Jane was feeling a bit better today, so we decided to head out for a proper all-American breakfast. There’s no shortage of places to eat in this city—diners, cafés, and corner joints all within a stone’s throw of our hotel. But we didn’t want to just follow the crowd. Why settle for what everyone else has probably done countless times before?
I’d come across a place during my trip research that had stuck with me. It wasn’t far, but it had character—one of those spots that felt like it had stories baked into the walls. It had made our to-do list early on.
All American Breakfast
We’d passed this place the other day on our way to the zoo, but I’d forgotten it was closed on Mondays. So today, with Jane feeling better and the morning wide open, we jumped on the L Taraval tram for the 30-minute ride down to John's Ocean Beach Café, tucked away on Sloat Boulevard.
This place is straight out of a 1950s time capsule—not a theme restaurant, just untouched by modern trends. Walking in felt like stepping into a black-and-white TV show. Formica tables, imitation leather booths, and those classic counter stools that spin with a satisfying squeak. The walls were plastered with signed posters of jazz musicians from decades past, and tucked in the corner was an original jukebox that still plays vinyl records. And yes—it still works.
The café’s surprisingly spacious, probably seats fifty or sixty, but that morning it was quiet. Just half a dozen people scattered around, so we snagged a booth—normally reserved for three or more, but the waitress didn’t bat an eye. She was friendly, quick with the coffee, and handed us menus that looked like they hadn’t changed in years. The sheer number of options was staggering, especially for a place that only opens from 7:30 to 3:30.
We both went for the scrambled eggs, which came with two slices of toast and a generous pile of pan-fried potato chunks—crispy on the outside, soft in the middle, and seasoned just right. It took some eating, but the endless coffee refills helped it down. All this for around $20, tax and tip included. Best of all? They only take good old-fashioned cash.
It was more than just breakfast—it was a slice of Americana, served hot with a side of nostalgia.
Peace, Man
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| Peace at Ocean Beach |
After that mountain of breakfast, we needed a walk—if only to avoid falling asleep in the booth. It was just a short stroll, maybe five minutes, to Ocean Beach, once we’d managed to cross the Great Highway. That road’s a beast—wide, fast-moving, and not exactly pedestrian-friendly, even with the crossings. It felt a bit like trying to cross a motorway back home. You keep your eyes peeled and hope the traffic gods are feeling generous.
We picked our way across the tiny sand dunes that pile up along the pavements here, then crossed over to the beach. Jane couldn’t get all the way onto the sand—her crutches would’ve sunk in too easily—so we found a spot on the low wall by the car park overlooking the ocean. We sat there for over an hour, just watching the surfers carve through the waves.
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| Surf's Up |
And the waves, those waves were massive. Easily ten feet, maybe more. It was hypnotic, watching them rise and crash, the surfers dancing between power and precision. The sun was warm, the sky clear, and the whole scene felt like something out of a film. Jane had missed the beach yesterday, but today she got a taste of California’s coastal magic. It was another defining moment of the trip. That feeling of peace and tranquillity—just sitting, watching, breathing—it’s something I’ll carry with me.
Eventually, Jane decided she wanted to head back to the city and then to the hotel. She wasn’t feeling great again, so I went with her to make sure she got back okay.
But there was still one more thing I wanted to do.
Time for a Paddle
After making sure Jane was okay, I still had plans down at the beach. It’s not all sand and surf down there—there’s a whole stretch of coastline that feels like it belongs to the locals. So I caught the N Judah tram to its western terminus at Ocean Beach, a couple of miles up from where we’d been earlier in the day.
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| Beach to the Golden Gate Bridge |
From there, I started walking north along the sand. To hell with it, I thought—time for a paddle. I took off my shoes and stepped into the Pacific. Cold, refreshing, and exactly what I needed. The water hit my feet like a wake-up call, but the sun was warm—mid-20s at least—so I stuffed my coat into my bag and waded in a little deeper.
