Friday 30 August saw us down Mason St and across Market to 6^th Street where the hostel had advised us to find Dottie’s True Blue Café. It was clearly a goodie as there was a queue outside. On the edge of the Tenderloin district, there were even more homeless and damaged people on the streets. I’m ashamed to say that, in contrast, we had a huge and delicious breakfast, sharing our table with a young couple from southern California. The food and coffee were excellent and our great, onto-it waitress was from (American?) Samoa.

A walk back along Market St to SF’s MOMA where we would have spent time had it not cost an arm and a leg to get in, let alone more for the Magritte feature exhibition. So we wandered in the Yerba Buena gardens nearby, taking in the diverse high-rise landscape behind, and happened across the Martin Luther King memorial waterfall which was hauntingly moving.

[A few random things that struck us in San Francisco: Bay windows and fire escapes – the latter often very decorative; the prevalence of post-1906 (earthquake) architecture and art deco buildings; the number of homeless people – many of whom are casualties of the downturn in the early years of this century; the anti-Trump voices on the street and in conversation; New Zealand flora, including pohutukawa, manuka and cabbage tree; wonderful murals everywhere.]

Then back to the hostel, shuttle to the airport and Virgin Atlantic flight (which made Air NZ look rather shabby) to Heathrow. Quickly through immigration, no customs to speak of and only a wait to do the paperwork for the rental car before onto the M4 to South Wales. Forgetting about the snarl on the mororway (roadworks ment crawling for miles), crossing the Severn and entering Wales was emotional. That lovely green, wooded, rolling countryside that embodies Britain for me, with mostly sheep pasture around the Cheapstow area.

We had one full day in San Francisco, enroute to the UK. I had been in SF twice before, in ‘79 and ’89. I was surprised, in ’89, to see many homeless people whose presence was not evident 10 years before. More of that later…

We had to decide how to best use our day. We were happy to enjoy and absorb less, at our leisure, rather than race and around trying to see more. We headed on foot up through Chinatownto North Beach, gathering place in the 1950s of Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerousac and others who formed the core of the Beat Generation.

First port-of-call was City Lights, the bookstore on Columbus Avenue founded in 1953 by poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti. We nearly didn’t emerge again! Wonderful, three-level building, fabulous selection of books. We limited our purchases to four slight poetry collections, mindful of weight. Then next door to Vesuvio, little changed since it was a favourite bar for the beat poets. We confined ourselves to green tea.

A walk down Columbus Avenue to Vallejo Street where we found Cafe Trieste – third corner of the beat trinity. The highlight here was sitting with a 75-year old almost blind and partly deaf local who had once been an opera singer. Sadly we didn’t ask his name but we had a great conversation and learned a little more about the changing face of SF.

From there a short wander to Washington Square and a bus up Telegraph Hill to Coit Tower from where there is a superb 360-degree view of the city. Also a wonderful collection of murals painted by 26 local artists in the social realist style of Diego Riveria.

Bus back down to Fisherman’s Wharf by which time we were whacked and happy to sit and looked at moored ships in the collection of the SF Maritime historical park. Finally an exciting Powell-Hyde cable car back to Mason Street and an indifferent meal at a local diner.

Our first night in San Francisco saw us across Mason Street and a block further north, here…

We had a delicious meal – sweet yam fries (yum), buttermilk biscuits (double yum), jumbalya (Russ), spinach salad with chicken (me), Anchor Steam beer (Russ) and Sierra Nevada pale ale (me). Then we stopped to listen to the Bay City Blues Band. They offered ear plugs at the entrance. That aside, they were a fabulous, generous band that gave it their all and more. With a female vocalist not pictured below.

Afterwards we wandered round to Union Square, down to and along Market Street and then wound our way back to the hostel.

The highlight of any journey is surely those serendipitous path-crossings with fellow travellers. Waiting to board the flight to Auckland, Russ spotted a man of around our age with a carved pendant – a little flute or whistle as it turned out. Russ commented on the carving, they talked briefly and then we boarded, only to find that Kim was seated next to us. The airtime between Christchurch and Auckland was rich with conversation, revealing shared interests and delight in each other’s company. So we parted with contact details exchanged and a resolve to meet again – and I do believe we will.

At San Francisco Airport, after an interminable immigration snake, the shuttle lady was a breath of fresh air with a genuine enthusiasm for her city and a delight in sharing that enthusiasm. (Enter briefly and exit rapidly President Trump.) The ride improved out of sight when we discovered that Russ’s wallet was not back on the airport tarmac as we feared but hiding on the shuttle floor! 

The welcome at our Youth Hostel in downtown San Francisco could not have been more warm, friendly and helpful. And what do you know – outside the hostel on the busy roadside are these still-flowering pohutakawa trees.  So SF opened its arms on a balmy early autumn day.

A good start I felt, as Lesley farewelled us at Christchurch airport…

… but then, before we had even boarded the plane to Auckland …

That woman is a sneaky photographer!