Reflections — Ten Years Later

Ten years. It’s hard to believe. Time doesn’t just pass — it folds, stretches, rewrites itself in ways we barely notice until we stop and look back. And now, in 2025, I find myself doing just that. Sitting with old words, old photos, and the kind of memories that don’t fade — they deepen.

This journal was never meant to be just a record. It was a promise to ourselves: that we’d return, that we’d remember, that we’d keep building something lasting. Back then, I didn’t have the tools — or the confidence — to shape it the way I wanted. Most of it was scribbled on buses, tapped out in quiet hotel rooms, or lifted from my old Blogger blog. It was raw, imperfect, but honest.

Now, with the help of technology — and a little more life lived — I can finally give it the care it deserves. AI has made the grammar and structure easier, yes, but it’s the emotional clarity that matters most. The ability to revisit, reframe, and rediscover what these moments meant. What they still mean.

🧭 Travel & Accessibility — What We Learned

Public transport has always been our lifeline. We’ve never hired a car, never relied on taxis unless absolutely necessary. And if there’s one area where the past decade has truly transformed the experience, it’s accessibility.

Back in 2015, San Francisco’s buses were a mixed bag — some with steps, some with lifts that felt more like a gamble than a guarantee. Electric wheelchairs weren’t always compatible, and boarding could be a minor ordeal. But we made it work. We always did.

Now, the city’s fleet has evolved. Low-floor buses with ramps are standard. The historic streetcars have been adapted. The trams were always ahead of the curve. San Francisco doesn’t rush change, but when it commits, it does so with quiet determination. That’s something we’ve come to admire — and rely on.

🏙️ The Changing Skyline & City Evolution

San Francisco’s skyline doesn’t shout. It shifts gently, like the fog that rolls in from the Bay. The Salesforce Tower is the most obvious newcomer — a gleaming sentinel that reshaped the horizon. Its companion, the Transit Center, is more subtle, its presence felt more in movement than in silhouette.

But it’s Treasure Island that tells the real story. Once earmarked for luxury homes, then stalled by contamination and hesitation. Promises of affordable housing came and went. And then, quietly, the narrative changed. The land was declared clean. The old blocks were razed. And the new builds rose — sleek, expensive, and out of reach for many.

It’s hard not to feel cynical watching a story rewrite itself. But it’s also a reminder: cities evolve, not always in ways we expect. And sometimes, the places we love change shape while we’re not looking.

🌉 How San Francisco Shaped Us

San Francisco is the only city we’ve returned to. The only place where every corner felt like it belonged to us. It taught us how to travel — not just logistically, but emotionally. It showed us how to move through unfamiliar spaces with confidence, curiosity, and care.

It became our blueprint. Every trip since has carried echoes of it — in the way we plan, the way we adapt, the way we seek out the quiet corners and unexpected views. It’s not just a destination. It’s a compass.

📚 From Journal to Legacy — Growing a Creative Project

What started as a travel log has grown into something far more personal. These journals are now a kind of legacy — a creative archive, a comfort when travel isn’t possible. They remind us of what we’ve seen, what we’ve overcome, and what we still dream of.

Turning them into an eBook was a challenge, but a rewarding one. Learning to nest chapters, structure the flow, and polish the presentation took time. Now, I’m exploring audio versions — stitching together voice clips, experimenting with narration, and trying to capture the tone that lives between the lines. It’s slow work, but meaningful.

🖼️ Rediscovering Memories Through Writing

Revisiting these words has been unexpectedly emotional. I thought the feelings might fade — that time would soften the edges. But instead, they’ve sharpened. The memories feel more vivid now than they did then. It’s as if the years have carved the stories more clearly, not less.

Looking at the old photos, I don’t just remember what we saw. I remember how it felt. The laughter, the fatigue, the quiet triumphs. The way Jane smiled at the sea lions. The way the light hit the Bay Bridge at sunset. The way San Francisco made us feel like we belonged.

✈️ Looking Forward

We’re not quite ready to travel again — not yet. But the pull is strong. And planning costs nothing. Dreams are just plans waiting for their turn.

Just like New York once was.

And when the time comes, we’ll be ready. Because San Francisco didn’t just give us memories. It gave us momentum.

It visited us. And it never really left.

—

Jane & Con, 2025

“There are places we visit, and places that visit us. San Francisco did both — and never really left.”

Afterword

We didn’t arrive in perfect health, but we arrived with hope — and that made all the difference. The early days were tough, no denying it. But San Francisco has a way of meeting you where you are, then gently lifting you. By the time we found our rhythm, the city had already begun to work its quiet magic.

We knew, even during our first visit, that we’d be back. There was something about San Francisco that got under our skin — not in a flashy, postcard way, but in the way a place quietly claims a corner of your heart. This second trip didn’t just confirm that feeling. It deepened it. Now we don’t just want to return — we need to. There’s more to see, more to feel, more to share.

Bringing the wheelchair this time changed everything. It gave Jane the freedom to move at pace, to be part of the city’s rhythm rather than watching from the sidelines. The pavements weren’t always kind — cracked, sloped, unpredictable — but we navigated them together. And when we stood side by side on the Golden Gate Bridge, watching pelicans glide overhead in the golden light, it felt like the world had paused just for us. That moment wasn’t just beautiful. It was ours.

Having been before gave us a head start — we knew the quirks of the transport system, the shortcuts through the chaos, the places where the ground stayed level. That kind of knowledge isn’t just practical. It’s empowering. Especially when mobility is part of the equation. I’m proud of the planning, the maps, the routes — but more than that, I’m proud that Jane trusted me to lead the way. That trust is its own kind of love.

2015 was always going to be a year of adventure. A surprise payout gave us the chance to dream bigger, and Chicago was already pencilled in for September. It’s a different kind of city — sprawling, urban, less intense than New York but no less iconic. But San Francisco? San Francisco is something else entirely.

It’s hard to define what makes it so special. Maybe it’s the lingering hippy spirit, the open-heartedness, the way nature and neighbourhoods blend like old friends. Maybe it’s the fog rolling in like a curtain call, or the way the light hits the bay just before sunset. Whatever it is, it stays with you. It follows you home.

We’ve seen a lot of the USA, but San Francisco is our favourite — and I can’t imagine that changing. Even in winter, the weather holds up. Even after dark, the streets feel safe. And there’s still so much left to explore: Oakland, Marin County, the tucked-away corners that haven’t yet revealed their stories.

