We didn’t set out till late morning today, so it was always going to be a bit of a dash if we wanted to squeeze in the science museum. But, as travel often reminds us, plans are more like suggestions.
A Change of Plan
We hopped on the N tram to Irvin Street in the Sunset District, then wandered into Golden Gate Park—only to realise we’d forgotten the credit card we were planning to use for entry. At $35 each, the Academy of Sciences isn’t exactly pocket change, and while we had enough cash, it would’ve left us rationing snacks and bus fares like Victorian schoolchildren. So, we made the executive decision to come back another day and explore some of the park’s other sights instead.
Golden Gate Park
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Golden Gate Park is a bit like Central Park in New York, only slightly larger and with a more laid-back West Coast vibe. It’s packed with attractions: the Music Concourse, De Young Museum, Japanese Tea Garden, Conservatory of Flowers, Botanical Garden, AIDS Memorial Grove, Stow Lake, Spreckels Lake, Dutch Windmills, Bison Paddock, Polo Fields, and more. Let’s be honest—you’re not getting round all that in a day unless you’ve got rollerblades and a personal hydration team.
We walked up to Stow Lake, just a short stroll from our original target. It’s a lovely, tranquil spot that wraps around Strawberry Hill, with a Chinese pagoda perched like a postcard in the background. You can rent pedal boats here, but given Jane’s recent acrobatics with cable car steps, we decided not to tempt fate. Instead, we found a quiet bench and let the world slow down.
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| Stow Lake & Chinese Pavilion |
There was something deeply calming about sitting there with Jane. No rush, no schedule—just the gentle ripple of water, the soft rustle of leaves, and the occasional splash from a terrapin surfacing like a shy guest at a garden party. We didn’t talk much, but we didn’t need to. Sometimes the best conversations happen in silence, when you’re simply sharing the same view, the same breath of fresh air, the same moment.
It felt like the city had paused for us. The usual hum of traffic and chatter was replaced by birdsong and the distant creak of branches. Even the terrapins seemed to be taking their time, drifting through the lake like they had nowhere better to be. And for once, neither did we.
Real Burger Joint
By now it was around 1:30 p.m. and bellies were starting to rumble, so it was time to head over to the Sunset District for lunch. I’d found a place while planning this trip that I just had to try—Jenny’s Burgers—and we weren’t disappointed.
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| Inside Jenny's |
This isn’t part of some shiny burger chain with laminated menus and plastic booths. Jenny’s is the real deal: a no-frills, family-run spot with a handful of seats and a menu that’s short, simple, and spot-on. They cook your burger how you want it—none of that “medium unless requested otherwise” nonsense—and the prices are refreshingly down to earth. I think it was less than $15 for both our meals, though I can’t remember exactly. Either way, it felt like a steal.
Inside, it’s a bit rough and ready—greasy spoon charm with a side of faded signage—but we grabbed a seat by the window and watched the world go by. It felt good to just sit and eat like locals, no fuss, no fanfare. There was only one other person in there, so no queue, no chaos—just the smell of sizzling beef and the quiet hum of a place that knows what it’s doing.
I must say, this was hands down the best burger I’ve ever had. Juicy, messy, and stacked just right. Sometimes the places that don’t look like much turn out to be the ones you remember most. Jenny’s is one of those.
Sunset in Sunset
With lunch sorted and no particular plan for the rest of the day, we hopped back on the N tram for a 15-minute ride down to Ocean Beach. Now, the trams here are a bit quirky. Some stops don’t have platforms—you just step off into the middle of the road like it’s a casual game of Frogger. In theory, traffic isn’t supposed to overtake when the tram’s stopped, but theory doesn’t always survive contact with San Francisco drivers. More than once, we had to do a quick double-check before stepping off, lest we end up as the next special at Jenny’s Burgers: “The Tourist Patty.”
We’d boarded in an underground section where there’s a nice level platform, but once the tram hits the street, the steps drop down steeply. Some stops do have raised platforms, but they’re only accessible via the front door, and you have to ask the driver to retract the steps. Thankfully, you can actually speak to the driver on these trams—they’re usually pretty helpful and don’t seem too fazed by confused visitors clinging to the handrails like it’s a rollercoaster. I suppose there just isn’t space to build proper platforms at every stop, so you get what you’re given and hope your knees are feeling cooperative.
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| The Dutch Windmill |
When we got off, it didn’t look like much—just a few trees and a wide road—but once we passed through the greenery, we stumbled upon one of San Francisco’s Dutch windmills, surrounded by thousands of tulips in full bloom. It felt like we’d wandered into a secret garden, tucked away behind the chaos of traffic and tram steps.
