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.

San Francisco Zoo & A Pacific Sunset

As Jane still wasn’t feeling great, we opted for a slower pace today. A half-hour ride on the L tram took us down to the San Francisco Zoo—my first zoo visit since a school trip to Blackpool when I was about ten. Safe to say, expectations were mixed: nostalgia meets curiosity.

We’re all going to the Zoo…. Today

The zoo’s just a short walk from the tram stop, and I’d read they rent out wheelchairs for $10. What I didn’t expect was the generous pricing: Jane got a $3 discount, and I got in free as her designated pusher. Instead of $34 for the two of us, it came to just $14, plus the wheelchair rental. That made the whole place accessible for Jane—and we saw everything. Some paths were a bit uneven, so I had to watch my footing, but there weren’t many steep slopes to contend with.

Penguin Pandemonium

Wh You Looking at?

The highlight? Penguin feeding time. A keeper arrived with a bucket of fish and a hosepipe—not for the penguins, but to fend off a particularly bold seagull. Apparently, this gull was new in town, replacing the last one who made the fatal mistake of sharing a tiger’s lunch… and becoming it.

After feeding, the keeper gave a talk about penguins in the wild. Who knew they can live over 30 years in captivity? And contrary to popular belief, most species prefer subtropical climates—not icy ones.

Penguin Lunch

Some enclosures felt surprisingly open. When a baboon is ten feet away and the fence is only shoulder height, you do wonder what’s stopping it from leaping out. The zoo has had incidents—one involving a tiger reaching through bars in a staff-only area due to a CCTV blind spot, and another where a visitor climbed into an enclosure and was tragically killed. Sobering reminders that wild animals are, well, wild.

The zoo’s longest resident was Coldilocks (yes, spelled like that), a polar bear who lived there for 40 years. Her enclosure showed its age, but moving her wasn’t an option—the stress would’ve been too much. There was something poignant about seeing her space, a quiet testament to time and care.

Even the café wasn’t bad. Pricey, yes, but you got a decent portion. There was also a miniature steam train from the 1800s that kids could ride for a small extra charge. We spent about five hours wandering, watching, and wondering, finally leaving around 4:30pm.

Pacific Sunset – A Moment to Keep

Ocean Beach Surfers

It had been a long day for Jane, so before heading back on the tram, we took a short walk across the road to Ocean Beach—a 3.5-mile stretch of white sand on San Francisco’s western edge, known for its wild surf and quiet beauty. The sun was beginning its descent, casting golden hues across the sky and warming the air just enough to make you forget it was nearly Christmas.

We sat together, watching the last surfers carve through the waves in the fading light. It was one of those rare moments that seem to pause time. No noise, no rush—just the rhythm of the ocean and the soft glow of the setting sun. A moment of magic, shared in silence.

It’s funny how the simplest things can leave the deepest impressions. That sunset, that stillness, that feeling of being exactly where we were meant to be.

And with that, we called it a day. Oddly enough, the tram ride back felt quicker—maybe because we carried a little peace with us.

Wobbly Wander

Back at the hotel, after we’d had something to eat, Jane went for a nap. This was my chance to sneak off for a solo pint at Murphy’s Pub, an Irish bar I’d found tucked away on Kearny Street in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district. It wasn’t the closest option, but it was easy enough to reach by streetcar—and since it was a Sunday, the area was blissfully quiet.

Murphy’s wasn’t a big place inside, but it looked exactly like the kind of pub you’d see on TV: dark wood, low lighting, and a bartender who alternated between polishing glasses and serving five people at once with effortless charm. I’m not entirely sure what made it “Irish,” but it was a nice enough spot. I think this is where I first discovered Anchor Steam, a locally brewed beer from just a couple of miles away. Smooth, malty, and surprisingly strong—especially when you’ve had more than you meant to.

