Golden Gate Park

We surfaced around 10:30 a.m. feeling surprisingly human again. The coughs lingered, but the sun was calling, so we peeled back the curtains, shrugged off the duvet and readied ourselves for a day outdoors.

To the Conservatory

Hard To Believe it's January

A five-minute stroll from 4th and Market brought us to the bus stop. We hopped on the 5L towards Ocean Beach for a thirty-minute ride through the Richmond district, then crossed into Golden Gate Park. Twenty minutes later, the Conservatory of Flowers appeared under a flawless blue sky—winter in San Francisco felt more like high summer back home, with blooms in riotous colour and bees performing aerial acrobatics.

Conservatory Of Flowers

Just outside the conservatory sits a cosy coffee hut—our first port of call for large coffees and a moment’s respite before entry. Tickets were $8 each, which felt like a bargain once we stepped inside. The interior is divided into tropical, subtropical and desert zones. I braced myself for a sweltering sauna in the tropical section, but the humidity was perfectly bearable—my glasses stayed clear, and I marvelled at pitcher plants and lily pads that dwarfed any I’d seen before. Every leaf seemed ten times the size I expected.

We slowly wandered through each zone, pausing on benches to soak in the riot of colours and exotic foliage.

The Amazing Roof Span

At the far end, a temporary exhibit on aquatic water gardening awaited. We found ourselves alone in that hushed gallery, joined only by a passionate staff member who explained how these miniature ecosystems thrive in glass tanks. The precision and artistry on display were breathtaking—I reckon we spent nearly two hours there before reluctantly moving on.

From feeling bedridden to wandering among giant ferns and tanks of floating blooms, it was a day of small triumphs. Next up: wherever the park’s winding paths lead us.

Tea Garden Time

Just a short hop from the Conservatory is the Japanese Tea Garden — a serene oasis famed for its manicured bonsai and ornamental bridges. I wasn’t entirely sure we’d manage, given the steep pathways, but we decided to give it a whirl anyway.

Not Wheelchair Friendly

We approached the ticket kiosk, expecting the usual $10 admission. To our surprise, the attendant waved us through free of charge — a kindly nod to the fact that roughly half the garden would be out of Jane’s wheelchair reach. A small mercy that set the tone for the visit.

Stepping inside felt like wandering into a living bonsai museum. Everywhere we looked, manicured trees arched over mossy stones, while below, colossal koi carp glided through crystalline ponds. Their vibrant scales flashed like living jewels, a perfect counterpoint to the muted greens around them.

A Part We Both Made It To

Following the path, we climbed a steep incline and navigated a series of stepping stones — a section that proved tricky for Jane. At the summit sat the traditional tea house, but as neither of us is particularly devoted to matcha ceremonies, we detoured straight for the gift shop. Nothing says “authentic souvenir” like hand-crafted ceramics — at prices that made our eyes water faster than the garden’s waterfalls.

From there, I struck out alone toward the grand pagoda. The uneven, narrow path left Jane holding court at the base — her own private viewing platform of the pond below. Meanwhile, I lost myself in photography, framing every arching pine and carved stone lantern.

The Kio Ponds

Eventually, we reunited and found an alternate route that bypassed the stepping stones entirely and wound us back down to the ponds. I later noticed the irony: there’s a wheelchair ramp leading up to the garden entrance, but no ramps within to explore further. Perhaps that’s why there’s no charge for wheelchairs — the view from the bottom is picturesque enough.

Back to the City

We were both starting to feel peckish, having barely eaten for days while recuperating, so we headed to a nearby stall selling hot dogs and cold drinks. Sitting in the sunshine in that sprawling park, tucking into frankfurters and watching joggers, families and dog-walkers drift by felt like a small triumph.

The Old Trolly Buses Are Plenty

By late afternoon the sky had begun its January quick-change—dusk falls around 5 pm—so we cut through to Fulton Street and caught the next bus back towards the hotel. Fortunately one rolled up almost immediately; most of the time in San Francisco you don’t wait more than a few minutes. Thirty minutes later, we were back on 4th and Market.

Our evening ritual began with a trip to Walgreens for sandwiches and juice. As we entered, we witnessed the store’s security guard intercept someone trying to shop-lift. He calmly grabbed the fellow by the collar, emptied his pockets of pilfered goods, then unceremoniously ejected him onto the pavement with a warning to stay away. With no police in sight, the man simply sat back down outside—proof that this kind of theatre is all too routine in the neighbourhood.

And so another day came to a close. Each sunrise seemed to find us a little stronger than the last. Back in our room, we settled under the duvet, flicked on the TV and surrendered to the largest, comfiest bed in San Francisco. Until tomorrow.

Refections on the Day: From Ferns to Frankfurters, Petals to Pagodas

There’s something quietly heroic about a day that begins with coughs and ends with koi. We woke not with a roar but a rustle—tentatively peeling back the duvet, answering the sun’s call like two slightly creaky sunflowers. The city, ever patient, waited outside.

Golden Gate Park welcomed us like an old friend in a floral shirt. The Conservatory of Flowers, with its steamy glasshouse charm, offered a sensory reset: pitcher plants that looked like alien chalices, lily pads the size of dinner tables, and a staff member so passionate about aquatic gardening that we nearly signed up for a new hobby. It was a place where time slowed, and so did we—on benches, under palms, letting the tropics do their quiet work.

Then came the Japanese Tea Garden, where serenity met slope. The kindness of the ticket attendant—acknowledging Jane’s limited access with a quiet gesture—set the tone for a visit that was both beautiful and bittersweet. The garden’s elegance was undeniable, but so was its inaccessibility. Still, we found our own rhythm: Jane with her panoramic perch, me with my camera, both of us navigating the space in our own ways. The irony of the ramp to nowhere wasn’t lost on us, but neither was the view from the bottom.

Lunch was a triumph of the ordinary: hot dogs in the sun, surrounded by the choreography of city life—joggers, dogs, and the occasional squirrel with a death wish. It was the kind of moment that would’ve felt unremarkable a week earlier, but after days of convalescence, it tasted like victory.

Evening brought us back to the familiar fluorescent glow of Walgreens, where the day’s final scene unfolded like a bit of urban theatre—security guard versus shoplifter, no police, no drama, just a quiet reset of the city’s moral compass.

Back in our room, we collapsed into the embrace of the comfiest bed in San Francisco, grateful for a day that reminded us how far we’d come—from feverish to floral, from bedridden to bonsai. Not every day needs to be epic. Some just need to be lived, one garden path at a time.