California Academy of Science

Today we had planned to head back to the California Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park—this time with the credit card in hand. At $35 each, it’s not exactly pocket change, so I was hoping it would be worth the investment.

We caught the tram down and walked across the park, which in hindsight probably wasn’t the best idea. The walk was pleasant enough, but the 5R bus would’ve saved us a fair bit of time and energy. Still, there’s something to be said for approaching a museum through trees and open space—it makes the whole experience feel a bit more like an expedition.

Welcome to the Jungle

Entrance to the Jungle

It was fairly packed when we got inside, and they were putting on a fake snowstorm in the lobby—just the kind of festive chaos you’d expect. Snow’s a rare treat in San Francisco, so the kids were loving it, darting around like it was the North Pole.

We crossed a bridge overlooking some of the biggest manta rays we’ve ever seen, gliding through the water like underwater kites. First stop: the tropical rainforest. You have to queue to get in because everyone passes through an airlock—just in case any of the bugs or birds fancy a day out in Golden Gate Park.

Jane & The Butterfly

You start at swamp level, peering down at fish swimming beneath your feet. Then the path spirals upward through the layers of the rainforest, each level revealing new habitats and creatures. From creepy crawlies and jewel-toned frogs to butterflies the size of your hand, it’s a sensory overload. Oddly, the butterflies were very taken with Jane—they kept landing on her like she was some kind of floral VIP.

Eventually, you reach the canopy, about 70 feet up, where birds and butterflies zip past in a blur of colour. From here, a staircase leads to the roof—a living, breathing green space covered in moss and low-growing plants. Solar panels gleam in the sun, and the roof cleverly collects rainwater when the skies finally open. The view over the park from up there is fantastic—a rare moment of calm above the jungle.

Swamp Thing

People Below the Swamp

From the top, you have to get into a lift that takes you down below the forest floor—one level deeper than where you came in. You exit through a room full of mirrors, not for admiring yourself, but to make sure you’re not smuggling any hitchhikers from inside. Then it’s out through another airlock, just in case anything tries to fly past you and make a break for freedom.

This area is set directly beneath the swamp you’ve just walked over. You can look up and see the murky water above, and peer into the gloom to spot all the critters that call it home. They may be small, but they look like they’d eat you alive if you fell in—no questions asked.

From there, a glass tunnel runs under more swamp, with information signs about the creatures lurking above. It’s a strange, eerie passage—like walking through a submerged corridor in a monster’s aquarium—that leads you to the next section.

Standing with the Fish’s

Just part of the Aquarium

The main part is the aquarium, where you’re confronted by the biggest glass wall I’ve ever seen—20 feet high and 30 feet long, filled with marine fish gliding past like they’re on parade. It’s an incredible sight to stand there and watch them swimming; it really does feel like being underwater. Now I get why people go diving.

This massive tank is part of the Steinhart Aquarium, which houses nearly 60,000 live animals across more than 800 species. From vibrant reef fish to deep-sea oddities, it’s one of the most biologically diverse aquariums on Earth. While we were there, a staff member was inside the tank, cleaning the glass and waving at people like it was just another day at the office—though their office happens to be full of fish.

I can’t remember how long we spent just sat there watching them swim around, but it was so relaxing. The slow, hypnotic movement of the fish, the soft lighting, and the sheer scale of the tank made it feel like time had stopped.

Lunchtime

With fish-watching over, it was time to get some food from the café. I wish we hadn’t bothered. You couldn’t get into the main café without a very long wait—and an even longer one to find a seat—so we opted for the fast-service grab-and-go.

Unfortunately, the service wasn’t fast. And when we did finally get served, there was nowhere to sit and eat at first. We only had a hot dog each, which you’d think would be hard to mess up—but they managed. It tasted alright, but I suspect it had spent a few too many days rotating on the roller. Think 7-Eleven hot dog, but at three times the price: $7 for the hot dog, plus $6 for a bottle of drink. Times two. Scandalous. But it’s not like you can pop out to grab something else—you’re a captive audience, just like the creatures that live here.

If we’d thought ahead, we could’ve brought sandwiches and eaten them while watching the fish. Sadly, this seems to be the case with most large museums that sell food: captive audience, no competition, and prices that make you question your life choices.

Shakin’ all Over

Claude Doing what He Does Best

We had a look at some other areas in there, including the albino alligator—Claude—who mostly just sits on a big flat rock, not moving. The rock is heated from the inside, and he likes to keep his belly warm. Fair enough. Claude’s been here since 2008 and is one of the Academy’s most famous residents. Born in Louisiana in 1995, he was brought to San Francisco after a stint at a Florida farm. His albinism makes him completely white, and his poor eyesight means he wouldn’t have lasted long in the wild. There are only a few dozen albino alligators in captivity worldwide, so Claude’s a bit of a celebrity.