After lingering longer than planned and drinking more than intended, walking back to the hotel seemed like a good idea. It was a pleasant evening, and I felt confident—until things got hazy. I had a smoke in the courtyard at the back of the pub and spotted another way out. Naturally, I took it. Naturally, I got completely disoriented.

Instead of heading for the main road to catch the bus or streetcar, I took one of my “world-famous” shortcuts. And promptly got lost.

I had a cunning plan, though: use the GPS on my phone. I’d downloaded the map, so I didn’t need an internet connection. Brilliant, right? Except the phone refused to get a signal lock. So I wandered the streets of San Francisco aimlessly, like a slightly tipsy urban explorer. I’ve no idea how I ended up near the Ferry Building, but I can confirm it was nowhere near where I needed to be.

Eventually, I got my bearings and hopped on a streetcar back. I could’ve taken a bus, but some of their routes veer off Market Street before reaching the hotel—and we can all imagine how that would’ve ended. It took me much longer to get back than expected, but there was an upside: I got to see some of the city’s quieter backstreets and enjoy the Christmas lights twinkling along Market Street, with hardly another soul around.

When I finally made it back to the hotel, I had to ring the buzzer—turns out they lock the main door at night for security. My ordeal wasn’t quite over. After being let in, I got in the lift and rode it up and down a few times, trying desperately to remember our room number. Eventually, I gave up and returned to the lobby, sheepish and defeated.

The same staff member who’d let me in was still there, waiting with a knowing smile. Apparently, she’d been watching my fruitless lift escapades on the security cameras, quietly wondering how long it would take me to admit defeat and ask for help. I later found out you could use your room key card to open the front door—but after a few beers, that thought never occurred to me.

Bed Time at Last

Time for bed, then. We weren’t planning to do much the following day—Jane needed a chance to recover, and truth be told, I was starting to feel a bit worn out myself. We hadn’t really stopped since arriving, and it all starts to catch up with you after a while. You don’t notice it at first, but going out nearly all day, every day, gradually wears you down. A day off was well overdue.

Ghirardelli Square & Lombard Street

We didn’t wake up until about 10:30 this morning. Jane wasn’t feeling great—probably thanks to the human foghorn coughing and spluttering all over the bus yesterday as we passed through Chinatown. Credit to her, though—she kept going for as long as she could.

We’d planned to tackle Lombard Street today, famously dubbed the “crookedest street in the world”. But first, we had to walk down into SoMa—South of Market. And wow, that area turned into a bit of a dive real fast. It was like stepping into a different city entirely. The glossy storefronts vanished, replaced by a gritty, retro vibe straight out of a 1970s cop show. Seedy shops, tired buildings, and a general sense that we’d wandered off the tourist map.

Thankfully, we didn’t have to wait long for the bus. But once we reached the stop and looked up at the ridiculously steep side streets we’d need to climb to reach Lombard, we quickly reconsidered. Jane’s leg wasn’t up for it, and frankly, I wasn’t convinced mine was either. So we did the sensible thing—hopped back on the bus and rode it to the end of the line, and ended up at Ghirardelli Square instead.

Chocolate Treats – Ghirardelli Square

Ghirardelli Square Fountain

The main event today? Chocolate. Glorious, decadent, historic chocolate. Ghirardelli Square is home to not one, but two Ghirardelli Chocolate Shops. And yes, they hand you a free sample as you walk in. So naturally, if you visit both, that’s two free chocolates. But what happens if you try to sneak in a third time? Turns out, they’re onto that game. We only went back in to use the lift down to the lower street level—purely to avoid the steep hill. Honest. Totally not angling for a third chocolate. Much.

The square itself is steeped in chocolatey lore. Back in 1893, Domingo Ghirardelli—an Italian-born chocolatier who’d already made a name for himself in San Francisco—bought the entire city block to house his chocolate empire. Fast forward to the early 1960s, and the company was acquired by the Golden Grain Macaroni Company (because apparently, pasta and chocolate are a match made in corporate heaven). They moved production elsewhere and put the prime real estate up for sale.