But if I had to choose one moment — one image to carry forward — it would be this: sitting together on the seawall, watching the Pacific stretch out into forever, the sun dipping low, and Jane beside me. That’s the memory I’ll return to when the days feel heavy. That’s the one I’ll hold close.

San Francisco isn’t just a place we visited. It’s a place that visited us — and stayed.

"From its lingering hippy vibe to sunsets over the Pacific, San Francisco remains our undeniable favourite in the USA."

Jane & Con

Arrival At Heathrow — The Jorney Home

33° Cloder at Home

We’re into arrival day now, the stretch of the journey where time zones swap and sleep patterns surrender. I've switched over to UK time, though the body's not quite convinced. At one point, I watched the sun rise — it really does sneak up fast when you’re flying towards it, like someone fast-forwarding the morning. Long-haul travel always feels a bit like time travel, just with less glamour and more trays of mystery food.

Breakfast arrived — or at least something claiming the title — and by this point, any coffee is a small mercy. Warm, vaguely caffeinated, and welcome.

11:00 GMT

With the eight-hour time difference stacked on top of the ten-hour flight, the journey felt longer than it really was. Not just physically — something about the maths tricks the brain into believing it’s been drifting through the sky for a day and a half. Long-haul flights stretch the hours, bend reality a little. Time loses its shape when the cabin lights dim and coffee passes for sleep.

But through it all, the quiet moments land heavier. Looking out the window as we passed over Southern Ireland, then over Bristol — it was strikingly peaceful. Clouds parting gently. The land familiar but fleeting. We even skimmed close to home — or nearly. That sense of flying right over the place you’re heading to, not quite landing yet. The irony didn’t escape me. Almost full circle.

Arrival

Some 5,900 miles later, we landed at Heathrow at 2:30 p.m. the following day. Ten hours in the air, plus the eight-hour time difference, had stretched the journey into something that felt twice as long. To say we were knackered is putting it mildly — running on fumes but still standing.

We made our way through the terminal, fighting the dazed shuffle of arrival, then joined the long wait at baggage reclaim. Eventually, they turned up — intact, travel-worn and, oddly enough, marked with dog footprints. Not sure what tale those told, but they made us smile.

Next up was customs, then out into the chilly air to find the taxi we’d booked for the ride home. The real shock came when they opened the plane door — we’d left behind a sunny 25°C in San Francisco, and arrived to near-freezing temperatures in London. That crisp blast of cold was a firm reminder that the holiday was officially over.

Ready whenever you are for your final reflection or postscript — however you want to wrap the journey. Let’s give it the sign-off it deserves.

Journey Home

From Heathrow to home takes about an hour and a half — though I’m fairly sure both of us were fast asleep twenty minutes into the taxi ride. And to be fair, it was probably the best nap we’d had all day. By the time we reached the front door, it was around 4:30pm, and the only thing on our minds was sleep.

Of course, the fridge had other ideas. No milk, no bread, nothing for a quick bite — so we dragged ourselves up to the shop to pick up just enough for sandwiches, and left the rest for tomorrow. A quiet little errand, and the final chore before collapse.

It’s strange — maybe it’s just getting older, maybe it’s the cumulative hours, but this time the flight seemed to take it out of me more than usual. That deep tiredness that doesn’t just settle in your body, but wraps around your thoughts.

The kind that whispers: you’re home now — rest.

San Francisco will always be in our hearts wherever we are, until we meet again SF.

Final Reflection:  “Time Zones, Tray Tables, and the Soft Landing Home”

Sunday wasn’t just arrival day — it was the slow unraveling of a journey, the moment when motion gives way to memory. The flight blurred hours and hemispheres, stretching time until it lost its shape. Coffee became currency, sleep a distant hope, and breakfast a vague suggestion. But somewhere between Southern Ireland and Heathrow, the quiet settled in — that hush of altitude where thoughts drift and the world below feels both familiar and far.

Landing was a jolt — not just the wheels on tarmac, but the cold air, the dazed shuffle, the dog-footprinted luggage that made us laugh when we needed it most. The taxi ride home was a blur of half-sleep and soft silence, and by the time we reached the front door, the only thing louder than our exhaustion was the fridge’s protest. No milk. No bread. Just one last errand before collapse.

And yet, even in that fatigue, there was a kind of grace. A sense that the journey had given all it could — laughter, landscapes, late-night pizza, prayers on bridges, and pelicans in flight. San Francisco had wrapped itself around our days, stitched itself into our stories, and left behind a warmth that even London’s chill couldn’t quite shake.

This wasn’t just a holiday. It was a chapter. A rhythm. A reminder that some places don’t just get visited — they get remembered, revisited, and carried with you.

So we rest now. We unpack slowly. And we let the city hum quietly in our hearts until next time.

❤️Until we meet again, SF.❤️

Time to leave

It was another bright and beautiful morning in San Francisco — sunlight pouring through the window as if the city was trying to say one last proper goodbye. We didn’t rush. No alarms, no urgency. Most of the packing had been sorted the night before, so we lingered. A slow wake-up, lounging with the telly on, letting the moments stretch a little longer than usual. We didn’t need to check out until midday.

Never Say Goodbye

At around 11:30, we finally stepped out, bags in hand, and began the short walk to Powell Street Station — just five minutes, if that. But it’s always a bit of a sombre walk, that final stretch. Not because the trip was ending, but because leaving San Francisco never feels like leaving a holiday destination. It feels like stepping away from somewhere that settled gently into your bones.

There’s something about this city — the fog and sunlight, the hills and hidden corners, the clatter of streetcars and the sound of people living with the windows open — that makes it feel like home. Not home in the usual sense. Not bricks and postcodes and daily routines. But home in the way a place finds space in your mind and heart. A place where things slowed just enough. Where laughter took root. Where quiet moments carried weight.

So this wasn’t goodbye. Just a soft adiós for now. A promise tucked inside a final pizza, a photograph snapped at dusk, a shared glance in the sunshine. If the city’s willing, we’ll find our way back — and next time, we’ll walk Levi Plaza together.

