Coit Tower

It wasn’t one of the sunniest days of the holiday, but after Sunday’s marathon bridge walk, we’d planned something slower — less legwork, more browsing. A recovery day, if you like, with snacks and sea lions on the agenda.

We left the hotel around 10 a.m. and made our way to Market Street to catch the F line streetcar down to Pier 39. Now that we were both feeling better, we fancied a proper wander through the gift shops to see if anything unusual or unique caught our eye.

What we didn’t plan for was the streetcar soap opera.

Almost a Brawl

The tram behind had bunched up behind this another one, which made things awkward from the start — packed solid, doors barely shutting, tempers on edge. The driver, rather than calming the situation, seemed to go out of his way to frustrate everyone climbing aboard. No announcements, no suggestion to wait for the empty tram behind. Honestly, I'm amazed someone hadn’t decked him already.

Our Ride To Fishermans Wharf

The situation boiled over when one bloke got into a shouting match with the driver — swearing, racial slurs, general chaos. Then, just to add a little extra drama, the driver cruised past a stop that people clearly wanted to get off at. Cue more shouting, eye-rolling, and passengers visibly regretting their travel choices.

We were relieved to hop off, I can tell you.

On the pier at last, things settled. We grabbed something to eat — a hot dog, I think — then paid a visit to our old friends, the sea lions. Still lounging, still noisy, still weirdly charming. Some things never change, and in their case, that’s a very good thing.

Pier-side Pals

Not Much Room To Move

After about an hour on the pier, we took a stroll over to Fisherman’s Wharf — San Francisco’s answer to Blackpool’s seafront. Shops, restaurants, lots of foot traffic and even more seafood, which isn’t really our thing. Still, it’s the kind of place that always has something odd tucked in its corners.

Retro At Its Best, Musée Mécanique

And we found it: Musée Mécanique. A brilliantly strange little museum stuffed with arcade games, some of which date back over a hundred years. Even better — most of them still worked. I don’t think I’ve seen a two-player PAC-MAN machine since the 90s, and the staff were zipping around on roller skates like it was standard uniform. It felt like falling into a time warp and landing somewhere between retro gold and eccentric genius.

McDonald’s Was Around
 Here Somewhere

By now it was lunchtime, so we ducked into McDonald’s for something quick. Surprisingly better than the ones back home — and cheaper, too. You get your drink cup at the counter and fill it up yourself, as many times as you like. If they did that in the UK, people would definitely make the most of it.

They also had super-fast free Wi-Fi, which we made good use of — catching up online and checking maps, messages and what was next on our list. Well fed and fully hydrated, we walked back the way we’d come — but this time along the opposite side of the street — heading for the entrance of Pier 39 to catch the number 39 bus. Destination: Coit Tower.

Coit Tower

Coit Tower From
Pioneer Park

We’d tried to visit Coit Tower on our last trip, but it had shut the day before for repairs — eight months of scaffolding and silence. Now, finally reopened, it was time to tick it off the list.

It’s only about a twenty-minute bus ride to the top of the hill, but it’s not something you’d want to tackle on foot. The tower sits on a hill some 300 feet above sea level, accessed by a narrow, winding road that finishes in a tucked-away car park. Thankfully, the bus driver this time was full of cheer — though hardly anyone ever boards this particular route.

The view from the top car park is brilliant, even with the cloud cover. And that’s where we had our first run-in with the local wild parrots. You hear them before you see them — great flocks screeching overhead — and while they’re a colourful addition to the skyline, they’re not exactly popular with the neighbours. Apparently, they wreak havoc on the gardens.

Winged Vandals or Wild Parrots

The tower itself isn’t that tall — 75 feet or so — with murals painted around the base inside by artists I’m told are famous, though none I recognised. It’s eight dollars each to go up, and amusingly, our change came in two-dollar bills. I’ve never seen one before, and judging by the reactions later on, not many people have. Your hand gets stamped with a heart, which you show to the lift operator — probably one of the slowest lifts I’ve ever taken. It is nearly a hundred years old, though, so fair play.

It takes about five minutes to ascend, followed by twenty more steps to reach the top. There’s no roof — just wide windows that staff open for you so photos come out clean, without reflections. They’ve had issues with scratched glass in the past, so now there’s always someone up there looking after them.

Downtown From The Top

The view from the top? Absolutely stunning. A full 360-degree sweep of the city, stretching all the way out to the Bay and beyond. A proper moment for the camera — and a great excuse to try the toy town filter, which works best from high up. We probably spent close to an hour up there, and even the sun made a brief cameo appearance between the clouds.

By the time we’d come back down, my legs were starting to protest, so we had a sit outside and watched the parrots do another screechy lap. We just missed the next bus — they only run every thirty minutes — so I took the chance to explore the Filbert Street Steps, one of San Francisco’s famed staircases.

