We didn’t get up till about 9:30 this morning. There wasn’t much point—we weren’t planning on going anywhere, just packing a few last things into the bags and making sure we hadn’t left anything in the drawers.
This has to be the worst part of a holiday: when it’s time to leave. And it felt even heavier this time because we’d had such a fantastic trip. Two weeks gone in a blur, filled with warmth, discovery, and moments we’ll be talking about for years. Now the reality of a cold, wet British winter wasn’t far away, and the contrast couldn’t be sharper.
Check-Out Time
We didn’t have to check out of the hotel until midday, and with our flight home not scheduled until 7:30 in the evening, there was no rush. We ended up leaving around 11:30, just a short walk to the BART station.
By the time Jane had successfully beaten the evil train ticket vending machine into submission, it was still only midday. There’s not much point in me trying to tackle the tickets—I’m hopeless with those sorts of things. We always seem to have problems with them, no matter how many times we use them. That said, I don’t think they were quite as bad as the ones in New York City. At least here there were only two types to choose from.
To the Airport
The BART station sits beneath the Westfield, tucked under the Muni, and thankfully all the lifts were working. Accessibility with the BART trains is excellent—there’s barely any gap between the platform and the train, which makes boarding smooth and stress-free.
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| Soaking up the Sunshine at SFO |
After a 20-minute wait, we were on our way to the airport. It’s only about a 35-minute journey, so we knew we’d have a few hours to kill before checking the bags in. We ended up sitting outside the front of the airport for an hour or so, soaking up the last of the Californian sunshine. It was yet another gloriously sunny day, with temperatures in the mid-twenties—a final gift before heading back to winter.
The station drops you right inside the departures terminal, so there’s very little walking once you arrive. It’s one of those rare travel transitions that actually feels easy.
Killing Time Before Departure
Now seemed like a good time to get stamps for the postcards—this time, I was determined to get the right ones so they wouldn’t take months to arrive. Unlike our visit to NYC, where I bought local stamps and the cards eventually turned up about six months after we got back, this time I played it safe.
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| Beer Time |
After checking in the bags, we headed through security, setting off the metal detector as usual, followed by the customary public groping. Then it was into the terminal to spend the next five hours waiting. It sounds like a long stretch, but once you factor in the walk to the gate and boarding time, it’s really only about three to four hours.
There weren’t many shops—just two, along with two bars. After grabbing something to eat, we settled into one of the pubs for a drink. I did wonder later if there was a way to access another terminal with more shops, though we wouldn’t have bought any duty-free anyway. Prices seem about the same as back home, so there’s not much point.
Still, it passed the time. They had free Wi-Fi too, and there’s nothing quite like the internet for making hours disappear. This was only the second time we’d waited for a flight in the afternoon, and it felt surprisingly quiet compared to other departures.
I’ve always loved watching aircraft take off. There’s something so graceful about it—how something so massive can climb effortlessly into the sky never fails to amaze me.
Departure & Flight
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| Our Ride Home |
I’d hoped that a few beers before take-off might lull me into sleep, but the reality was far less forgiving. Sleep never came. They called our flight around 6:30 p.m., and for once, boarding was calm—no bun fight, no elbows. Maybe we’d just slipped in early and missed the usual chaos. The gate area was oddly quiet, though the flight was nearly full. I still wonder where everyone had been hiding. Perhaps they’d discovered some secret shopping enclave tucked away in the terminal.
We departed on time at 7:30 p.m. for the ten-hour flight home. With the eight-hour time difference, we wouldn’t land until 2:30 p.m. the following day. What follows are fragments of thought from a sleepless night spent drifting above the world.
21:00 PDT – Pacific Daylight Time
The evening meal has been served, the cabin lights dimmed. Most passengers are either absorbed in their screens or somehow already asleep. I sit here wide awake, wrapped in the hush of altitude. Jane’s beside me, curled up and peaceful. I’m grateful she’s resting—she deserves it after everything we’ve navigated together. Her comfort is always the first thing I think about, even before my own. I think we’re somewhere over eastern Canada now—not that you’d see any lights from 37,000 feet. It’s in this quiet, suspended moment that the trip begins to replay in my mind. The places we visited, the people we met, the small victories of accessibility and spontaneity. It’s strange how reflection always finds you in the dark.
02:00 PDT
Still awake. I think I’m the only one now, apart from the usual suspects—pilot, co-pilot, maybe a flight attendant or two. I’ve lost count of how many films I’ve watched, each one a distraction from the creeping awareness that we’re heading home. We’re somewhere over the Atlantic now, with the nearest land probably a thousand miles away. That distance feels symbolic. A quiet sadness begins to settle in. The holiday is over. And oddly, San Francisco had started to feel like home. Not just a place we visited, but a place we belonged to, even if just for a while. Jane had said something similar—how the rhythm of the city suited us, how it felt welcoming in ways we hadn’t expected. That stayed with me.
03:00 PDT
That was the shortest night I’ve ever known. Flying west to east in winter means chasing the sunrise at 500 miles an hour. The darkness barely has time to settle before it’s swept away. It’s a strange contradiction—long winter nights on the ground, but up here, the night is fleeting. Breakfast is being served now, with a gentle reminder not to open all the window blinds at once. At 38,000 feet, there are no clouds to soften the sun, and the light can be blinding. They don’t want everyone’s eyes to pop out of their heads at the same time.
Jane stirs beside me, and I feel that familiar mix of relief and tenderness. We’re heading home, yes—but we’re also carrying something back with us. Memories, moments, and a quiet pride in having done it together. That matters more than the destination.