As is the norm with transatlantic flights, most depart between 6 and 9 a.m.—ours was no exception. With a three-hour check-in ahead of us, sleep the night before wasn’t so much interrupted as politely declined.
Travel to Heathrow
We’d booked a taxi for 3 a.m. to make the 90-minute journey to Heathrow. The drive was thankfully uneventful, and we arrived around 5 a.m.—leaving us with roughly four hours to kill before boarding began.
This was our second flight to the USA, so we knew the drill and had learned not to loiter too long before going through security. That said, I still managed to set off the metal detector and was promptly treated to my ritualistic public groping. No fanfare, no apology—just a casual pat-down before being waved through.
By this point, the terminal shops had sprung to life—and more importantly, so had the pub. There’s something quietly magical about the social acceptability of beer for breakfast in an airport. No raised eyebrows, no judgment—just a pint (or two) to mark the start of the journey. It was then that Jane tested out the camera on her new phone and captured a photo of me. I have to say, it was remarkably flattering. I looked a solid 15 years younger in that picture, and at my age, I’ll happily take what I can get.
Boarding a long-haul flight with 350 hopeful souls is a study in controlled chaos, made all the more theatrical by the sectioning of passengers into social castes. We were assigned to "Economy"—or as I like to call it, Cattle Class Deluxe, where dignity comes with a seatbelt and your legroom is subject to the whims of the person in front.
Thankfully, our hard-won wisdom from the last trip meant we had priority boarding this time—a move that felt mildly subversive, like sneaking into a barnyard early before the rest of the herd trampled the feed trough. This gave Jane enough breathing space to navigate the narrow aisle without having to perform impromptu yoga poses around errant backpacks and elbows.
We reached our seats above the wing and managed to stow our hand luggage without the usual overhead bin skirmishes. There was a surprising sense of peace in those few minutes before the rest of the passengers boarded—a rare calm before the storm of rustling duty-free bags.
Flight
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| Killing Time Watching Planes |
The flight itself was, for the most part, unremarkable—aside from the surprise provision of free beer alongside the snacks and lunch. Now that’s the kind of hospitality I can get behind. It wasn’t top-shelf stuff, but at 30,000 feet, your standards drift along with the altitude.
Flying west meant chasing the night; it stayed dark outside for an unnervingly long time. There’s something mildly surreal about that suspended twilight—like travelling through the sleeve of time itself.
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| Beer At 35'000 Feet |
Sleep proved elusive. Sitting just behind the wing—a spot I’m now convinced is the aircraft’s unofficial drum section—we were treated to the constant roar of jet engines up close and personal. It’s the kind of white noise that’s great for meditation apps but less so when you’re trying to doze off in economy.
Still, we were airborne and en route to San Francisco, with the promise of sunshine, streetcars, and sea breezes ahead.
Descent into the Bay: Approaching San Francisco
Landing at SFO is less a straight shot and more of an aerial ballet. The aircraft sweeps south along the coast, passes the airport entirely, arcs over Lake Crystal, glides out across the bay toward Oakland, then pirouettes into a full reversal before easing in low over the water. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you catch two planes synchronised on parallel runways—like watching jumbo jets perform a duet.
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| The City and The Bay Area |
We arrived on time, though “on time” felt abstract thanks to the eight-hour time shift. It was just after midday local time but already 7:30 p.m. back home—our internal clocks politely disagreeing with reality. Then began the ceremonial long march from aircraft to immigration—a journey so long you half expect snack stations or motivational signage along the way.
The immigration queue was predictably massive but surprisingly efficient. A staff member kindly directed us to the accessibility line, even though we hadn’t prearranged assistance. It was a simple gesture, but it changed the mood entirely—offering a quiet sense of welcome you don’t always get at border control.
Baggage Roulette
Next came the ever-tense game of Is That Our Bag or Am I About to Buy Socks in San Francisco? There’s something about the lull in conveyor belt activity that triggers pure panic—your bag’s vanished, your wardrobe's gone rogue, and you’re mentally calculating how many times one can wear flight socks in public before it becomes a scandal.
Fortunately, that fear passed the moment our bag made its sluggish but reassuring appearance, and we breezed through customs without the drama of a random inspection.
Now officially “arrived,” we made our way to the BART station—oddly located on the upper level of departures. We could’ve hailed a taxi, but at $80 for a 30–45 minute ride, the train was the more sensible and slightly rebellious option. With hotel check-in not until 3 p.m., there was no rush. So we did what any weary traveller would: paused for coffee, watched planes take off, and let the rhythm of the city slowly pull us in.
BART to the City
If you’ve read our New York City journal, you’ll know we have a storied history with ticket vending machines. So naturally, San Francisco posed a similar challenge. Let the battle of wills commence—and for the record: we lost.
Like most stations, BART requires you to buy tickets from vending machines, each with their own cryptic personality and refusal to cooperate. We eventually gave up and asked the woman in the kiosk for help. There’s no proper ticket window, and we suspect these staff are mostly there to prevent barrier-hopping and assist confused travellers like us—bless them.
