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.