He used to share his tank with a green female alligator named Bonnie, but that ended badly—she bit off one of his toes, and she was sent back to Florida. Claude stayed on, surrounded now by freshwater fish and five giant snapping turtles who are, thankfully, much better roommates. He’s trained to respond to his name and commands, and he could live to be 80, so he’s got a long career ahead of him as the Academy’s resident lounge lizard.

Jane wanted to sit down for a bit, so I walked over to the earthquake simulator. This was really good. After a short film, you move into a room set up like someone’s living room, and it re-enacts the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. It shakes the hell out of you—but that’s not the end of it. Another short story takes you back to 1906 when the big one struck. This one shakes the room even harder and longer. They admit it’s not as bad as the actual quake was—they can’t shake the room that violently for safety reasons—and they also can’t simulate the up-and-down movement, which I’d never thought about. I always assumed earthquakes were just side-to-side shaking.

On the way out, you enter a gallery of photographs taken in 1906 and 1989. When you see the damage done in both, it’s amazing more people weren’t killed.

No Planets Planetarium

By now it was almost time for our slot in the planetarium. Even though you don’t have to pay extra to go in, you still need a free timed ticket—seats are limited, and it fills up fast.

A Setion of The Bay Bridge Collapse in 1989

Inside the Morrison Planetarium, you’re surrounded by a 75-foot digital dome that wraps around you like the sky itself. The show re-enacts the 1906 earthquake from an aerial perspective, followed by the devastating fire that broke out afterward. It burned down 500 city blocks—roughly 20 square miles—and claimed more lives than the quake itself. Over 3,000 people died in the fire, which raged for nearly a week and couldn’t be put out because most of the water mains had ruptured.

In the end, the only way to stop it was to blow up parts of the city in lines to create firebreaks. Sitting beneath that vast dome, with the visuals unfolding above and around you, truly gave a sense of being right there—watching history unravel from the sky.

Ferry Building 1906

The destruction explains why there aren’t many buildings over a years old in San Francisco. Some did survive, like the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero. Although it was badly damaged, many of the remaining structures have since been retrofitted to withstand future quakes—some even have foundations mounted on springs to absorb the shaking.

As the presenter said, another big one is due. There’s not much you can do except prepare for the worst and hope you live through it.

On the plus side, most of the earthquakes originate on land, so there’s less chance of a tidal wave. But the city does have an eerie warning system: air raid-style sirens that go off a few seconds before a quake hits. We heard them at least twice during our stay—thankfully, just tests. Still, when 109 sirens go off around the city at once, it’s hard not to jump. It’s called the Tuesday midday alert, but if you don’t know that, it’s a very effective way to scare the life out of you.

To the Irish Bar

By now it was about 4:30pm, and we’d seen everything the museum had to offer. We headed out for the walk across Golden Gate Park and into the Sunset District toward a restaurant I’d planned out.

But Jane was starting to flag, and the first place we came across—a spot I’d noticed a few days earlier—was the Little Shamrock Irish Bar. We were both gasping for a drink, so we dived in.

The Shamrock is just like a local pub back home, only friendlier. It’s got that lived-in charm, the kind of place where you suspect the regulars have their own stools and the bartender knows their life stories. I get the feeling it gets lively in the evenings. A cautionary note: the toilets are up a few stairs, but not on another floor—so you have to watch your head on the ceiling. Maybe being an Irish pub, they’re used to leprechauns.

Jane Being Cheeky in the Shamrock

Although they didn’t serve food, it was good just to sit down with a beer I desperately needed. There were a few people in there, and I ordered a pint of locally brewed IPA while Jane had a Coke.

At first, I thought the bartender had undercharged me—but no, it was only $5 for both drinks. I just wish I’d discovered this place earlier in our stay. It would’ve been worth the 30-minute tram ride just for the cheap beer, good service, and relaxing atmosphere. Mind you, it was happy hour—but even after that, the prices didn’t climb much.

Something I noticed: most pubs in this area don’t open until 5 o’clock. I guess that’s because most people around here actually work. Or maybe they’re just pacing themselves for the kind of night the Shamrock was clearly built for.

Decisions Decisions

By now it was around 5:30pm, and hunger was starting to override curiosity. Time to head to the restaurant I’d planned. Big mistake. I’ve always been wary of places that don’t post their menu outside—and even more so when they do, but mysteriously omit the prices. When we peeked through the window and saw perfectly folded napkins tucked into wine glasses, we knew this wasn’t our kind of place. Far too upmarket. We’re more of the “table and chair screwed to the floor” kind of diners.