Luckily, trains run about every twenty minutes, so we didn’t have long to wait. The gap between the platform and carriage is commendably narrow, and considering the age of these trains, it’s clear some thought was given to accessibility. Points to BART for that.
The journey into the city takes around thirty minutes on what must be the squeakiest train we’ve ever ridden—each turn of the wheels accompanied by a symphony of metallic groans. Still, the views as you pass through San Bruno and Colma are worth the soundtrack: rolling hills and brightly painted houses quietly give way to the urban sprawl as the train plunges beneath the city.
We got off at Powell Street Station—arguably the heart of downtown. And this is where things get linguistically tricky. Ask someone where the “lift” is and they’ll point you toward a Lyft ride share. You have to ask for the elevator, because language barriers include vocabulary shaped by branding. These elevators were installed years after the station’s construction and are often tucked at the far ends of the platform, like forgotten escape hatches.
Here’s where the layout gets properly labyrinthine: BART sits at the lowest of three underground levels. Above it is the Muni tram system, and above that the mezzanine—the land of escalators, exits, and wrong turns. You exit one elevator and enter another, like some vertical relay race, before choosing between two street-level exits: one through the Westfield Centre, and one onto 5th Street. We picked the first option by instinct, clueless but hopeful.
It’s only a five-minute walk to the hotel, but that first moment onto the street is unforgettable. A barrage of noise hit us like a brass band on espresso. Drums. Car horns. The trundling clang of F-Line streetcars. Voices raised, not always in joy. San Francisco doesn’t ease you in—it throws you into the deep end of its sensory pool and leaves you breathless.
Hotel Pickwick
Fortunately, it was just a short walk from Powell Street Station to the hotel—because nothing screams "fresh off the train" like two travellers dragging suitcases while squinting at a phone map. If the city hadn’t clocked us as tourists already, we’d confirmed it in stereo.
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| Our Room on the 4th Floor |
We’d opted for The Pickwick Hotel—independently run, not part of any mega-chain, and built in the 1920s. That old-world charm spoke to us, and its location couldn’t have been better: Market Street’s parade of buses, Muni trams, vintage streetcars, and iconic cable cars all within a block. The traffic outside was relentless—a rhythmic torrent of cars, occasional sirens slicing through the commotion as fire trucks muscled past in the wrong direction with full drama. But weirdly, it didn’t faze us. By the second night, the urban soundtrack faded into background noise, like a city-sized white noise machine.
Still, San Francisco’s undercurrent was hard to ignore. Beggars are everywhere, and many of them seem mentally unwell—shouting at trees, buildings, or into invisible arguments mid-air. It’s jarring at first, but eventually, it blends into the city’s texture. You learn to tune it out, give space, or just keep walking. It takes all sorts, I suppose.
Once checked in, we popped round the corner to Walgreens for provisions—snacks, drinks, essentials. The room had a fridge, thankfully, though we asked staff to remove the overpriced mini-bar contents (not that we’d ever pay those ransom prices). Even the bottled water left on the desk was going for three bucks a pop. Walgreens had them two-for-$1.89. It's a scam, surely—especially considering American hotels always seem to run hot, like they’re trying to recreate the Mojave indoors.
The next mission was booze—realistically priced and preferably walkable. We found a shop on Howard Street, tucked away in the opposite direction from the hotel. Many places around here don’t sell alcohol, probably to avoid encouraging theft or fuelling erratic behaviour from aggressive panhandlers. The social tension felt raw and visible, even in the ways products are withheld or spaces guarded.
By now, jet lag was catching up. It was 11:30 p.m. local time, which meant we were cruising into 7:30 a.m. back in the UK. Time to crash and let the city keep humming without us—for a few hours, at least.
Reflections on Arrival: First Impressions & Finding Our Feet
Looking back on the day, it’s hard to believe how much ground we covered—both literally and emotionally. From the early-morning taxi ride to Heathrow, through the long-haul haze of the flight, to the sensory ambush of Powell Street and the final shuffle into our hotel room, it felt like we’d lived three days in one.
There’s something surreal about arriving in a new city when your body’s still calibrated to a different time zone. You’re walking through sunshine, hearing streetcars rattle past, watching strangers go about their lives—and yet, part of you is still back home, wondering if it’s too early for tea or too late for toast.
San Francisco didn’t ease us in gently. It threw us into the deep end: noise, movement, unpredictability. But beneath the chaos, there was a rhythm. A pulse. Something familiar in the unfamiliar. The city didn’t feel like it was trying to impress us—it just was. Messy, vibrant, unapologetic.
We navigated ticket machines, train platforms, elevators disguised as riddles, and a street scene that felt like a live performance. We found our hotel, found snacks, found booze, and found a kind of quiet resilience in ourselves. No meltdowns. No major missteps. Just two people trying to make sense of a new place, one moment at a time.
And maybe that’s the real magic of travel—not the landmarks or the perfect photos, but the way you slowly stitch yourself into the fabric of somewhere else. Even if it’s just for a while.
Tomorrow, the city will still be loud. The hills will still be steep. But we’ll be rested, caffeinated, and ready to meet it on our own terms.