To SFO

BART Station, Powel Street

The journey to San Francisco International started with a familiar underground shuffle. Rather than use the grimy outdoor lifts, we went through the Westfield shopping centre to reach the BART station. This time, we finally cracked how to use the ticket machines — something that had tripped us up before. Turns out you have to feed the money in first, then use the buttons to adjust the fare to match the chart above the machine, hit "Issue", and voilà: ticket and change delivered. Most machines work the other way round, which probably explains the previous confusion.

Two lifts down and we were on the bottom platform, waiting for the next BART train to the airport. They run every 15 minutes on Saturdays, so no long wait. The trains are getting on a bit now — they rattle, squeak and groan their way through the city — but thankfully some of them have padded seats these days instead of those unforgiving hard plastic ones. For the price, about £5, you really can’t complain. And the best part? You’re dropped off right at the terminal you need. No extra air train shuffle or navigating airport mazes — straight in, no drama.

San Francisco International

By the time we arrived it was about 1pm, and with the flight not leaving until 7:35pm, we had hours to spare. We grabbed a coffee and checked the prepaid card balance at a cash machine — and to our surprise, there was still $120 left. Clearly, it was time for a bit of souvenir hunting.

The Start Of My Collection

First find: a San Francisco pocket watch for $25 — an easy win. Then it was time for lunch, so we settled on a cheeseburger and chips with a cold beer. That came to about $25 as well, but given how grim plane food usually is, it was worth every cent.

Killing Time Watching Aircraft

To walk it off, we explored the museum they’ve tucked inside the airport — the exhibits change throughout the year. This time it was jewellery, which wasn’t really our thing, but at the far end we found a display of old model aircraft from the 1970s, which turned out to be a proper highlight.

By 3pm, check-in was nearly open. Virgin Atlantic keep things a bit tighter than United — no early bag drop, so we hovered until 3:15, handed over our luggage, and went straight through to security by half three.

Slighty Better Than Aircraft Food

Once airside, we realised there weren’t many shops — fewer than most airports we’d been through — so we headed back to the cash machine to withdraw what was left on the card. You don’t get great exchange rates coming home, and the machine only charged a couple of dollars, so it worked out nicely. There was just enough left to buy a bag of sweets, leaving about 60 cents rattling around for posterity.

A Final Beer

With plenty of time still to kill, we wandered to a bar at the far end of the terminal with views across the runway. We watched the planes being pushed back from the gates, knowing one of them would be ours all too soon. 

The best surprise? They sold bottles of Blue Moon beer for $6 — so I happily sunk a few to mark the moment. Boarding began at 7pm. Despite the 300-odd passengers on board, it went smoothly, and the plane departed right on time — the city fading behind us as we set course for home.

Flight

As expected, the plane food was abysmal. Somehow, they even managed to ruin the beer — a rare skill, really. But with ten hours ahead of us, there wasn’t much choice but to grit our teeth and make the best of it. A few cups of coffee helped take the edge off, though sleep remained elusive — trying to rest on a plane is an art I’ve yet to master.

Eventually, I gave in and turned to the in-flight entertainment. Ended up watching a film called Contact — the sort of movie that always looks like something promising is about to happen… but never quite does. Sat through the whole thing waiting for a moment that never arrived. That’s two hours I won’t be getting back.

Thoughts at 35,000 Feet

23:00 PDT

Dinner’s been served, trays cleared, and the lights now dimmed across the cabin. A hush settles in — the sort of silence you only find in the middle of long-haul limbo. People tilt their seats, curl up in awkward angles and try to coax sleep from recycled air.

I’m wide awake. No chance for rest yet. So I stay with the screen, flicking through films, hoping one might bore me into sleep. Not likely — but hope’s part of the ritual.

02:00 PDT

Still no sleep. The films keep playing — their stories passing without sticking, like conversations overheard in a dream. I look across the cabin and see the quiet hum of others doing the same.

And it hits me — this trip is over. The moments are already becoming memories, tidying themselves away.

The next adventure’s already booked, we’re planners that way. But it doesn’t lessen the ache of leaving this city behind. San Francisco nestled into our days, gave us laughter, calm, unexpected charm. Saying goodbye — even if it’s only for now — doesn’t come easy.

04:00 PDT

The flight carries on through the quiet dark. A few of us remain — the sleepless, the restless — lit faintly by our screens. I keep mine dim, trying not to cast too much glow into the dark. It’s strange how much light a single device gives off in a cabin full of shadows.

Soon the announcements will come, telling us not to fling open the window blinds all at once — sunrise, after all, can be a shock to tired eyes.

But for now, there’s just this — altitude, stillness, and the weight of departure. Not heavy. Just present. A subtle kind of farewell whispered into the night.

Reflection on the Day: “A Soft Goodbye to the City That Stayed”

Saturday was a day of gentle closure — not the kind marked by fanfare or finality, but by slow steps, soft light, and the quiet hum of a city saying goodbye in its own way. We lingered in the morning, letting the hours stretch, knowing that once we stepped out, the rhythm would shift.

The walk to Powell Street Station was short, but it carried weight. Not the heaviness of leaving a holiday, but the ache of parting from a place that had settled into our bones. San Francisco isn’t just a destination — it’s a mood, a memory, a mosaic of fog and fire hydrants, rooftop views and streetcar squeaks. It’s laughter tucked into corners and calm stretched across coastlines.

The journey to the airport was familiar, even comforting. We cracked the BART ticket machine at last — a small victory — and rode the rails one final time, rattling toward departure. At SFO, time unfolded slowly: burgers, beers, pocket watches, and a museum tucked between terminals. We wandered, we waited, we watched the planes roll back from their gates, knowing one of them would carry us away.

Onboard, the flight was what flights always are — cramped, sleepless, and punctuated by disappointing meals. But somewhere in the quiet dark, as films flickered and passengers curled into awkward shapes, the weight of the trip began to settle. Not heavy. Just present. A soft ache, a quiet gratitude.

The city had given us everything: sea lions and sunsets, bridges and burgers, prayers on pavement and pizza on hills. It had offered history, humour, and the kind of stillness that lingers long after you’ve left. And as the cabin dimmed and the horizon blurred, we knew this wasn’t goodbye. Just a pause. A promise. A whisper into the night: we’ll be back.

Union Square & Embarcadero Walk

Today marked our last full day in good old San Francisco, and with everything we’d seen and done, it felt like the right time to slow things down. No tight schedules, no must-see landmarks — just a chill-out day to let the city breathe around us one last time.