I never would’ve imagined I’d be paddling in the Pacific wearing just a T-shirt and my jeans rolled up on Boxing Day—or should I say non-Boxing Day. They don’t have it here. Just Christmas Day, then it’s back to work for most people. The beach was quiet but not empty—locals walking dogs, a few brave swimmers, and the occasional jogger kicking up sand.
By now, I was even starting to get a slight tan on my arms. When you reach the northern end of Ocean Beach, the cliffs jut out over the sand and the tide starts to press in, so I dried off and climbed up to the top via the road. From there, the view south is breathtaking—miles upon miles of beach stretching into the distance, the waves rolling in like clockwork. A truly incredible sight.
Cliff House
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| All that Remains of Sutro Baths |
Just a short walk further north, the landscape shifts again—this time to something more dramatic. Perched on the rugged western edge of San Francisco is the Cliff House, and just below it, the haunting ruins of the Sutro Baths.
It’s hard to believe that these concrete remnants once formed the world’s largest indoor swimming complex. In 1896, Adolph Sutro—entrepreneur, engineer, and former mayor—opened his grand vision to the public. The Sutro Baths were a marvel: seven pools (six saltwater, one freshwater), a museum of curiosities, a concert hall, and seating for 8,000. At one point, there was even an ice rink. Ocean water surged in naturally at high tide, and a turbine pump—housed in the Cliff House itself—could refill the tanks in just five hours at low tide.
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| People Exploring |
Serviced by the Ferries and Cliff House Railroad, the baths were a popular escape, but their operating costs were immense. In 1966, while the building was being demolished, a fire destroyed what remained. Now, only the skeletal walls, blocked-off staircases, and tunnels remain—a ghost of grandeur.
Looking down from the top of the cliff, the view is staggering. The Pacific stretches endlessly, and the ruins below seem almost mythic. You can imagine the laughter, the splashing, the spectacle. It must have been idyllic at any time of year. Today, the Cliff House and Sutro Baths are preserved as part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, a tribute to San Francisco’s eccentric and ambitious past.
Exploring the Ruins
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| Sutro baths & Cliff House in the Distance |
Unfortunately, when you get down into the ruins and start to explore them, you see just how much rubbish gets dropped here. It’s a real shame. This place—once a marvel of Victorian engineering and imagination—now has crisp packets and plastic bottles wedged between the concrete bones of history. How hard can it be to take your trash up to the road and put it in the bin?
Still, I’ve always loved walking around old places like this. There’s something about ruins that invites you to imagine—not just what they looked like, but how they felt. Picture the Sutro Baths in their heyday: steam rising from saltwater pools, the echo of laughter, the rustle of fancy clothes. Although the baths were open to everyone, there was a time in the late 1800s when racial segregation was enforced. Non-white visitors were allowed in—but only as spectators. “Well, wasn’t that nice of them wasn’t it”. Thankfully, that policy was overturned in court in 1898, making the baths accessible to all—if you could afford it.
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| All that Remains of the Pools |
Speaking of affordability, entry cost 25 cents in 1896. Adjusted for inflation, that’s about $8.57 in 2013. Not an outrageous sum, but certainly a treat for working-class families. It wasn’t something you’d do every day, but it was within reach—a rare blend of grandeur and accessibility.
As I wandered through the blocked-off staircases and tunnels, I felt a mix of awe and melancholy. The ruins are beautiful, but they’re also a reminder of how easily we forget to care for the past. The view out to sea is still magnificent, though. That part, at least, remains untouched.
Lands End
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| One of the Paths to the Lands End Trail |
It was then time to head up the steep pathway onto the Lands End Trail, part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, and follow it north toward China Beach. The plan was to catch the late-afternoon light on the Golden Gate Bridge from the other side—sunlit, majestic, and hopefully perfect for a few good photographs.
As I climbed, the wind picked up and the air grew cooler, but the views were worth every step. What struck me most, though, wasn’t just the scenery—it was the sense of walking through history. This trail, winding along the cliffs, follows the path of the old Ferries and Cliff House Railway, a steam train line funded by Adolph Sutro in the late 1880s. He wanted his attractions—the Cliff House, Sutro Baths, and Sutro Heights—to be accessible to everyone, not just the wealthy. For just five cents, passengers could transfer from downtown cable cars and ride the train out to the edge of the continent.
