it does the job.

To Embarcadero

The Bay Bridge

Once back at street level on Market Street, we decided to catch the F-Line for our first ride on one of the old streetcars down to the Embarcadero to look at the Bay Bridge. These aren’t the easiest things to get on for Jane—accessibility wasn’t exactly a design priority back in the 1930s.

What first struck me about the Bay Bridge is just how big it is. I wasn’t expecting something run-of-the-mill, but it’s genuinely massive. The bridge is split into two sections: the west span stretches across the bay to Yerba Buena Island, which is part natural, part man-made. This section is a double-deck structure, with the east span hidden behind the island.

Cupids Span

That’s the part I really would’ve liked to see. They’d just opened the rebuilt section that was damaged in the Loma Prieta earthquake back in 1989. During that quake—a magnitude 6.9 event that struck on October 17th—the upper deck of the Bay Bridge collapsed onto the lower deck, tragically killing one person and forcing a major reconstruction. The quake itself was devastating, causing 63 deaths and nearly 3,800 injuries across the Bay Area. It hit just before the start of a World Series game, which ironically helped reduce traffic and likely saved lives.

To give you an idea of the scale of the bridge: the sections that span just over water stretch four and a half miles, with a total length of nearly nine miles. A truly impressive sight to take in at the start of our trip.

After spending some time taking photographs of the bridge, we walked back along the Embarcadero, passing Rincon Park, where there’s a giant bow and arrow half-buried in the green with the arrow pointing skyward. Cupid’s Span was installed in 2002 and is meant to represent the “love vibe” the city is famous for. Still, it’s impressive to look at nonetheless.

Ferry Building

From Rincon Park, we strolled along the bayfront, admiring the bronze turtles fixed to the benches and
taking our time. It’s not often you get moments like this—just being with the one you love, no rush, no agenda. The views stretched out before us, the air carried that faint salt tang, and the city’s hum softened into something almost meditative.

The Ferry Building

Eventually, we arrived at the Ferry Building. Once the beating heart of Bay Area transport, it served as the main hub for ferries crossing the bay until the Golden Gate Bridge opened in the 1930s and cars took over. The building fell into decline, and like much of the city, it suffered substantial damage during the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989. The Ferry Building’s historic structure was shaken, but not lost.

After a major refurbishment, it reopened in 2003, transformed into a thriving marketplace filled with local food shops, fresh produce, restaurants, and a farmers market. Ferries still run from here to Sausalito and Tiburon, keeping its legacy alive.

The building itself is a marvel. Designed by American architect A. Page Brown in the Beaux Arts style, it was completed in 1898 and was the largest project undertaken in the city at the time. Brown modelled the 245-foot clock tower after the 12th-century Giralda bell tower in Seville, Spain. Each of its four clock dials is 22 feet in diameter, visible from the full length of Market Street. The building’s arched arcades stretch along both frontages, giving it a timeless elegance.

After the bridges were built in the 1950s to carry rail traffic across the bay, the Ferry Building’s public spaces were carved up for office use—often in ways that didn’t respect its original design. But in 2002, a full restoration brought back its grandeur. The 660-foot-long Great Nave was reopened, and the ground floor—once a baggage handling area—was reborn as a marketplace. The upper floors now house offices and the Port Commission. And if you’re nearby during daylight hours, you’ll hear the clock bell chime portions of the Westminster Quarters every half hour.

Designated a San Francisco landmark and listed on the National Register of Historic Places, it’s a place where history, architecture, and community converge.

It was here we stumbled upon a gem: the Golden Gate Meat Company, a pie shop selling the most incredible hot turkey and mushroom pies for $7 each. We grabbed a couple and found public seating out back overlooking the bay—perfect for lunch with a view.

It wasn’t the warmest of days, but it wasn’t cold either. San Francisco’s weather has a mind of its own, as we were soon to find out. After lunch, we crossed the road and caught the F-Line again for the 15-minute ride up to Pier 39.

Chilling—Literally—at Pier 39

Pier 39

What a difference a couple of miles made. It must’ve been at least 10°C warmer on this part of the bay, with barely a whisper of wind. The Bay Area is famous for its microclimates—there’s even a saying that you can always spot a local because they’re the ones carrying a coat on a sunny day. And they’re not wrong. We’d gone from brisk and breezy to ice cream weather in the space of a streetcar ride.

Pier 39 is one of the main attractions around here—a two-level pier packed with restaurants, bars, gift shops, and all the knick-knackery you could ever want. My kind of place. It’s also home to the Aquarium of the Bay and San Francisco’s most boisterous residents: the sea lions.

The Sea Lions Taking it easy

These whiskered wonders first hauled out on Pier 39’s K-Dock in January 1990, shortly after the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. At the time, the pontoons were being refurbished for small boat moorings, but the sea lions had other plans. Like squatters with flippers, they moved in, barked loudly, and refused to leave. At first, there were only a few dozen, but with a plentiful supply of herring, a sheltered marina, and no rent to pay, the population ballooned to over 300 in just a few months.

Efforts were made to encourage them to relocate, but being protected under the Marine Mammal Protection Act, they had the legal upper flipper. These days, their numbers can swell to over 900 in winter, mostly males lounging around like they own the place—which, let’s be honest, they kind of do.

Watching them is like tuning into a soap opera with flippers. There’s barking (lots of barking), flipper slapping, dramatic flops, and the occasional sea lion side-eye. One particularly chunky fellow was sprawled across three pontoons like he’d just finished a buffet and couldn’t be bothered to move. Another was trying to climb aboard but kept getting nudged off by what looked like a grumpy uncle. 

Christmas at the Pier

It’s chaos, comedy, and charisma all rolled into one noisy, fish-scented spectacle.

