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.

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.

A day in bed

This really wasn't a good day for us.

 

Bone dry & Bed-bound

Neither of us had slept well, and when we did finally stir, it felt like we’d been steamrolled by a flu-ridden freight train. All we could manage was to hang the do not disturb sign on the hotel door and retreat back into our cave of crumpled tissues and regret. The only plan was to try and sleep it off — again.

Eventually, Jane bravely shuffled round the corner to Walgreens for supplies: medicine to fight the lurgy, and drinks to counter what now seemed to be a full-blown case of dehydration. It wasn’t the flu that was dragging us down — or at least, not just the flu. Despite steadily taking on fluids, it seemed none of them had any plans to make a graceful exit, if you catch my drift.

Honestly, I don’t think either of us ate a single thing that day. Just stayed curled up in bed, wilted and withered.

Without doubt, this was one of the shortest — and least glamorous — entries in any travel journal we’ve written. But hey, if we were going to crash, at least we crashed in a city we loved. Even if, for today, we only saw it from behind closed curtains.

Flights & arrival

This was never going to be one of our finest flights — both of us were still battling the remnants of the flu, but when it’s time to go, it’s time to go. On the bright side, at least we weren’t clambering into a taxi in the middle of the night.

Operation Airport: Sunday Edition

We’d deliberately picked a Sunday for travel — quieter roads meant we didn’t need to set off at some unspeakable hour. The flight wasn’t until 12:20 p.m., but with the usual three-hour check-in ritual, our taxi pulled up just after 6:00 a.m. and had us at Heathrow by about 7:30. Better to be early and bored than stressed and breathless.

Bags were checked in straight away, and Jane’s wheelchair was tagged without fuss. All smooth sailing... until we got stuck behind a bloke trying to bring one golf club onto the plane. Yes — as hand luggage. Because nothing says “inoffensive carry-on” like a potential bludgeoning device. He was at the assisted check-in too, dragging out the entire process. Eventually, the staff sent him upstairs to argue with someone else, and we were finally allowed to proceed.

Security, Sanity, and Sniffles

With check-in out of the way, there’s really no point dawdling before security. Queues can stretch unpredictably, so we headed through to airside. Plenty of shops and eateries awaited us beyond — though even without VAT, everything was eye-wateringly expensive.

Unfortunately, our flu decided to make a surprise comeback. What we’d hoped was the recovery phase turned out to be a short intermission. We didn’t feel up to eating, so we grabbed a drink and spent the next few hours simply wandering from one seating area to another, trying to pass the time and ignore the sniffles.

By 9:00 a.m., we still had a few hours to go. Having learned from previous Heathrow adventures that the departure gate is always a trek, we began the pilgrimage early — about an hour before they even announced the gate — just to get ahead of the stampede.

The wheelchair made everything far smoother. Sure, assistance is available, but it tends to involve corralling everyone into a holding pen before security, where there’s precious little to do or eat. With smooth airport floors, we were free to whizz about at will.

I’d also done my homework: the aircraft doing our flight in from San Francisco lands around 7:00 a.m., gets turned around (cleaned, refuelled, restocked), and heads back out. Unless there’s a fault, it tends to leave from the same gate it arrived at. That same plane ping-pongs back and forth for about a month before it’s pulled for safety checks — unless it misbehaves mid-rotation. Who knew aircraft were such creatures of habit?

Flight From Hell

When we reached the plane, they were already boarding those swanning off to the expensive seats — you know, the ones with champagne and actual legroom. But then came a rare perk: the wheelchair got us called to the front, and within minutes we were settled into our seats. Sorted. Or so we thought.

Unfortunately, that’s where we remained — stationary — for the next hour. No explanations, no movement, just a lot of recycled air and simmering impatience. Eleven hours on a flight is already punishment enough without tacking on bonus minutes for fun. Nothing to do but grit our teeth and try not to breathe too deeply.

Humidity? Never Heard of Her

Once airborne, things took a nosedive — not literally, thankfully, but our health certainly did. Whatever mild recovery we'd staged before boarding unravelled in record time. The cabin crew were great, gliding past with drinks like clockwork, but that didn’t stop us from feeling worse by the minute. It didn’t take long to realise the air was bone dry — like, desert in a heatwave dry. Maybe that explained why we’d started feeling so rough even before take-off. Nothing like low humidity to really dehydrate the soul.

Turns out, we weren’t the only ones falling apart. Before long, someone was stretched out by the emergency exit looking like they’d just staggered out of a fever dream. That became the unofficial infirmary — a rotating hotspot for fellow sufferers, each taking turns lying flat while the plane lurched ever onwards.

And as if that weren’t enough, a storm system over northern America decided to play air traffic control, re-routing us over Canada. We had to arc further north than planned before swinging left at Vancouver, hugging the coastline for an added 3,000 miles of “fun.”

So there we sat. Fourteen hours of non-movement, airborne misery, recycled air, and a flu that refused to be ignored. It felt like time had slowed to a syrupy crawl — by the time we landed, I was convinced I’d aged a decade and was one cup of orange juice away from a full-blown medical emergency.

Still, we survived. Just.