Chocolate Heaven

Enter William M. Roth and his mother, Lurline Matson Roth—local legends who weren’t about to let the square become just another apartment block. In 1962, they bought the land and hired a team of visionary architects to transform the old brick buildings into a vibrant complex of shops and restaurants. It was the first major “adaptive reuse” project in the U.S., and when it opened in 1964, it set a precedent for preserving historic spaces.

Fountain In The Square

In 1965, the lower floor of the Clock Tower got a stylish makeover by Benjamin Thompson and Associates, who kept the original architectural charm while turning it into a Design Research store. That space eventually became home to the main Ghirardelli Chocolate Shop—a full-circle moment if ever there was one.

Today, Ghirardelli Square is a lively mix of boutiques, restaurants, and chocolate-fueled joy. You can sip hot fudge sundaes while gazing out at the bay, wander through historic passageways, and even spot the original 19-foot “G” from the iconic sign inside the shop.

After a couple of hours of wandering (and resisting the urge to buy every chocolate in sight), Jane was feeling worse, so we hopped on a bus back toward the hotel. A quick stop at Walgreens for some medicine, and I dropped her off so she could rest. I even managed to sneak in an hour myself. Tough job, but someone had to do it.

Return to Lombard Street – A Solo Ascent

Looking up Lombard Street

Feeling a bit under the weather myself, I opted for a gentle potter to round out the afternoon. I hopped back on the number 19 bus and retraced our earlier route, this time determined to conquer the infamous incline of Lombard Street—what I like to call the “west face.” It’s not Everest, but it certainly felt like it.

The climb was no joke. Lombard Street’s crooked section—between Hyde and Leavenworth—is world-famous for its eight tight hairpin turns, designed in 1922 to tame a natural 27% grade that was simply too steep for early cars. The street drops about 200 feet in just one block, and it’s so steep they’ve installed steps along the side for pedestrians who don’t fancy sliding down like a human toboggan.

View Towards The Bay Bridge from Lombard St.

Despite the dizzying angle, the houses lining the street are charmingly defiant. Their postage-stamp gardens are immaculately kept, tucked into the bends like little green punctuation marks. I couldn’t help but admire the dedication it must take to maintain them—equal parts horticulture and mountaineering.

From the top, the views were nothing short of breathtaking. As I stood there catching my breath—partly from the climb, partly from the sheer beauty—I felt a kind of stillness settle in. Hyde Street stretched out below like a ribbon unraveling through Russian Hill, leading the eye straight to Alcatraz, sitting quietly in the bay like a ghost of history. The late afternoon light painted everything in soft gold, and for a moment, the chaos of the city faded into the background. It was one of those rare travel moments where time seems to pause—where the view isn’t just something to look at, but something that reaches inside you and stirs something unspoken. I felt small, but in the best way. Like I’d stumbled into a scene that had been waiting patiently for someone to notice.

Tech & Beer – A Local’s Afternoon

Russian Hill Heading to lombard Street

After watching cable cars zip past the top of Lombard Street—and taking far too many photos of them (they’re just so photogenic!)—I decided to keep things low-key. The queue for the cable cars up there was its usual epic length, so I did the sensible thing and walked down the hill toward Washington Square. From there, I hopped a bus back to Market Street and grabbed a sandwich from a shop.

There was something oddly comforting about sitting in Walgreens, munching on a store-bought sandwich and watching the world go by. “Is this what it’s like to be a local on your lunch break?” I wondered. That’s something we try to do more on holidays now—live like locals. No fancy-pants restaurants, no curated experiences. Just sandwiches, street corners, and a bit of quiet observation.