Strolling the Streets

One Of Two I Bought

We left the hotel around 10:30 and wandered up Powell Street, passing the cable car turnaround and stopping to watch the operators do their thing — still one of those satisfying pieces of mechanical choreography that never gets old. After that, we climbed the hill to the big, posh Walgreens to pick up a couple of hoodies we’d spotted earlier. They actually had my size this time, and I really liked the designs. Even so, after spending over $70 on them, they still charged me 40 cents for a bag. Seems to be a legal requirement — they don’t do plastic ones either. Predictably, the handle broke about an hour later, but thankfully I’d brought a spare.

Lunchtime was calling, and Lori’s Diner was just around the corner, so we ducked in for a bite. I’d had my eye on the meatloaf, so we both gave that a try. It was decent — not mind-blowing — and probably a bit overpriced for what you got. There were also some tiny black flies zooming around, the pub kind, which started to bug me (literally), but to be fair they did serve Blue Moon ale in bottles, so that helped. It wasn’t exactly busy, which made us wonder if it had lost a bit of sparkle since we last came.

When we stepped outside again, the real feel temperature had climbed to about 17°C, the sky was a crystal blue, and it felt like peak California. We retraced our steps and then crossed over into Union Square — always a solid spot for watching the world go by.

It's January

On our last visit in 2013, they still had the seasonal ice rink set up, but that usually comes down in the first week of January. I think they were removing the last bits when we first arrived this time. Union Square’s one of those places where time slows a bit — so we grabbed a coffee from one of the two shops there and sat down together, just soaking in the atmosphere. No rush, no noise — just us and the gentle hum of a city going about its day.

After nearly an hour of people-watching, we headed to the far side of the square to visit The Cheesecake Factory — always reminds me of The Big Bang Theory, with Penny serving up sarcastic charm and slices of cake. It’s more of a fancy café than a bakery, but the real draw is the view. Perched on the top floor of Macy’s, it has an open-air balcony overlooking Union Square from twelve floors up. The view was brilliant — rooftops, treetops, and the buzz below. Jane picked up a couple of badges too, once someone finally located the key to the cabinet. Clearly not flying off the shelves.

Fountain in the Street

Just Like The Movies

On our way back down, we passed some ongoing construction just outside where they’ve been building the new subway station — apparently for the past decade or so. As they tried to shift an excavator bucket, someone managed to knock over a fire hydrant in the process. Within seconds, water was shooting about 40 feet into the air, just like something off the telly.

View From The Cheessecake Factory

It was properly funny to watch, especially considering San Francisco’s been in a water shortage for the last few years. A full-on geyser in the street. Before long, a crowd had gathered, snapping photos and having a laugh about it. I even grabbed a bit of video myself — seemed too surreal not to capture.

By now, it was late afternoon, and we were both starting to feel the miles. The past few days had definitely caught up with us — being out all day, every day, tends to take its toll. Probably why we never do much in the evenings. So we headed back to the hotel for a well-earned nap and let the city carry on without us for a bit.

Photo Walk

Arcadia, one Of Many Cruise Ships

After an hour back at the hotel, I couldn’t settle, so I headed out for one final wander along Market Street. I hadn’t planned to go far, but ended up at the Ferry Building and just kept going, following the soft late afternoon light toward Pier 39. No real plan — just the idea of watching the sun set behind the city one last time.

Eventually I reached the cruise ship terminal, where a towering vessel was docked — absolutely massive up close. I got some decent photos of it before continuing on towards Levi Plaza, tucked beside the offices of the famous jeans company. What a place — easily missed, and nearly by me.

A Random Find. Levi Plaza

Levi Plaza felt like stepping into another world. It’s a compact but beautifully designed urban park, framed by red brick buildings and nestled quietly off the main path. The centrepiece is a cascading waterfall that tumbles into a rocky pool, which then feeds into meandering streams and shallow ponds with stepping stones crossing between them. The entire area is softened by lush vegetation — palms, ferns, leafy trees — and layered paths that wind through the greenery. Despite being in the middle of the city, it’s calm, cool, and oddly tropical. It’s exactly the kind of place you’d hope to stumble upon, and I’m glad I did.

Pier 7 To The City

As twilight took hold, I made my way back toward Pier 7, stopping to take a few photographs of the Transamerica Pyramid — that iconic needle-pointed skyscraper that still dominates San Francisco’s skyline. Completed in 1972, it was once the tallest building west of the Mississippi. While the city’s skyline has grown around it, the Pyramid remains unmistakable — all angles and ambition, shaped like something you'd expect in a sci-fi film rather than downtown real estate. Seeing it silhouetted against the fading sun, with its tapered peak glowing in the last light of day, felt like the perfect visual to close out this chapter.

I fancied a drink, so tried a few bars on the walk back, but they were all packed — too noisy, no quiet corners. So I ended up cutting through side streets and heading to the discount booze shop instead. No fuss, no queues.

Back at the hotel, it felt like the final stretch — time to finish off the last beers and put my feet up. Or at least, that’s what I thought.

Turns out we weren’t quite done. Around 9pm, hunger returned, and that meant one more uphill march to Uncle Vito’s for one of their 14-inch mountain pizzas. Just $12, piping hot, and seriously tasty. Once fed and watered, it was finally time for bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a long one — the journey home awaits.

Reflections on the Day: Cable Cars, Geysers & Goodbye Pizza

After days packed with bridges, ferries, and prison tours, Friday arrived like a deep breath — our last full day in San Francisco, and the perfect excuse to slow the pace. No schedules, no landmarks, just a chance to let the city unfold around us one final time.

We started with a wander up Powell Street, pausing at the cable car turnaround to watch the operators spin their wooden stage — still one of the most satisfying bits of urban theatre. Then came a climb to the posh Walgreens, where I finally found hoodies in my size. Seventy dollars later, they still charged 40 cents for a paper bag that promptly gave up on life. Good thing I packed a spare.

Lunch was a nostalgic nod to Lori’s Diner, where meatloaf met mild disappointment and tiny pub flies staged a buzzing protest. But Blue Moon ale in bottles helped smooth things over. It wasn’t busy, and we couldn’t help but wonder if Lori’s had lost a bit of its sparkle since our last visit.