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| Lands End Trail |
Later, around 1905, the line was electrified and became the No. 1 Sutter and California streetcar line, often called “the Cliff Line.” It hugged the cliffs, offering panoramic views of the Golden Gate. But the cliffs were never stable. Landslides plagued the route, and in February 1925, a particularly severe one damaged the tracks beyond repair. The line was abandoned, and the trains stopped running—but the land remembers.
As I walked, I noticed subtle clues: embankments shaped unnaturally level, concrete foundations half-swallowed by earth, and the occasional historical marker with faded photographs and maps.
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| Lands End to the Golden Gate Bridge |
A mile or so along the trail, I reached a brilliant viewpoint. The Golden Gate Bridge stood proud in the distance, bathed in golden light, with the Marin County hills behind it. The sun was sinking fast now, so I turned back to catch the sunset over the Pacific. I tried some time-lapse video as the sky turned orange and then deepened into twilight.
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| Sunset Over the Pacific Ocean |
By now it was dark, but the evening was warm. Down on the beach, people had started lighting fires—small gatherings, laughter, the smell of smoke drifting up the cliffs. What a perfect way to spend the evening.
But I had to keep moving. It was a mile or so walk back to the tram stop, and I arrived just as one was about to leave. Back in the city by six o’clock, I grabbed a couple of swift drinks down the pub before heading back to the hotel to check on Jane and sort out something for dinner.
Cheeky Pint & Pizza
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| Photos Before a Pint |
Jane was feeling better after a good afternoon nap, but she didn’t fancy heading out for dinner. Fair enough. So I made a solo dash for food, with a cheeky detour first—Johnny Foley's Irish Pub, just off Powell Street. It’s got all the charm of a classic pub, albeit with a bit of plastic sheen, but it’s hard to resist when it’s right on the way. A swift pint felt like the proper punctuation to a day spent walking cliffs and ruins.
Then it was uphill—always uphill—to Uncle Vito’s Pizza at the corner of Powell and Bush. The slope seemed steeper than ever, legs protesting after miles of walking. The place was packed, with a queue snaking out the door, but most were waiting for seats inside. I was lucky—served fairly quickly, pizza in hand and ready to descend.
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| Macy's Christmas Lights |
The walk back was longer than I remembered, but at least it was downhill. Still warm, even after dark, and the pizza was worth every step. Just $13.50 for a slice of comfort—crispy, cheesy, and exactly what I needed.
By now it was about nine o’clock. Looking back, this might’ve been the best Boxing Day I’ve ever had. Spectacular views, warm weather, a paddle in the Pacific, and good food to keep me going. You couldn’t ask for more than that today, I think.
Reflection on the Day: Boxing Day Reimagined
Boxing Day in San Francisco turned out to be nothing like the ones I’ve known back home—and maybe that’s what made it so memorable. No leftover turkey, no drizzle, no half-hearted sales. Instead, there was sunshine, sea air, and the kind of freedom that only comes when you stop trying to follow tradition and start following your feet.
Jane’s recovery gave the day a gentle rhythm. We didn’t rush, didn’t plan too tightly—just let the hours unfold. From the quiet joy of watching surfers together to the solitude of walking the Lands End Trail, it felt like the city was offering up its own version of peace. Not the kind wrapped in tinsel, but the kind you find in warm breezes and long shadows.
The history beneath my feet added depth to the walk—knowing that trains once clung to these cliffs, carrying families out to marvel at the Pacific, made every step feel connected to something bigger. And then there was the pizza, the cheeky pint, the soft descent back to the hotel. Simple pleasures, perfectly timed.
It wasn’t a traditional Boxing Day, but it was one I’ll remember. A day of warmth, wonder, and quiet resilience. And sometimes, that’s all you need.