Union Square Cable Car

With no grand plan for the rest of the afternoon, I wandered into the Apple Store—my first time inside one of their glossy temples of tech. I don’t own any “fruit-based products” myself, and certainly couldn’t afford one, but the staff were friendly and chatty. They clocked I was from the UK straight away and explained how they could sort out the tax paperwork for international purchases. Apparently, buying something pricey here means you’ll pay more than you would back home—unless, of course, you “accidentally” lose the box and casually stroll through customs like every other phone-carrying traveller. That suggestion earned me a knowing smile. Clearly, I wasn’t the first to float that (purely hypothetical!) idea.

Union Square

Later on, I popped into Johnny Foley’s Irish Pub, just off Union Square. It’s a bit of a plastic pub but warm, lively, and packed to the rafters. Despite the crowd, I managed to find a spot to stand with my pint. What always impresses me about American bars is how efficient the service is. Even when it’s heaving, you still get served quickly and in the right order. While one drink’s pouring, they’re already taking the next order. It’s a rhythm some UK pubs could definitely learn from.

After a couple of well-earned drinks, I’d had enough for one day. Back to the hotel, back to the TV, and most importantly, back to a big comfy bed to sprawl out on. A perfect end to a day of local living, tech window-shopping, and a pint among the crowd.

Reflections on The Day – Living Local, Thinking Global

There’s something quietly satisfying about a day with no grand agenda. No bucket-list ticking, no pressure to “make the most of it”—just a gentle meander through someone else’s city, trying it on for size. From Walgreens window seats to Apple Store hypotheticals, it was a day of small moments that somehow felt big.

I didn’t buy anything flashy. I didn’t ride the cable car. I didn’t even sit down properly at the pub. But I did feel like I was part of the rhythm of the place, even if just for a few hours. That’s the kind of travel I’ve come to love most—not the highlights, but the in-betweens. The sandwich breaks, the tech temptations, the pint in a crowd.

And maybe that’s the real souvenir: the feeling of belonging, however briefly, in a city that’s not your own.

Golden Gate Bridge

Today was set to be one of the highlights of the trip. We left the hotel with a sense of purpose, strolling through Union Square’s festive buzz and heading toward Stockton Street to catch the number 30 bus into Chinatown. I’d imagined something cinematic—lanterns, bustling markets, a touch of mystique. What we got was… less glamorous. To be honest, it felt a bit of a dump. Not the exotic enclave TV makes it out to be, but we weren’t here to linger—we had a destination in mind.

The Cable Car Museum 

The Cable Car Museum was on the way, tucked up in the hills where buses fear to tread. That meant a steep walk, lungs working overtime, but thankfully it wasn’t far. The museum—more accurately, the Cable Car Barn—isn’t just for show. It’s the beating heart of the whole system, where thick steel cables whip around giant wheels, pulling the city’s iconic cars up and down the slopes. Most of the machinery dates back to the 1800s, and it’s still doing the job. No engines, no fancy tech—just raw mechanics and a gripman with a lever.

The Cables that Pull the Cable Cars

It’s noisy in there. Relentlessly so. But it’s also mesmerising. Watching the cables move, learning how the grip works, seeing the whole system laid bare—it’s like stepping into the city’s circulatory system. You don’t just ride the cable cars; you feel how they breathe.

By the time we emerged, we were ravenous. Luckily, just across the road was a small sandwich shop—Chinese or Korean, hard to say—but it turned out to be a hidden gem. Jane ordered two egg and cheese sandwiches, and what arrived was a revelation: poached eggs, melted cheese, toasted bread, and a drink each, all for ten dollars. No guidebook had mentioned it, which made it feel like our own little find.

After lunch, we wound our way back down those steep hills into Chinatown to catch the first of two buses that would take us to the Golden Gate Bridge. In a city overflowing with buses, the number 28 somehow managed to be the least reliable of the lot. A 20-minute wait stretched out like a test of patience. Thankfully, the stop had decent real-time info, so I left Jane and the growing queue behind and wandered down to Safeway to grab some cold drinks—having learned from experience that hydration is not optional on these uphill treks.