Union Square offered a reset — blue skies, 17°C warmth, and the kind of people-watching that makes time slow down. We grabbed coffees and settled in, letting the city hum around us. No rush, no noise — just the quiet joy of being present.

Then came The Cheesecake Factory, perched atop Macy’s like a cake-themed lookout tower. The view from the balcony was brilliant — rooftops, treetops, and the buzz below. Jane picked up a couple of badges after a minor cabinet-key saga, and we moved on.

Outside, construction chaos delivered a surprise: someone knocked over a fire hydrant, sending water 40 feet into the air like a spontaneous fountain show. San Francisco’s water shortage made it feel like a surreal contradiction — a geyser in the street, and a crowd laughing like it was performance art. I grabbed a video, naturally.

Back at the hotel, we took a well-earned nap, letting the city carry on without us for a while. But I couldn’t settle, so I headed out for one last photo walk — no plan, just the pull of golden light. I followed Market Street to the Ferry Building, then kept going, eventually reaching the cruise ship terminal and Levi Plaza.

Levi Plaza was a revelation — a tucked-away oasis of waterfalls, ponds, and winding paths, framed by red brick and softened by tropical greenery. It felt like stumbling into a secret garden, and I was glad to have found it.

As twilight settled, I made my way to Pier 7, stopping to photograph the Transamerica Pyramid — that sci-fi spire still holding court over the skyline. Its silhouette against the fading sun felt like a fitting visual to close out this chapter.

I tried a few bars on the way back, but they were all packed and noisy, so I opted for the discount booze shop instead. No fuss, no queues — just a quiet drink to toast the day.

But the city had one last demand: pizza. At 9pm, hunger struck, and I made the uphill march to Uncle Vito’s for a 14-inch mountain pizza. Just $12, piping hot, and the perfect send-off. Cold pizza is a crime, and I wasn’t about to let the day end on a misdemeanor.

Back at the hotel, feet up and fridge now empty, we finally called it. Tomorrow, the journey home begins. But tonight, the city gave us one last gift — a day of soft steps, warm light, and the kind of quiet magic that lingers long after the suitcase is zipped.

Alcatraz Island

Today we finally got to visit Alcatraz Island — something we missed last time due to everything being booked solid. Tickets go on sale three months in advance and usually vanish fast, so this time we planned ahead. They’re only available online, and thankfully the hotel printed ours off a few days before. It wasn’t particularly busy this time, and plenty of slots were still available. At $30 each, it’s not cheap, but for the history and experience, it’s absolutely worth it.

Alcatraz

Waiting For The Boat To The Rock

We’d booked the 11am slot and took the F-line streetcar, which conveniently stops almost outside Pier 33 — the departure point for the island. With half an hour to spare, we popped into the nearby coffee shop while about a hundred others gathered, tickets in hand, behind the fenced waiting area.

Most visitors go through a security check, but for reasons unknown, we were waved straight through — no complaints there. Entry to the island itself is free, much like the Statue of Liberty, but the ferry crossing is where the cost comes in.

Boarding is efficient, with everyone loaded on in one go. The journey across the Bay takes about 20 minutes, and as the city skyline slipped behind, Alcatraz loomed ahead — stark, craggy and loaded with stories.

The Dock At The Rock

On arrival, we were met near the old guard housing for a brief intro to the island’s layered past. Originally home to the West Coast’s first lighthouse in 1854, it later became a military fort, then a base, and eventually a federal penitentiary from 1934 to 1963. The island held the worst of the worst — prisoners who’d caused problems elsewhere, including the infamous Al Capone and “Machine Gun” Kelly. Interestingly, Robert Stroud, the so-called Birdman of Alcatraz, never actually kept birds here — that part came from his earlier years in another prison.

After Alcatraz closed, it was famously occupied in 1969 by Native American activists claiming it as ancestral land. They held out for nearly two years, drawing national attention to Indigenous rights before being evicted. Eventually, the site was handed to the National Park Service and opened to the public.

The Hole They Dug To escape

And then there’s the escape story. Officially, no one ever escaped Alcatraz successfully — the cold waters, strong currents and isolation made it near-impossible. But in 1962, three prisoners — Frank Morris and brothers John and Clarence Anglin — pulled off one of the most elaborate escape attempts in US history. They chiselled through vents, climbed shafts, slipped out through a utility corridor, and vanished into the night on a homemade raft fashioned from raincoats. They were never found. Authorities presume they drowned, their bodies lost to the Bay — but conspiracy theories still float around, and the case remains open. It adds a fascinating layer to the otherwise rigid history of containment and control.

Jane On The Electric Tram

They call it The Rock for good reason — the climb from the dock to the cell block is steep, rising 300 feet up winding paths. There’s an electric tram available for those who need it, so Jane rode that while I tackled the incline on foot.

Inside the main block, visitors follow the same path new inmates would’ve taken — search rooms, showers, the medical wing — before climbing to the two tiers of cells. The cells are tiny — barely wide enough to stretch — though each prisoner had their own. Oddly, solitary confinement (The Hole) was slightly larger, though shrouded in total darkness. Beneath the main floor lies The Citadel, part of the original fort, used for harsher punishments. Night tours sometimes include it, but the photos alone are enough to put you off.

Inside The Cell block

At the upper level, you’re given headphones and a chunky audio guide which leads you through the prison’s history — routines, security systems, escape attempts, and daily life. It’s narrated by former guards and inmates, which adds grit and perspective. You pass through the blocks, exercise yard, mess hall and workshops, with occasional views out across the water — tantalising reminders of freedom, just out of reach.

After returning the audio gear, you’re free to explore the rest of the island. Views back to San Francisco are fantastic, and surprisingly, there are small gardens scattered around — restored from those originally planted by well-behaved inmates. They feel like little pockets of peace in an otherwise unforgiving landscape.

Jane Behind Bars

After nearly four hours on the island, we headed back down to the dock. With ferries running every 45 minutes, we had time to browse the gift shop — obviously couldn’t leave without picking up a souvenir — before cruising back to the city.

With temperatures hitting around 26°C and sunshine all day, the whole experience felt surprisingly serene given the history packed into every stone. An absolutely brilliant day — gritty, moving and quietly unforgettable.