Roof Top Patio On A House

The steps plunge 300 feet down to Levi Park in about half a mile — not the kind of path you’d want to climb up unless you’re training for something serious. I only went part way down for a look. Along the way, you’ll find houses tucked into the cliffside, with every available patch transformed into lush, layered gardens beneath towering trees. It’s here I properly understood the local dislike for parrots — one was perched in a garden, quite happily tearing all the leaves off a plant like it was auditioning for garden villainy. Avian hooligans, honestly.

Once satisfied with my photos, I headed back to the bus stop where I’d parked Jane and caught the ride back down, hopping off at Washington Square.

Little Italy

There’s no shortage of shops in this part of town — all sorts, really — but most of them don’t properly wake up until evening. That’s when Little Italy starts humming: restaurants filling, foot traffic building, lights flickering on one by one. We’d planned on stopping by Rouge Bar for a drink, but it looked a bit too lively now, so we diverted for a more practical option — the liquor store.

Beer’s not something you stumble across easily in San Francisco. Most shops near the hotel don’t even stock it, so whenever you find somewhere like this, it’s best to grab what you can while the chance is there. A couple of bottles for the room, ready to round off the evening properly.

This area also holds a bit of Hollywood history. The rooftop scene from the opening of Dirty Harry was filmed right here — sniper at dawn, camera sweeping across the neighbourhood. Most of the film’s scenes were shot around the city, and watching it again later, we recognised a handful of locations from our own wanderings. Makes the place feel like it’s wearing two stories — one on the surface, and one flickering just behind it.

Timing & Trolleys Buses

By now it was time to catch the bus across the road and head back to the hotel — which meant facing down the dreaded number 30. This is the route through Chinatown, and it’s rarely a quiet ride.

Thankfully, this is where San Francisco’s real-time arrival boards earn their stripes. We could see four number 30s on the way, spaced just minutes apart. But because they’re trolley buses and run on overhead wires, they can’t overtake each other. So when the first one finally rolled up, it was bursting — people practically hanging out of the windows. Total chaos.

We decided to wait for the third bus, and it paid off — almost empty by the time it reached us. Definitely one of those moments where patience wins. Still, most people at the stop didn’t even glance up at the screen above. If they had, they might've saved themselves a tight squeeze and a sweaty elbow in the ribs.

Pints & Plastic Charm

We got off in Union Square after about fifteen minutes on the bus, and to be honest, I really needed a beer. Time to hunt down Johnny Foley’s Irish bar.

It’s not one of my favourite pubs in San Francisco — a bit plastic, a bit overpriced — but it was close, and sometimes convenience trumps character. Any port in a storm, really.

The pub itself is split into two sections: the main restaurant downstairs, which caters for families, and an upstairs area that seems to be for adults only. I assume that’s because you’ve got to be 21 to be in a bar, which does make sense. Still, it adds to the slightly Wetherspoon’s-meets-theme-park atmosphere.

They usually try and push the food menu on you as soon as you walk in, but thankfully it was quiet, so we just found a seat and I grabbed us a couple of drinks from the bar. The food isn’t cheap, and the beer’s not far behind — but we weren’t after gourmet, just a sit-down and something cold.

It didn’t take long for a waitress to appear with menus anyway, bless her — probably clocked us as fresh targets. Can’t really blame them though; they’re usually on a couple of dollars an hour and rely almost entirely on tips to make a living.

Seven dollars for a pint isn’t exactly daylight robbery, but it’s not far off — especially when you remember that a US pint is smaller than a UK one. They offer “tall pints” too, which are just bigger glasses for a bigger price. That said, the beer here tends to be stronger, so it probably levels out in the long run. Sort of.

Cake Quest

We’d spent about forty minutes in the pub, which felt about right, and then it was time to move on. Just down the road sits one of San Francisco’s hidden gems: Cako bakery, home of the most fantastic cupcakes. We’d been here before — and honestly, it’s not a place you want to miss.

Cako is the dessert-world equivalent of craft ale for cake lovers. Everything is fresh, handmade, and packed with what I can only assume is about a bazillion calories — sheer indulgence in sponge form. You could eat yourself into a diabetic coma if you weren’t careful… but like most things that are properly good, it comes at a price. Ten dollars for four cupcakes felt well worth it.

By now the light was fading, and it’s hard to say where the day went — but we’d ticked off everything we planned, so there were no complaints. If we’d had a bit more energy, we might’ve headed up to Japantown to see some of the architecture lit up after dark, but the legs weren’t in the mood.

So instead, we drifted back into Union Square and let the city wind down around us. We watched the Cable Cars roll past for a while, soaked up the early evening bustle, and listened to street musicians playing on the corner. They were good — got people involved too, not with the aim of pocketing tips, but simply to share in the music and the moment. Just a warm evening, mellow tunes, and smiles stretching across the crowd.

San Francisco might just be the most laid-back city anywhere — and I reckon that’s why people fall in love with it without even trying.

Chilling Out in the Square

Sitting there in Union Square on a warm evening, it was easy to forget that it was January. Back home, we’d be freezing — or more likely tucked up in bed because it would be the middle of the night. But that’s the thing that sticks with you: being in the heart of a big city that feels laid back, safe, and genuinely friendly. Not perfect, of course — no place is — but compared to a lot of others, San Francisco has a kind, open pulse that you can feel just walking around.