So, out came the offline part of the app on my phone—because walking any further was off the table.

Pasta & Meatballs

This area around 9th and Irving is the Sunset District’s unofficial foodie zone, where every other shop seems to be a restaurant. As luck would have it, just around the corner was a place I’d missed: Milano Italian Restaurant. It was exactly what I’d hoped for—an authentic Italian meal of meatballs and pasta, minus the linen origami.

The place had charm. Drinks came in jam jars, which felt quirky until I remembered that’s probably standard back home for them. There weren’t too many people inside, apart from a birthday bash happening in the back room. Our food arrived in about 20 minutes, and it was worth every second. I’m still not sure what kind of pepper they served in the little pinch bowl, but it was phenomenal—like a spice that had been aged in a Tuscan monastery and blessed by a nonna.

Sadly, Jane couldn’t taste any of it. Her cough had robbed her of her sense of taste, so I had to describe the flavours to her like some kind of culinary audiobook.

By the time we finished, it was dark. The bill came to just $30, which felt like daylight robbery in reverse. And the tram stop? Virtually outside the door. We only had three minutes to wait. Sometimes, the universe throws you a bone wrapped in pasta and served in a jam jar.

Back to the City & Evening Wander

We arrived back at the hotel around 7:30pm and flopped in front of the TV for a bit. But I wasn’t quite done with the day. I headed out again—camera in hand—for a solo wander up to Union Square to snap a few more photos and grab a couple of drinks in a bar whose name now escapes me. Then I hopped on a bus down to the Embarcadero, chasing the night lights.

And what a sight.

The Embarcadero Center Lights

The Embarcadero buildings were lit like a skyline dressed for a gala. Each edge and corner outlined in crisp white light, giving the whole waterfront a kind of architectural halo. It turns out this wasn’t just good timing—it was part of the Annual Building Lighting Ceremony, where 17,000 lights illuminate the Embarcadero Center in a dazzling display that kicks off the holiday season. Even without the crowds and festivities, the glow was mesmerising.

But the real showstopper was the Bay Bridge.

The Bay Bridge Light Show

The Bay Lights installation—created by artist Leo Villareal—is a monumental light sculpture stretching across the western span of the bridge. It’s made up of 25,000 individually programmed LEDs that ripple and cascade like liquid light. At night, it looks like the bridge is draped in shimmering silk, with patterns that dance and shift in hypnotic waves. There’s even an app that syncs music to the light patterns, turning the whole experience into a kind of urban symphony.

Looking back, it was another fantastic day—though maybe a tad too long. Still, there’s something about riding the streetcar back when the city’s quiet. It glides through the streets with a nostalgic romance, the occasional clunk of metal on metal adding rhythm to the ride.

Back at the hotel, Jane wasn’t feeling great, so we settled in with a beer and the TV. American television is a strange beast—one minute you’re watching a film, the next you’re knee-deep in a car advert that feels like part of the plot. And just when you think the credits are rolling, they split the screen and start the next program while the last one’s still waving goodbye.

It’s chaotic. It’s brilliant. It’s very American.

Reflections on the Day

Looking back, this day had a bit of everything—art, architecture, unexpected detours, and the kind of small victories that make travel feel personal. It started with grand museums and ended with glowing bridges, but the real highlights were the moments in between: stumbling into the Little Shamrock for a cheap pint and a laugh, dodging the linen-napkin brigade in favour of pasta and beer served in jam jars, and catching the streetcar home like locals who know the rhythm of the city.

There’s a kind of magic in days that don’t go to plan. The restaurant I’d mapped out turned out to be too posh, Jane’s taste buds went on strike, and the evening bar I liked enough to revisit didn’t leave me with a name. But somehow, it all worked. We found comfort in the casual, beauty in the unexpected, and a sense of calm in the city’s nighttime glow.

Even the quirks—like American TV’s obsession with adverts and the Embarcadero’s architectural light show—felt like part of the charm. San Francisco doesn’t try to impress you with grandeur; it wins you over with character. It’s a city that lets you wander, stumble, and discover, all at your own pace.

And maybe that’s the real takeaway: travel isn’t about ticking off landmarks. It’s about finding the places that feel like they were waiting for you to arrive. Whether it’s a quiet tram ride, a pepper you can’t name, or a pub ceiling designed for leprechauns—it’s the details that linger.

Tomorrow’s another day. But this one? This one glowed.