Sea Lions & Streetcars

Catching The Last of The Sun

We got back to Pier 33 around three o’clock, and with daylight still on our side, took a short walk along the Embarcadero to Pier 39. First order of business: a couple of hot dogs — much needed, especially after discovering there’s no food or drink sold on Alcatraz itself. After refuelling, we had a look around the gift shops before spending a bit of time with our sea lion friends, who were as noisy and entertaining as ever.

By five o’clock, we headed over to the streetcar stop — but, naturally, had to wait ages for one to show up, and it arrived packed to the gills. I’d completely forgotten we could’ve grabbed a bus from one of the side streets. My bad.

Not The Easiest Streetcar
For Jane To Get On

The streetcar that eventually turned up was one of the older ones, which meant Jane had to use the special ramp from the raised platform to get on — but that meant we couldn’t get off at the stop we’d originally planned. I followed her aboard and had to duck my head to get through — apparently, vintage design wasn’t made with tall people in mind.

The stop we did get off at had a pavement lift — helpful in theory — but when it lowered, we couldn’t get the gate open again. Turns out we were trying to open the wrong part. Can’t blame us, really; it had been a long day.

Luckily, there was a Walgreens right nearby, so we popped in to check out their hoodie selection. Even though Walgreens seem to be on every corner, each one stocks slightly different gear when it comes to clothes — but nothing caught my eye this time. We just grabbed the usual bits: bottles of drink, a few snacks, and called it a day.

By now it was nearly dark, so we strolled back to the hotel for a well-earned rest. A warm evening, a full day, and at least the sea lions didn’t shout at us.

Pizza Trek

By the time it hit 8pm, hunger had kicked back in, so I made the trek up the hill to Uncle Vito’s for a large pizza to share. I’d forgotten just how steep that hill is — deceptively short on the map, not so forgiving on the legs. Took a little longer than expected to get there, but I managed to make it back to the hotel before the pizza started cooling. I can’t abide cold pizza — it’s just wrong.

Powell Street To Pizza

By 10pm we were both completely done in, so called it a day and headed for bed. Just before turning in, I glanced out the window and spotted a scene unfolding across the road — a police car had pulled someone over. One officer was stood near the driver’s side, while the other had his gun aimed straight at the passenger. Things escalated quickly — the first officer backed off and grabbed a shotgun from the squad car. I honestly thought shots were about to be fired.

But after about a minute, they lowered their weapons and let the car go. Must’ve been a case of mistaken identity — tense but short-lived.

It was finally time to wind down, listening to sirens roll by throughout the night. They didn’t keep us awake, thankfully — just part of the city’s soundtrack.

Reflections on the Day: A Day of Legends, Logistics, and Late-Night Sirens

Some days feel like they’ve been waiting for you. Thursday was one of them — a long-postponed visit to Alcatraz finally realised under a cloudless sky, with the city sparkling behind us and history looming ahead.

We’d planned ahead this time — no last-minute regrets or sold-out slots. The ferry from Pier 33 was smooth and swift, the skyline slipping away as Alcatraz rose from the Bay like a stone sentinel. Stark, weathered, and humming with stories.

The island’s past is layered and unflinching: lighthouse, fort, prison, protest site. From Capone to the Birdman (who, it turns out, never kept birds here), every corner whispered something — about power, punishment, or the illusion of escape. The audio tour, voiced by former guards and inmates, pulled us through the cell blocks, mess hall, and solitary confinement with a kind of quiet intensity. You could almost feel the weight of time in the walls.

Jane took the tram while I tackled the steep climb on foot — a reminder that even visiting The Rock requires effort. But the views from the top, and the unexpected pockets of garden serenity, made it all worthwhile. After four hours, we returned to the dock, souvenir in hand, ferrying back to the city with sun on our backs and stories in our heads.

Back on the Embarcadero, we made a beeline for hot dogs and sea lions — the former much needed, the latter as gloriously chaotic as ever. Then came the streetcar saga: long wait, packed carriage, vintage design that didn’t account for wheelchairs or tall people. We boarded, ducked, ramped, and eventually disembarked via a pavement lift that briefly outwitted us. Classic end-of-day brain fog.

A quick Walgreens stop yielded snacks but no hoodie treasures, and we strolled back to the hotel under a warm dusk sky. But the day wasn’t done.

At 8pm, hunger struck again, so I braved the hill to Uncle Vito’s for a large pizza — a trek that looked innocent on the map but turned into a calf workout worthy of a Rocky montage. I made it back before the pizza cooled (cold pizza is a crime), and we tucked in with the kind of satisfaction that only comes after a day well earned.

Then, just before bed, a final scene unfolded outside our window: a police stop turned tense, weapons drawn, then lowered. No shots, no arrests — just a flicker of danger in an otherwise peaceful night. A reminder that cities, like stories, can turn on a dime.

We drifted off to the sound of sirens — not jarring, just part of the city’s lullaby. Alcatraz may be a relic of confinement, but today felt expansive: full of movement, memory, and the quiet joy of finally ticking something off the list.

Sausalito

With the sun properly out and the skies bright blue, we knew it was the perfect morning for something scenic — a boat trip across the Bay to Sausalito, that famously laid-back enclave where the rich and famous kick off their designer sandals and call it home.

Cardboard Tickets With NFC Inside

First, we caught the bus to the Ferry Building, then headed round the back to square up to the ticket vending machines — known enemies at this point. The tickets themselves are strange little things: thin bits of cardboard that you don’t swipe, but simply touch against the card reader, which feels oddly magical. They cost just $11.50 for a return — about £7 — which is excellent value for a 30-minute cruise, especially considering the prices of ferries back in the UK.

Sausalito Boat Trip

Bargin Boat Trip To Sausalito

We had about an hour to kill before the ferry turned up, so we dropped into Peet’s Tea & Coffee House for a drink. While buying the tickets earlier, someone ahead of us had fed a $20 bill into the machine and received all his change in quarters — absolute chaos. We should've swapped them for notes, really, since we’d been trying to collect the full set of U.S. quarters by release date. It would’ve been a jackpot.

When the ferry arrived, it was packed — crowds piling on — but boarding was swift and well-organised. Off we went across the Bay, the skyline sliding away behind us as the water stretched out ahead.

Sleepy Sausalito

We arrived in Sausalito to warm sunshine and a complete shift in pace. It’s not the sort of place you come for thrill rides or neon signs — it’s bay views, calm streets, and a sense that everything is quietly expensive. We explored a few shops, soaked up the scenery and imagined what life might be like here — balconies overlooking the water, dogs with better insurance policies than most humans, and boats that cost more than houses.