The Golden Gate Bridge

Golden Gate Bridge

When I returned, I got some curious looks. There they all stood, looking like parched desert nomads, while I strolled up like a mirage, arms loaded with chilled drinks and snacks. Talk about a thirst trap.

The bus eventually arrived and took about 30 minutes to wrestle its way through traffic and into the bus lane. But once we reached the Golden Gate Bridge, it was worth every minute. Under a clear blue sky, the bridge stood in full glory—an engineering marvel stretching 1.7 miles across the strait, its towers soaring 746 feet above the water. Held together by over 1.2 million rivets, it was once the tallest suspension bridge in the world. Even from the car park, the views were spectacular, but walking to the main plaza on the southern side elevated it to something truly breathtaking.

We grabbed a couple of reasonably priced coffees and found a spot to sit, just soaking it all in. The bridge’s scale is hard to grasp until you’re standing beneath one of its towers, watching the city stretch out behind you and the Pacific shimmer ahead. We didn’t feel ambitious enough to walk the full span, so I just ventured to the first tower—more than enough to appreciate its vastness and the sweeping views of San Francisco.

The Golden Gate Bridge

We lingered until the light began to fade, then headed back to the bus stop. That’s when things got entertaining. The stop serves buses in both directions, and a crowd of people surged past us to board the first one—only to realise, too late, that it was going the wrong way. As they disappeared into the unknown, we ended up near the front of the queue for the correct bus, which was nearly empty.

There was a definite grin on our faces as we rolled past those bewildered souls, still trying to figure out where they’d gone wrong. Our bus didn’t stop again—it just sailed on by, leaving them to their fate. I’m not entirely sure where we changed buses on the way back, but by some stroke of luck, it dropped us right outside the hotel. As for the others? Who knows. Maybe they’re still out there, bravely navigating the labyrinth of San Francisco’s bus routes, living their best, slightly lost lives.

Beer o’clock

Back at the hotel, it was time for a quick nap to recharge—just enough to summon the energy for a swift drink later. And that’s exactly what I did.

You’ve got to keep trying different pubs in the quest to find one that feels right. Tonight’s contender was The Chieftain Irish Bar, just a five-minute walk from the hotel. There were other options nearby, but after everything we’d done today, staying local felt like the smart move. There’s a bar right next to the hotel, but I’d tried it once and didn’t fancy going back. Something about it just didn’t sit right—maybe the vibe, maybe the prices, maybe both.

The Chieftain, on the other hand, was busy but welcoming. Plenty of seats, decent drinks, and free Wi-Fi—what more do you need? At one point, a couple started playing guitar and what I think was a flute, and the staff turned off the background music to let them entertain the room. It was a nice touch—unpolished, spontaneous, and very much in the spirit of the place.

They pride themselves on quality food, drinks, and live Irish music. It’s a proper pub with a warm atmosphere, ideal for watching sports or just unwinding after a long day. And tonight, it delivered exactly that.

With my evening beers enjoyed and the city’s energy winding down, it was just a short stroll back across the road for a well-earned sleep. Today had been a good day—fine weather, great views, unexpected laughs, and a sandwich that still deserves its own award. Not every day needs fireworks. Sometimes, a bridge, a bus mishap, and a pint are more than enough.

Reflections on the Day

Today was a blend of grit, grace, and good fortune. The Cable Car Museum gave us a glimpse into the city’s mechanical heart—loud, raw, and oddly poetic. It’s easy to forget how much muscle powers the charm.

Lunch was a surprise win: a tiny sandwich shop with poached eggs, melted cheese, and a drink for ten bucks. No fanfare, just flavour and timing.

The Golden Gate Bridge didn’t need a full crossing to impress. Standing beneath its tower, with the city behind us, was enough—a moment of scale and stillness.

Then came the bus saga. A comedy of errors turned quiet triumph as we watched a crowd board the wrong one, while we glided off like seasoned locals. Sometimes patience is the best travel hack.