That said, bad things do happen here. What makes you pause isn’t just the crime — it’s the roads. You’re more likely to meet trouble from a careless driver than anything else. The accident fatality rate is shockingly high. I remember during our first visit, there were about nine fatal crashes in two weeks alone — nearly half of them hit-and-runs involving children. We saw it all play out on local news, day after day, sometimes mere blocks from where we were staying, or in places we’d passed through hours earlier.

It’s sobering. Life shifts quickly, and when you see these things up close — not just stats on a screen — it makes you appreciate how fragile it all is. So you keep your wits about you. You cross the road with care, you stay aware, and you carry the weight of those stories, even in moments that feel light.

Still, that night in the square was calm, the air soft, and the city buzzing gently around us. And in that quiet pocket between reality checks and fresh cupcakes, we felt something rare — the kind of peace that you don’t take for granted.

Reflections on the Day: Parrots, Pints & Pier-side Pandemonium

After Sunday’s bridge-crossing triumph, Monday was our designated recovery day — less legwork, more browsing, and a healthy dose of sea lions and sponge cake. But San Francisco, ever the unpredictable host, had other plans.

The morning began with a streetcar drama worthy of its own soap opera. The F line to Pier 39 was packed to bursting, tempers flaring, and the driver seemingly auditioning for “How to Lose Friends and Alienate Passengers.” Swearing, slurs, and skipped stops made for a tense ride, but we escaped into the relative serenity of the pier — greeted by hot dogs and the familiar chorus of sea lions flopped across their wooden stage. Still noisy, still charming, still the city’s most endearing loafers.

From there, we wandered to Fisherman’s Wharf and stumbled into Musée Mécanique — a glorious time capsule of arcade machines, some over a century old. Staff zipped around on roller skates, and we found a two-player PAC-MAN machine that felt like a portal to the 90s. It was retro joy with a side of eccentric genius.

Lunch was a McDonald’s pit stop, where the drinks were bottomless and the Wi-Fi faster than most UK cafés. Refreshed and reconnected, we headed for Coit Tower — finally reopened after months of scaffolding exile. The bus ride up was cheerful and quiet, and the view from the car park was already impressive. Then came the parrots — screeching flocks of green-feathered rebels, charming from a distance but apparently garden terrorists up close. Locals weren’t fans, and after watching one shred a plant like it owed him money, we understood why.

Inside the tower, murals lined the base, and our change came in two-dollar bills — a novelty that sparked more curiosity than the art. The lift was charmingly slow, but the view from the top was worth every minute: a full sweep of the city, Bay, and beyond. Even the sun made a cameo appearance, just in time for the toy town filter to do its magic.

After descending, I explored the Filbert Street Steps — a lush, cliffside staircase that plunges 300 feet to Levi Park. The gardens were stunning, the parrots less so. One was mid-rampage, stripping leaves like it was auditioning for “Avian Villains: The Musical.”

Back at Washington Square, we wandered into Little Italy, where the shops were just waking up and the bars were already buzzing. Rouge Bar looked lively, so we opted for the liquor store instead — beer being a rare find near our hotel. A couple of bottles secured, we ended the day with a nod to Hollywood: the rooftop from Dirty Harry’s opening scene loomed nearby, adding a cinematic shimmer to our stroll.

The journey back involved facing down the dreaded number 30 bus — Chinatown’s rolling pressure cooker. Thanks to real-time arrival boards, we dodged the sardine special and caught the third bus, nearly empty and gloriously calm. Most people ignored the screen, opting instead for elbow-to-elbow chaos. Patience, it turns out, is a superpower.

Union Square welcomed us with open arms and overpriced pints. Johnny Foley’s Irish bar wasn’t exactly charming, but it was close, and sometimes convenience trumps character. Seven dollars for a pint felt steep, especially when you remember a US pint is basically a UK pint with commitment issues. Still, the beer was cold, the seats were soft, and the waitress was trying her best to upsell without seeming desperate.

Then came Cako bakery — the dessert-world equivalent of craft ale for cake lovers. Four cupcakes for ten dollars, each one a sponge-based masterpiece. We didn’t just eat them; we celebrated them.

As the light faded, we drifted back into Union Square, watching cable cars roll past and street musicians play for joy, not tips. The city buzzed gently around us, and in that soft pocket of calm, we felt something rare — the kind of peace you don’t take for granted.

But San Francisco isn’t all cupcakes and cable cars. The city’s pulse includes sobering beats: high road fatality rates, hit-and-runs, and stories that stick with you long after the holiday ends. We’ve seen it play out on local news, sometimes just blocks from where we stayed. It’s a reminder that life is fragile, and awareness is its best companion.

Still, that night in the square was warm, mellow, and quietly magical. Between parrots and pastries, arcade machines and urban wisdom, Monday gave us a full spectrum of city life — and we were grateful for every pixel of it.