Lunch was a laid-back burger from a local bar, eaten slowly as the tide rolled in. Then we stretched our legs again and walked about a mile to visit the Bay Area Model — a curious miniature of the region laid out for planning purposes, and surprisingly absorbing if you like your geography hands-on and your maps enormous.

Bar Area Model

The Vast Bay Area Model

Tucked inside a massive warehouse sits the Bay Area Model — a scale replica of the region built by the Army Engineering Corps. The whole thing’s designed to simulate how changes to the coastline affect tidal flow. It actually fills with water to mimic the tide coming in, and everything’s built to scale, including miniature versions of the Golden Gate and Bay Bridge. A proper feat of engineering, and surprisingly mesmerising when you see it all in motion.

Two Small Ice Creams

We spent a couple of hours wandering around — and at times, we had the place entirely to ourselves. Afterwards, we walked back into Sausalito, taking the other route to browse the shops. Loads of gift shops tucked away in corners, so I was in my element — even found a few gems you’d struggle to get anywhere else.

Next up was ice cream from the Italian dealer — huge scoops and absolutely delicious. Then it was time to sit by the Bay front for around 45 minutes, soaking up the late afternoon sunshine and letting the peace of the place settle in.

A peacefull Ride Back To The City

By now, the ferry dock had filled with people — mostly cyclists who’d hired bikes in San Francisco, crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, cruised through Muir Woods and were now heading back. They load foot passengers first, then start cramming in the bikes. It’s a good setup — you board on the lower deck but disembark upstairs. Since we were near the front of the queue, we nabbed a decent spot up top.

By late afternoon, the light began to shift. The ferry glided past the back of Alcatraz Island, and the sun dipped behind the Golden Gate Bridge in full golden-hour glory. A picture-perfect end to a peaceful, well-earned day spent with Jane.

Turkey Pie, again

Since we were getting off at the Ferry Building Marketplace, it would’ve been rude not to nip inside for one of the turkey pies from the Golden Gate Meat Company. Familiar, comforting, and just as good as we remembered.

A Few Buses Passed Our
 Hotel Window

By now, dusk was starting to settle, though the air was still pleasantly warm. We strolled across the plaza on the far side of the road and caught the bus back along Market Street, with a quick stop at the shops for a few nibbles to round out the evening.

It had been a long day — sun-soaked and full of good miles — and I think we were both glad to make it back to the hotel. A proper sit down, a bit of telly, and the satisfaction of having seen so much. Well worth it.

Reflections on the Day: A Sausalito Sojourn with Pie to Finish

Some days feel like postcards in motion — and Wednesday was one of them. With skies painted in perfect blue and the sun finally showing off, we set out for something scenic: a ferry ride across the Bay to Sausalito, that famously relaxed enclave where the rich go to pretend they’re not checking their portfolios.

The journey began with a showdown at the Ferry Building’s ticket machines — those cardboard-slinging contraptions that seem designed to test patience and coin management. One poor soul ahead of us fed in a $20 bill and got a tsunami of quarters in return. We should’ve offered to trade — we’d been quietly collecting U.S. quarters like numismatic magpies.

Once aboard, the ferry sliced through the Bay with practiced grace, the skyline slipping behind us like a stage curtain. Sausalito greeted us with warm air, calm streets, and the kind of quiet wealth that wears linen and owns yachts. We browsed boutiques, admired balconies, and imagined a life where even the dogs have dental plans.

Lunch was a slow burger at a local bar, eaten with the tide rolling in and the kind of relaxed pace that only seaside towns seem to master. Then came the Bay Area Model — a warehouse-sized replica of the region, complete with tidal simulations and miniature bridges. It was geography meets theatre, and we had the place almost entirely to ourselves. A rare treat.

Back in town, we took the scenic route through tucked-away gift shops, where I unearthed a few treasures that felt genuinely unique. Ice cream followed — Italian, enormous, and absolutely delicious. We perched by the waterfront for nearly an hour, letting the late afternoon sun do its golden thing while cyclists queued for the return ferry like lycra-clad extras in a coastal ballet.

The ride back was golden-hour perfection: Alcatraz brooding in the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge glowing like a film set, and the ferry gliding through it all like it knew it was part of something special.

Naturally, we capped it off with a turkey pie from the Ferry Building — a ritual now, warm and familiar. Then a gentle bus ride back, a few snacks from the shop, and the quiet joy of collapsing into a hotel bed with telly humming and feet finally at rest.

It wasn’t a day of adrenaline or spectacle. It was a day of soft edges, scenic pauses, and small indulgences — the kind of day that reminds you why you travel in the first place. To sit beside someone you love, watching the sun dip behind a bridge, with pie in your bag and peace in your bones.

Yerba Buena Gardens

Most of the time when we left the hotel in the morning we turned right and headed up to Market Street but today it was time for a change 

Most mornings, we’d turn right out of the hotel and head up to Market Street. But today called for a change of scenery — so we turned left, and wandered into the quiet calm of Yerba Buena Gardens.

City Park Waterfall

This area nearly vanished under redevelopment back in the 1980s. But then-Mayor George Moscone was firmly opposed, campaigning to preserve it as public green space. Tragically, in November 1978, both Moscone and Harvey Milk were murdered in their City Hall offices by Dan White — a political fallout tied to their support for civil rights legislation. Years later, Yerba Buena Gardens was built in honour of that movement, and it remains one of San Francisco’s quieter achievements.

MLK Jr. Memorial Waterfall

What they created was nothing short of clever: the Moscone Centre mostly built underground, topped with a sprawling park and a forty-foot-long waterfall cascading twenty feet down. Even with the overcast skies, it was a peaceful place to stroll — a break from traffic, sirens and the city’s usual rhythm.

We spent some time sitting by the top pool, watching the water rush to the edge. Not a scrap of litter in sight, and all the homeless who sleep here at night had moved on for the day. Just green lawns, soft echoes and a quiet moment.

Above The waterfall

Apparently, beneath where we sat was a full-sized ice rink — though you’d never guess it from above. Before heading back, we crossed the gardens to admire the restored carousel from the early 1900s. A lovely bit of vintage tucked amongst the modern. Then we took the lift down from the park to street level and walked back to 5th Street to catch the number 30 bus down to the Caltrain station.