We ended the day at The Chieftain, live music, a pint, and the kind of pub comfort that feels earned. No grand finale, just the satisfaction of a day well wandered.

Travel’s magic isn’t always in the landmarks—it’s in the rhythm, the surprises, and the small wins that make a city feel like it’s letting you in.

Aquarium & Coit Tower

We had a full day planned today, but mercifully with a lot less walking. Around 10:30 we hopped on the F-line streetcar—one of those beautifully restored vintage trolleys that still rattle and hum their way through the city—and headed to the Market Street Railway Museum.

Streetcars & Pies

The museum might sound grand, but it’s actually quite small—more like a lovingly curated nook tucked away near the Embarcadero. It tells the story of San Francisco’s transit evolution, from the early days of horse-drawn carriages and steam dummies to the electric streetcars and cable cars that still clatter through the city today. The museum is run by the Market Street Railway, a nonprofit that’s been preserving these historic vehicles along with Muni since 1976.

F Line Streetcar at Embarcadero

One of the highlights was seeing the old photographs—sepia-toned snapshots of San Francisco in its youth, with streetcars weaving through foggy avenues and bustling markets. There was even a mention of the Blackpool “boat” tram, a charming open-top streetcar that only makes rare appearances here due to its lack of a roof. Seeing it mentioned in a Californian museum felt like a little wink from home.

We spent nearly an hour soaking it all in. And best of all—it was free. For anyone with even a passing interest in vintage transport, it’s a gem. Just outside the museum, you can sit and watch the restored streetcars glide past, each one painted in the colours of cities from around the world. It’s a moving museum, quite literally, and a testament to the care and passion that’s gone into keeping these old beauties alive.

By the time we emerged, it was lunchtime. Luckily, the Ferry Building was just across the road, and that meant one thing: pie. The same pie shop we’d visited earlier in the trip was calling us back, and we answered gladly. The weather had warmed up, so we grabbed a table out back overlooking the bay. There’s something deeply satisfying about sitting in the sun with a turkey pie in one hand and a coffee in the other, especially when you’re sharing it with someone who gets the joy of simple pleasures in life.

With lunch over it was time to get back in the F-Line for the short ride down to Pier 39 and The Aquarium of the Bay.

Something Fishy

Underwater Walkthrough

It must be twenty years since we last went to an aquarium, so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. But for $17, we figured it was worth a look—and it was. The Aquarium of the Bay isn’t huge, but it packs a punch. The lower level features walk-through glass tunnels that curve beneath tanks filled with sharks, rays, and giant fish—all caught in the bay or just off the west coast. It’s enough to make you think twice about dipping your toes in the water around here. Some of those creatures looked like they’d eat your flip-flops and ask for seconds.

As we watched the fish glide overhead, I couldn’t help wondering how many of them were sizing each other up for lunch. It’s like a silent soap opera in there—one minute they’re swimming peacefully, the next someone’s missing a fin. Nature doesn’t mess about. You could almost hear the theme music: “Tonight, on Fish Tank Feuds…”

Upstairs, they’ve got a touch pool where you can stroke manta rays—though ours were busy having lunch, so we had to settle for starfish and sea urchins. Surprisingly, they weren’t as rough to the touch as I’d imagined. The otters were there too, curled up and fast asleep, clearly exhausted from all the attention. Not that you’d want to stroke one—they look cute, but I reckon they’d take your finger off quicker than a hungry piranha.

After about two hours of fishy fun, we stepped outside and found a bench on the upper level overlooking the marina. The Grand Princess cruise ship was docked just a couple piers up, and from here you really got a sense of scale. It’s the biggest passenger ship I’ve ever seen—like a floating city with balconies.

I’d expected the aquarium to take longer, so had to do some quick thinking on what to do next. Luckily, Pier 39’s upper level was just a short walk away, and that meant one thing: gift shops. All the shiny things, novelty socks, and fridge magnets you didn’t know you needed. I’m a sucker for gift shops—especially the ones with glittery snow globes and overpriced t-shirts that say “I ❤️ SF.”