We spent a couple of hours wandering around, picking up souvenirs and soaking in the sea air. It was warm enough now to ditch the coats and enjoy an ice cream at the end of the pier, where you get postcard-worthy views of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, and the Bay Bridge. It was surreal—sitting there with Jane, watching boats drift by, knowing it was the middle of winter and freezing back home. This felt like a pocket of summer tucked into December.

By now it was around 3 o’clock, and the time difference was starting to catch up with us. After the long flight, the lack of sleep, and the general travel fatigue, our energy levels were running on fumes.

With that, we called it a day and hopped back on the F-Line streetcar toward the hotel. It had been a good day—full of warmth, whimsy, and whiskers—but we couldn’t last much longer.

Streetcar Crush

There was a bit of a wait to get back—it seemed like everyone else had the same idea. The streetcar was packed, even though it had only come a few stops from the start of the route. We managed to grab a seat in the end, though I still don’t know how many people you can fit on one of these things before it defies the laws of physics. Every time you think it’s full, someone else hops on, and somehow the universe makes room. It’s like a clown car with vintage charm and a bell that dings with quiet desperation.

It seems like everyone starts getting off once it reaches the end of Market Street, so by the time we got to Fifth Street it was relatively empty. The stop was only a short walk from the hotel, and with that, we grabbed something simple from Walgreens—comfort food in a pinch—and headed back to the room. We didn’t fancy dining out tonight; the day had been full enough.

After eating, everything caught up with us. The long flight, the lack of sleep, the sensory overload of a new city—all compounded by the early sunset around 5 o’clock. What was technically a short day felt like a long one lived deeply. We crashed for a couple of hours, letting the city hum on without us.

Evening Stroll

Yerba Buena Gardens

Later, I decided to stretch my legs and take a walk to Yerba Buena Gardens, just a couple of blocks down the road. Spanning two blocks between Third and Fourth, Mission and Folsom Streets, the gardens are a quiet pocket of green in downtown San Francisco. The first block, bordered by Mission and Howard Streets, opened on October 11, 1993. The second block, between Howard and Folsom, followed in 1998 with a dedication to Martin Luther King Jr. by Mayor Willie Brown. A pedestrian bridge over Howard Street connects the two halves, and part of the gardens sits atop the Moscone Convention Center.

The centrepiece is a stunning waterfall—part of the MLK memorial—standing around 20 feet high and 50 feet long, with a large pool at the top. At night, when it’s all lit up, it’s genuinely impressive. You can walk behind the falling water, which adds a sense of immersion and quiet awe. I probably spent far too long taking photos around there, trying to capture the shimmer and sound.

The only downside is that the gardens also serve as a refuge for many of the city’s homeless. They didn’t cause me any problems, but it’s a sobering reminder of the contrasts that exist here—beauty and hardship side by side.

To the Pub

After that, I wandered over to The Chieftain Irish Pub to sample some local ale. The place had a warm buzz to it—soft lighting, easy chatter, and the kind of atmosphere that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a familiar rhythm. It wasn’t a bad pub, but it was very busy that night. They had about seven IPA ales on draught, so naturally, I had to sample a few. It would’ve been rude not to.

But what goes in must come out—and this was where I encountered my first cultural difference. Bars and restaurants are required to have accessible toilets (or restrooms, as I should call them). Due to space constraints, many places convert their facilities into unisex setups, which means everyone queues together—just like the ladies’ line in a busy pub back home. Some places handled it better than others, but it’s definitely something to factor in if you’re planning a pint-heavy evening.

Unfortunately, The Chieftain closed at 10 p.m., so I walked about a block to the off-licence—sorry, liquor store—round the corner to grab a few tins of beer. Most places like Walgreens don’t sell alcohol, likely due to a mix of theft, anti-social behaviour, and public drinking laws. It seems the rules are more about giving police a reason to move people along than actually issuing fines—especially when the people drinking in public often don’t have the means to pay.

Price-wise, beer isn’t too bad unless you’re buying the fancy IPAs. I stuck with Budweiser for the most part. I discovered they sell two sizes of tins: the standard 12-ounce and the 16-ounce tallboys, which work out to just under 500ml. Not bad for a quiet nightcap.

A short stroll back to the hotel, then a bit of TV to wind down. The bed was comfy, and even the sirens from the fire trucks—still screaming past every few minutes—couldn’t keep me awake tonight.

Reflections on the Day

Today felt like a patchwork of first impressions—stitched together by streetcar bells, IPA foam, and the soft thrum of city life. It was a day of contrasts: the vintage charm of the F-line streetcar rubbing shoulders with the modern bustle of Market Street; the serenity of Yerba Buena Gardens shadowed by the quiet presence of those seeking shelter; the warm buzz of The Chieftain giving way to the fluorescent chill of a liquor store.

There’s something about arriving in a new city that heightens the senses. Every detail feels magnified—the way people talk, the layout of the streets, even the signage. You start noticing things you’d never clock at home, like the fact that Walgreens doesn’t sell alcohol, or that public toilets are a logistical puzzle solved with unisex compromise.

But beneath all the novelty, there’s a rhythm that starts to settle in. A pint at the pub, a walk through the gardens, a quiet moment watching the city wind down. It’s in those small pauses that the day finds its shape—not in the big landmarks or the checklist moments, but in the way the city breathes around you.

And maybe that’s the real joy of travel—not just seeing new things, but feeling yourself shift in response to them. Learning the lingo, adapting to the quirks, and finding comfort in unfamiliar places. Even the fire truck sirens, relentless as they were, became part of the soundtrack.

Tomorrow will bring its own stories, but tonight, I’ll raise a tallboy to the quiet victories: surviving jet lag, navigating cultural quirks, and finding a pub with seven IPAs on tap. Not bad for day one.