Then came the challenge of crossing The Great Highway. It’s wide, fast, and flanked by sand dunes that have blown in from the beach. You wait ages for the lights to change, then scramble over the small dunes like you’re on a mini expedition. But once you’re across and walked up a bit, you’re rewarded with one of the most spectacular beaches I’ve ever seen.
Jane couldn’t get onto the sand—her crutches would just sink—but we weren’t giving up on her missing the view. We walked further up where the dunes weren’t blocking the sea and found a spot on the wall. We sat there together, watching the surfers carve through the waves, the sun slowly dipping toward the horizon. It was one of those rare moments where everything feels still and perfect. The kind of silence that isn’t empty, but full—full of salt air, distant laughter, and the quiet joy of just being there.
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| Ocean Beach yo Cliff House |
Eventually, we wandered back to the tram stop. Luckily, there’s a raised platform where the tram turns around, so Jane could get on easily. Then it moves up a bit and picks up others from the regular stop. Oddly enough, the ride back felt quicker—maybe it was just the glow of the sunset still lingering, or maybe the tram was trying to outrun the memory of nearly turning us into roadkill.
This day reminded me that accessibility isn’t just about ramps and platforms—it’s about being able to share experiences, even if they look a little different. Jane couldn’t walk on the sand, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel the beach. We found a way to make it work: a wall, a view, and time together in the sun. Sometimes the best moments aren’t about ticking off sights—they’re about adapting, noticing, and being present.
And if that means dodging traffic to get off a tram or scaling a sand dune like a budget Indiana Jones, so be it. We didn’t need perfect conditions. Just a bit of patience, a good seat, and the kind of sunset that makes you forget the awkward steps and the long wait at the crossing.
Fake Retro Fun
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| Fake Retro Fun |
After a bit of rest back at the hotel, we headed out for dinner at Lori’s Diner—a place I’d been looking forward to since planning the trip. It’s the full all-American retro dining experience, straight out of the 1950s. Think chrome finishes, red leather booths, and a jukebox that actually works. They’ve even got a classic car parked inside the restaurant, just in case you forget what decade you’re pretending to be in.
The waitresses were dressed in full ’50s style—beehive hairdos, bright lipstick, and that kind of cheerful sass you’d expect from a diner scene in Grease. You half expect someone to burst into song or slide across the counter in a pair of saddle shoes.
We both went for the chicken and chips, which came with the biggest tub of coleslaw I’ve ever seen outside of a supermarket deli. It was sweet, tangy, and unapologetically American. I got a bottle of beer to wash it down, and true to form, no glass—just straight from the bottle, which suited me just fine. The whole thing came to around $30, including tax and tip. Not bad at all, especially for a place that doubles as a time machine.
Taking It Easy
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| Westfield Centre |
With us now fed and watered, we took a gentle walk back through Union Square. The lights were twinkling, the air was cool, and the city had that soft hum that makes everything feel cinematic. Jane headed back to the hotel, but I fancied a wander and popped into the Westfield shopping centre.
Now, this place is a bit of an odd one. It’s not wide or sprawling like most malls—it’s vertical. About seven or eight floors stacked on top of each other, like a retail tower block. You can look down through the central atrium and see all the way to the bottom—roughly 150 feet below. It’s like shopping in a lift shaft, but with better lighting and fewer awkward silences.
After a quick browse, I grabbed a few tins of beer and made my way back to the hotel.
Reflections on the Day
Today felt like one of those quietly satisfying chapters in a travel story—not dramatic or life-changing, but rich in texture. It was a day of gentle rhythms: a bit of rest, a bit of wandering, and a dash of kitschy Americana served up with fries and a bottle of beer.
Lori’s Diner was a highlight—not just for the food, but for the sheer commitment to the retro fantasy. There’s something oddly comforting about stepping into a place that’s trying so hard to be something else. It’s playful, a little absurd, and yet it works. Maybe it’s the nostalgia, even if it’s borrowed. I didn’t grow up in the ’50s, but sitting there among chrome and jukeboxes, I could almost believe I had.
The walk through Union Square reminded me how cities change character at night. The buzz softens, the lights take over, and everything feels a little more cinematic. It’s in those moments—when the crowds thin and the pace slows—that you get to feel the city breathing. Not showing off, just existing.
And then there’s the vertical mall. Strange, yes, but oddly fascinating. It’s a reminder that even the most mundane places can surprise you if you’re paying attention. Seven floors of shops stacked like a retail Jenga tower, and somehow it works.
Back at the hotel, beer in hand, I felt that familiar travel fatigue—the good kind. The kind that says you’ve done enough for one day, that you’ve seen and tasted and walked and wondered. It’s not about ticking boxes or chasing landmarks. It’s about letting the day unfold, and finding joy in the details: a waitress’s beehive, a tub of coleslaw, the view down a mall atrium.
Tomorrow will bring its own stories. But tonight, I’m grateful for the quiet ones.