Arrival at SFO: The Last Shall Be First-ish

The thing about being first on the aircraft is you’re almost guaranteed to be the last off. It does give ground crew time to bring the wheelchair up and let airport assistance appear with their mysterious backstage pass to immigration, though. Honestly, I’m convinced they’ve got a secret shortcut — we somehow arrived alongside the entire plane-load anyway.

To make things more interesting, two A380s had landed just before us. With 450 people apiece, the woman pushing the chair was not about to get trapped behind that human tidal wave. Thankfully, once the flight crew cleared immigration, their desk converted into the accessible lane — and voilà, we were ushered straight to the front like VIPs with sniffles. Processed in minutes flat.

Then we noticed the paramedics.

Apparently, we weren’t the only ones wilting — passengers from our flight were dropping like overheated vegetables in a Tesco fridge aisle. Most likely dehydration, courtesy of that arid cabin and 14 hours of joyless altitude.

A few minutes later, we were at baggage reclaim, where our luggage was first off the belt (small mercies). From there, just a short stroll to arrivals, then one level up to departures, where BART — the Bay Area Rapid Transit — awaited us like a metallic chariot to downtown salvation.

From plane to platform in about 30 minutes flat. Frankly, I think that deserves a medal

To the city: Beam Us Up Barty

BART, Retro Futuristic

Not sure if it was the lingering flu, sheer exhaustion, or a ticket machine with a twisted sense of humour, but we simply couldn’t get our heads around how to buy a BART ticket. After a few blank stares and button bashing, we waved the white flag and asked the woman in the booth to sort us out. Thankfully, a train rolled in about 10 minutes later, giving us just enough time to regain a sliver of dignity.

There’s something undeniably retro-futuristic about BART trains. They remind me of Space: 1999 — even though there’s absolutely nothing in that show that looks like them. But if you’ve seen any sci-fi TV from the '70s or '80s, you’ll know the vibe: metallic, boxy, with a subtle hum of Cold War optimism.

The ride into the city took another 30 minutes, with the wheels making that tortured squeaking noise that can only come from a train that’s been around since disco was king. Half the ride is above ground, and the scenery — all rolling hills and brightly painted houses — really does give the impression that you’ve just pulled into an American daydream.

Luckily, being seasoned San Francisco visitors, we knew the drill once we disembarked. Getting to the hotel wasn’t half as bad as we’d feared. What really saved the day was the newly installed lift from the BART station straight into the Westfield shopping centre — no stairs, no drama. We swung by Walgreens, grabbed a couple of drinks, and popped out the west door. Two minutes later: hotel. Sweet, sweet horizontal rest at last.

The Pickwick Hotel, At Last

The Pickwick Hotel, 5th & Market St.

Check-in at The Pickwick went without a hitch, and we made our way up to our room on the fourth floor. The hotel only has about seven floors, I think, and once again we were at the front — a spot many people grumble about because of the traffic noise. But honestly? At this point, someone could’ve set up a drum circle outside and we still wouldn’t have cared.

By now we were both properly ill — the kind of ill where you're not even sure which end to hold a bucket under. Had the journey taken even ten minutes longer, I fear the BART train might’ve needed professional cleaning. Bags were abandoned in a pile as we crawled into bed and flicked on the telly for a token attempt at consciousness. Not even the blaring symphony of San Francisco fire trucks could rouse us.

We slept straight through until lunchtime the next day.

At least the worst part was over. I’ve never been madly keen on long-haul travel to begin with, and this one felt particularly punishing — a 20-to-22-hour marathon from the moment we got up in the UK to finally collapsing in that hotel bed. By now it was around 3 a.m. back home, and we were feeling every single one of those time zones.

Still, it was all for the greater good. San Francisco was waiting — vibrant, iconic, and packed with things we’d missed the first time round. And despite the rough start, we couldn’t wait to get stuck in.

Reflection on the Day: “Flu the Friendly Skies”

There’s a special kind of madness reserved for long-haul travel while ill — a blend of stubborn optimism, logistical acrobatics, and the slow realisation that your body has staged a quiet rebellion. We knew this flight wouldn’t be glamorous, but nothing quite prepares you for the surreal ballet of Heathrow at dawn, where golf clubs masquerade as hand luggage and flu symptoms play peekaboo with your immune system.

The day unfolded like a tragicomedy: smooth check-in, chaotic security, and a plane that doubled as a floating infirmary. We were dehydrated before take-off, delirious by hour six, and spiritually broken somewhere over Canada. The cabin air could’ve mummified fruit. And yet, somehow, we endured — wheeled, rerouted, and rattled all the way to San Francisco.

There’s humour in hindsight, of course. In the moment, it was just a blur of tissues, turbulence, and ticket machines that mocked our jetlagged brains. But even through the fog of illness, there were glimmers of grace: the wheelchair that turned chaos into calm, the BART lift that felt like divine intervention, and the hotel bed that welcomed us like a long-lost friend.

This wasn’t the triumphant arrival we’d imagined — more like a crash landing into horizontal survival. But it was ours. And in the grand tradition of travel misadventures, it’s the messy beginnings that make the best stories. San Francisco was waiting. We’d made it. Barely. But sometimes, barely is enough.