Towering Above The Bay

Coit Tower

By now it was about 2pm, so I grabbed a couple of bottles of drink and we headed out of the pier to the bus stop just outside and caught the number 39 bus up to Coit Tower.

Coit Tower—officially the Lillian Coit Memorial Tower—is a 210-foot art deco column perched atop Telegraph Hill, built in 1933 using funds left by Lillie Hitchcock Coit, a wealthy eccentric who adored San Francisco and its firefighters. At her death in 1929, she left one-third of her estate to the city “to add to its beauty,” and the tower was proposed as a fitting tribute. Despite the popular myth that it was designed to resemble a fire hose nozzle, the resemblance is purely accidental—though once you’ve heard it, it’s hard not to squint and try to see it. Personally, I couldn’t see it at all. Looked more like a giant concrete lipstick to me.

Views Across The Bay

Sadly, the tower had closed the day before for a full-scale refurbishment until spring 2014, so we couldn’t go up to the viewing platform. But the car park itself offers spectacular views—Golden Gate Bridge to the left, the Bay stretching out ahead, and Oakland shimmering in the distance. It’s one of those places where you feel like you’re standing in a postcard.

There’s supposed to be a large flock of green parrots up here—wild cherry-headed conures that escaped from captivity in the '90s and decided Telegraph Hill was as good a jungle as any. They’ve since become local celebrities, squawking their way into documentaries and even winning the title of San Francisco’s official animal. We didn’t see any, but I like to think they were off somewhere gossiping in the treetops, plotting their next ambush on unsuspecting tourists with granola bars.

The Pyramid

The paths around Pioneer Park are steep and winding, so I left Jane on a bench and went for a wander. Every few feet offered a new angle on the city: the Transamerica Pyramid slicing the skyline, both spans of the Bay Bridge stretching like arms across the water, and the hills rolling out in the distance. With clear blue skies and the warmth of the afternoon sun, it was idyllic up there—quiet, contemplative, and just a little surreal.

Sliding Seats

After taking far too many photographs (and probably annoying a few parrots in the process), it was time to collect Jane from the bench and catch the bus back down the hill. That ride? Hair-raising. I’ve never seen a bus tackle hills that steep—it felt like we were on a rollercoaster designed by a city planner with a sense of humour.

The number 39 bus is shorter than most, presumably so it doesn’t snap in half on the inclines. But it’s not exactly modern. Inside, the seats are those shiny, hard plastic ones—like the kind we used to have in the UK to discourage vandalism, or the ones you find on the New York subway if you’re lucky enough to sit down. The real fun starts when you’re on the side-facing seats. As the bus lurches up or down the hills, everyone slides from one end to the other like marbles in a tin. It’s a great way to get to know your fellow passengers—whether you want to or not.

I also discovered that some of these seats fold up to make room for two extra wheelchairs, which is a thoughtful touch. Though I imagine trying to stay upright on one of those hills in a wheelchair would require nerves of steel and brakes that could stop a freight train.

We ended up back at Pier 39 again about 20 minutes later, then walked over to the F line streetcar stop, where we ended up waiting about 15 minutes for one to turn up. As it was around 4:30 now, when it did arrive, it was already packed even though it had only started from a few stops away. 

A Streetcar Named Undesirable

We managed to squeeze on, but after a few more stops, it was standing room only and getting tighter by the minute. It’s a good job most people seem to get off at the same place, otherwise we’d have needed a shoehorn and a prayer.

The F Line is charming in theory—vintage streetcars from around the world, lovingly restored and trundling through the city like time machines. In practice, it’s a bit like being in a sardine tin with wheels. The wooden benches and brass fittings are lovely, but when you’re wedged between a tourist with a selfie stick and someone who smells like they’ve been hugging sea lions, the romance fades fast.