Big Trains, Tiny Platforms

Caltrain Station

We don’t usually head down this way, but today curiosity got the better of me — I fancied a look at the trains in the Caltrain station as we passed. Up close, they’re impressively massive, especially when you're standing just a few feet away. You can't access the platform until the train’s ready to board, but you can walk alongside the fence that runs parallel to the road and take a few photos through the gaps.

I liked the colours they’re painted in — bold and distinctive. But what struck me most was the platform situation… or lack of it, really. Unlike back home, there’s no proper raised platform. Just a slightly elevated bit of pavement, which means climbing steps to board. That said, they’re double-decker trains, so the floor isn’t quite as high up as you’d expect. If you need help getting on, there’s a mobile lift that looks like a pallet truck — it rolls up to the doors and raises wheelchairs into the carriage. Simple, clever, and no fuss.

Low Platforms Are Standard In US

I was tempted to wait and watch one depart, but it was going to be a while — so I headed for the shop on the station concourse and grabbed a coffee. Three dollars well spent, especially with a chance to sit and soak up the hum of the place.

There’s a Safeway supermarket just across the road, and it’s definitely tempting for next time — loads more choice and much better prices. The only drawback is the bus loop through this part of town; it’s one-way, so when you get off, you’ve got to walk back a couple of blocks to retrace your steps. Still, might be worth it for a proper stock-up.

Empty Seats & Pelicans

Main Entrance To AT & T Park

After grabbing a few bits we needed, we headed across the road to AT&T Park — home of the San Francisco Giants baseball team. Even though the season had wrapped up a while ago, it still felt worth a wander. You can almost feel the energy that must buzz through this place on game days, when thirty thousand fans fill every corner. Hard to imagine when it’s so quiet.

From the outside, the stadium doesn’t look all that massive — but through the gates near the base, you get a glimpse of the sheer scale inside. It opens up like a cavern, and I bet once you're in there, it feels twice as large. The area around the park looked freshly done up — new paving, tidy benches — and they've done a fine job of it. This spot also marks the beginning of the Embarcadero, the waterfront stretch that runs for about five miles down to Fisherman’s Wharf.

Not My Finiest Photo
Of A pelican

We took a walk out on the short pier that juts into the Bay, and spotted a pair of pelicans perched out on the breakwater — always a nice surprise, especially after our earlier crossing on the bridge. Today wasn’t particularly warm, which suited us just fine given the miles we were clocking, and it was genuinely peaceful strolling along the edge of the water and beneath the Bay Bridge.

Chilling At AT & T

We made it as far as Rincon Park, where Cupid’s Span towers above the grass. It’s a giant bow and arrow sculpture, probably about fifty feet tall, donated to the city by some famous artist. It’s got that unmistakable modern art feel — unexpected and bold, right in the middle of a public park — and somehow fits perfectly alongside the backdrop of the bridge and city skyline.

Trams, Turkey Pie and Telly

Cupids Span & The Ferry Building

From there, we sat for a while and just soaked up the atmosphere — the kind of moment you don’t rush. The Muni trams glided past and disappeared into the tunnel that runs beneath the city, slipping down into the concrete like something out of a film. It’s always fascinating watching how calm everything looks at surface level while a whole world rumbles underneath.

Eventually, we wandered into the Ferry Building Marketplace to grab something to eat. That meant one thing: turkey pie again. It’s become a bit of a favourite — warm, hearty, and reliably good. A proper sit-down meal without the sit-down.

Before The Tram Goes Undergrond
At The End Of Market Street

By this point, we’d done our fair share of walking, and the day was starting to stretch. So we crossed over to catch the bus back along Market Street, with a quick detour into Walgreens to stock up on drinks for the room. Never hurts to be prepared for a quiet evening.

Back at the hotel, it was a relief to sink into the bed, turn on the telly and let the city hum quietly outside while we stopped moving for a bit. A good wander, a solid pie, and the kind of pause you earn one footstep at a time.

Tuesday Reflections: Pelicans, Platforms & Pie

After days of heading right towards Market Street and the city’s usual pulse, Tuesday began with a simple act of rebellion: we turned left. And in doing so, we stepped into a different San Francisco — one of quiet gardens, hidden history, and the kind of peace that doesn’t shout for attention.

Yerba Buena Gardens was our first stop, a space that almost didn’t exist. Saved from redevelopment by Mayor George Moscone — whose legacy is forever tied to the city’s civil rights movement and tragic loss — the gardens now sit atop the Moscone Centre like a green exhale. We sat by the waterfall, watching it tumble twenty feet into a pool so clean it felt curated. No litter, no noise, just the soft hush of water and the occasional pigeon with opinions.

Beneath part of the park, apparently, was an ice rink. Above us, a restored carousel from the early 1900s. It was a place where past and present coexisted quietly, like old friends who no longer needed to fill the silence.

Curiosity then pulled us south, down to the Caltrain station. The trains were beasts — double-deckers in bold colours, looming over platforms that barely qualified as such. No raised edges, just a bit of pavement and a clever mobile lift for wheelchairs. Simple, effective, and refreshingly no-nonsense. I lingered with a coffee, watching the station breathe.

Across the road, AT&T Park stood quiet in the off-season, its gates hinting at the roar of thirty thousand fans now replaced by pigeons and pelicans. We wandered the pier nearby and spotted two of the latter perched on the breakwater — a feathered encore to Sunday’s bridge-crossing sighting. The Bay Bridge loomed above, and the Embarcadero stretched ahead like a promise.

We followed it to Rincon Park, where Cupid’s Span — a giant bow and arrow sculpture — stood like a modern myth, bold and oddly fitting against the skyline. It was the kind of art that makes you smile, even if you’re not sure why.

Eventually, we drifted into the Ferry Building Marketplace for a now-familiar comfort: turkey pie. Warm, rich, and eaten on the go — the culinary equivalent of a hug. Then it was back to the bus, a quick Walgreens stop, and finally the hotel.

Back in our room, the city hummed outside while we sank into pillows and telly. It wasn’t a day of grand gestures or ticking off major sights. It was a day of left turns, quiet corners, and pelicans on piers. A day that reminded us that sometimes, the best discoveries come when you stray from the usual path — and that a good pie and a soft bed can feel like the perfect reward.