Pier 39

We woke up at around 6:30 a.m. feeling vaguely more human — or at least less like raisin-skinned zombies. We watched a bit of TV, nodded off again for a couple of hours, and finally emerged from the duvet den around 10:00. It felt like the right time to surface — mostly to avoid having hotel staff stage a wellness check or housekeeping.

Baby Steps to Pinnipeds

First stop was Hallidie Plaza — a glorified concrete crater in the city centre where they’ve tucked away the tourist information office. We needed to pick up our Muni travel passes for the week. The place hadn’t improved much since our last visit — still a little bleak, still a magnet for characters straight out of a late-night drama.

This area is one of the big tourist hotspots thanks to the nearby cable car turnaround and rows of retail shops, but it’s also prime territory for beggars, loud buskers, wandering preachers, and the occasional full-volume street philosopher. Add that all together and you get the kind of energy that says, “Welcome to San Francisco — please hold onto your snacks.”

The lift down to the info centre wasn't broken this time, which was an improvement... though it did reek of wee. Judging by the shimmering puddle on the floor, most of it was worryingly fresh. We opted for the stairs, climbing cautiously and touching as little of anything as possible — first purchase of any trip: antibacterial hand wipes.

The Muni passports cost $28 each for the week — not exactly loose change, but they cover unlimited rides on buses, trams, streetcars, and those iconic cable cars (which are normally $6 a pop). The passes themselves are a sort of scratchcard affair: simple, easy to use, and also easy to damage if you fold them wrong. You rub off the start date, but if the rest gets scuffed by accident, you might find yourself walking.

Having acquired the goods, we wisely chose not to climb the stairs again. There's a handy way into the adjacent subway station where we used the lift to get back to street level — a move that also saved us from battling across the chaos of Market Street again.

Then it was onto one of the historic F-line streetcars for the 20-minute ride out to Pier 39. Their retro charm is hard to beat, even if they groan a little with age. The journey gave us a chance to relax, gaze out at pastel-painted houses rolling by, and enjoy the comforting rumble of old wheels on old tracks.

Destination? Our favourite whiskery gang — the sea lions of Pier 39.

Pottering on the Pier

Idillic Pier 39

Pier 39 has always been one of our favourite corners of San Francisco — where the boardwalk meets the bustle, and time just seems to shuffle a little slower. Yes, it’s a tourist magnet, but it’s been done with charm rather than cringe. The streetcar drops you right at the entrance, and while last time we visited it was 21°C with a Christmas tree still twinkling, today it was a glorious 24°C under a perfectly clear sky.

We started by strolling the entire length of the lower deck. At the far end, there’s a knockout view of the bay that stretches from the Golden Gate Bridge across Alcatraz all the way to the Bay Bridge — postcard stuff in every direction.

Then we simply... sat.

For an hour, Jane and I shared a bench and watched the boats drift across the bay. Nothing urgent. No noise. Just waves, sea breeze, and each other. It’s hard to pin down what made that moment so memorable — maybe it was the contrast with Market Street’s chaos, maybe it was the warmth on our faces after days of struggle — but it felt peaceful. Precious. A quiet kind of magic that stays with you.

Eventually, we peeled ourselves away and wandered up to the upper level. It’s mostly gift shops — the kind with mugs shaped like sea lions and t-shirts with dubious puns — but also dotted with bars and restaurants. If we’d been feeling better, a burger and a cold beer would’ve absolutely been the order of the day. Still, just browsing was enough for now.

Finally, we made our way back down to the west side of the pier, overlooking K Dock — home to San Francisco’s loudest, laziest residents: the sea lions.

Spot the sea lion

Taking It Easy

I could sit and watch the sea lions for hours. There were only a couple of hundred this time — quite the drop from the seven hundred-strong pong-fest we encountered on our last visit. Honestly, back then it smelled like an entire fish market had collapsed into a sauna.

Even with fewer flippers in attendance, it was just as fascinating. They seem to thrive on chaos — constantly squabbling for prime lounging real estate. Rather than spreading out onto the many empty pontoons, they prefer to pile on top of each other like furry, barking pancakes. Or, if they fancy a bit of mischief, they’ll nudge a neighbour into the water just to reclaim an inch of space. Classic sea lion drama.

By mid-afternoon, the sun had swung round and was warming this side of the pier. With barely a whisper of wind, it felt warmer than it had any right to in January. Coats came off, limbs stretched, and we soaked up that golden Californian light we’d missed so much. It might seem odd bringing a coat at all, but previous visits had taught me well — the local weather likes to play dress-up, and the savvy locals always have a layer or two to hand, whatever the forecast says.

After two or three hours of sea lion surveillance, we wandered back off the pier and joined the ever-growing streetcar queue. From past experience, the later you leave it, the more it resembles rush hour on a toy train set. I once came down here around 9:30 p.m., and you practically needed a shoehorn to get onboard.

F-Line & The Flu Fighters

F Line Streetcar on Embarcadero

We ended up waiting around fifteen minutes for the streetcar, which wasn’t too bad — at least it wasn’t packed to the gills. I later discovered that if we’d walked just a bit further down the road and round the corner, we could’ve caught a bus back to Market Street, probably shaving some time off the return. Still, the F-line dropped us right outside Walgreens, which worked out nicely now we were starting to feel a bit more human — or at least upright.

With rumbling stomachs and scratchy throats, we grabbed something to eat and stocked up on more drinks. The dehydration from the flight had definitely hit harder than we expected, and when stacked on top of the flu... well, no wonder we’d been feeling like overcooked ravioli.

Supplies in hand — plus some cough medicine for the new musical rasp we’d both developed — it was back to the hotel to tackle sandwiches and juice like they were gourmet fare. Rehydrating in front of the telly never felt so noble.

Neither of us made it much past 9 p.m. before lights were out and dreams were in. Still, it felt like a turning point — the worst behind us, the city waiting outside, and a sense that, from here on out, we were finally ready to begin again.

Reflection on the Day: Pee, Pier and Pinnipeds

If Sunday was survival mode, Tuesday was the first flicker of revival — a day that began with cautious optimism and ended with sea lions sunbathing like they owned the place. We weren’t quite firing on all cylinders yet, but we’d graduated from raisin-zombie to mildly sentient, and that felt like progress.

The morning was a gentle re-entry into city life: a slow shuffle to Hallidie Plaza, a lift that smelled like regret, and a travel pass that looked suspiciously like a lottery scratchcard. San Francisco doesn’t do subtle — even its tourist information centres come with dramatic lighting and a supporting cast of street philosophers. But we were back in the game, antibacterial wipes in hand and Muni passes at the ready.

Pier 39 was our reward — a place where chaos softens into charm. There’s something about watching boats drift across the bay, the sun warming your face, and sea lions flopping about like aquatic toddlers that makes everything feel okay again. We didn’t do much, and that was the point. After days of altitude and illness, stillness felt revolutionary.

Even the sea lions seemed to be staging their own slapstick recovery — barking, bickering, and belly-flopping with theatrical flair. Their refusal to spread out, their dramatic nudging, their utter disregard for personal space — it was oddly comforting. Like watching nature’s version of a soap opera, complete with fishy feuds and flipper-based passive aggression.

By evening, we were back at the hotel, armed with cough medicine and sandwiches, feeling like champions of the mundane. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was ours — a quiet victory over dehydration, disorientation, and the lingering flu. And as we drifted off before 9 p.m., the city hummed outside, waiting patiently for us to catch up.