Another Vintage Streetcar

By now, we were both feeling pretty done in. We hadn’t walked miles or ticked off dozens of sights, but being out all day every day starts to wear you down. So we decided to head back to the hotel. Just across the road, tucked away in a corner we hadn’t noticed before, was a little sandwich shop—clearly hiding in plain sight. Time to give it a try.

While Jane was getting served, I wandered over for a closer look at the San Francisco Mint. It’s one of the oldest surviving buildings in the city, and one of the few that made it through the 1906 earthquake and the inferno that followed. The quake ruptured water mains, leaving firefighters helpless as flames tore through 500 city blocks. The Mint, nicknamed the “Granite Lady,” stood firm thanks to its thick stone walls and its own artesian well. Staff fought to save it using steam-powered pumps and buckets, and when the banks lay in ruins, the Mint became the city’s financial lifeline.

With sandwiches in hand, we dodged traffic across the insanely busy road and collapsed back at the hotel. A bit of TV, a well-earned nap, and the kind of satisfaction that only comes from surviving public transport and discovering a hidden sandwich gem.

Cable Car Ride at Night

I woke a couple of hours later, still feeling the effects of the day, but decided to head out for a walk, snap a few photos, and—most importantly—restock the beer supply from the liquor store. I wandered up to the cable car turnaround near Union Square, which by night transforms into a twinkling little stage set. Palm trees wrapped in fairy lights, shop windows glowing with festive displays, and the Powell Street cable cars clanging through like they’re auditioning for a Christmas special. It was the kind of scene that makes you reach for your camera before your coat.

Then I noticed something rare: hardly anyone waiting for the cable cars. So I hopped on for another ride down to Fisherman’s Wharf, thanks to my trusty Muni pass. Turns out late evening isn’t peak time down there—most of the restaurants start closing around 10pm, which explains the lack of a queue. It felt like I’d stumbled into a secret window of calm.

I didn’t hang around long at the Wharf—just enough to soak in the quiet, snap a few shots, and enjoy the novelty of seeing it without the usual crowds. Then I caught the cable car back again, and this time I scored the best seat in the house: right at the front.

I had my video camera with me and managed to capture the entire ride back to Market Street. Later, I sped the footage up to four times the speed, which made it look like a high-octane chase scene through the hills of San Francisco. In reality, it was more like a gentle clatter with occasional bell ringing and the odd startled pedestrian. But in fast-forward, it’s pure cinematic gold.

All that was left to do now was grab some booze and head back to the hotel—another day over, wrapped up with an unexpected twist. 

Reflection on the Day

Today unfolded like a slow burn—nothing dramatic, just a series of small moments that somehow added up to something memorable. It started with the usual rhythm: waking, wandering, taking in the city’s pulse. There were no grand plans, just the quiet intention to explore, observe, and maybe find something worth photographing. And I did—plenty, in fact. From the festive glow of Union Square to the quiet hush of Fisherman’s Wharf after hours, the city offered up its contrasts without asking for anything in return.

There’s a kind of freedom in days like this. No schedule, no expectations, just the chance to follow curiosity wherever it leads. I didn’t expect to end up on a cable car at night, let alone twice. But there I was, front seat, video camera in hand, capturing the clatter and sway of San Francisco’s hills like I was directing my own low-budget travel film. Later, speeding up the footage turned it into something playful—almost surreal. A reminder that even the slowest moments can be reimagined with a bit of perspective.

And that’s the thing, really. The day wasn’t packed with sights or stories, but it had texture. A walk lit by Christmas lights. A quiet ride through empty streets. A liquor store run that turned into a night-time adventure. It’s easy to overlook these fragments, but stitched together, they form the kind of day that lingers—not because it was extraordinary, but because it was unexpectedly complete.

Another day over. No fanfare, just a gentle twist at the end and the comforting clink of bottles in a bag. Sometimes, that’s all you need.