San Francisco, CA, USA

San Francisco conjures up images of Zorin’s airship moored by the Golden Gate Bridge. Of that TV advert with thousands of bouncy balls tumbling in slow motion down a street. Of those same streets, driven at speed by Steve McQueen in a classic Mustang. Oh, and thick slices of crunchy San Francisco sourdough. Even if the first three aren’t easy to recreate, we would certainly be able to try some of the famous sourdough.

We stayed at the fantastic Hotel Boheme, tucked away just on the edge of Chinatown. It was a wonderful, cosy little hotel, hidden up a staircase with a thick pile carpet and run by a receptionist who looked like she’d been there since the 1950s. We collected our brass key, complete with chunky wooden keyring, and checked into our dated room. A wrought iron bed, with a chequered blanket, bejewelled glass lampshades and pastel textured wallpaper. We loved it.

It was our first time in San Francisco, so we set out to tackle it district by district. Sometimes on foot, sometimes by Uber, sometimes by trolleybus or metro. As US cities go, it’s fairly navigable without your own car. The immediate neighbourhood around our hotel was nice, with plenty of coffee shops for me to nip out and get the morning americanos. And just around the corner was Liguria Bakery, which makes focaccias daily, wrapped up in paper tied with thin white twine. A couple of mornings we treated ourselves to a fresh loaf and sat in Washington Park, watching the morning tai chi and devouring the focaccia in minutes.

Our trip to San Francisco happened to coincide with Chinese New Year. And it turns out, the Chinese community of San Francisco properly go for it. We were walking back to our hotel one evening, and had to navigate our way through hordes of people setting off firecrackers, fountains of sparks raining onto the pavement around us. At one point we saw a policeman cowering in a shop front, and he assured us it was like this every year. All evening and well into the night, firecrackers, bangers and all sorts of minor munitions were exploding outside our hotel. We didn’t get a great night’s sleep.

One area of San Francisco we particularly enjoyed was the Mission District, a Spanish-speaking area, with reportedly some of the best Mexican food outside of Mexico. We queued at the chaotic La Palma tortilleria, and collected our order – “cuarenta y dos” – tucking into it in the sun, admiring the murals and flags adorning the surrounding walls.

Another area we explored was the Golden Gate Park, a vast rectangular park which stretches from the university down to the coast. We walked pretty much the entire length, through shady pines and along little rivers, before emerging at the Pacific Ocean, on a beach that was surprisingly vast and empty. Apparently this part of the Pacific is pretty choppy, cold and full of rip currents, so that would explain it.

We’d heard that the best way to see the Golden Gate Bridge is on two wheels, so we headed to San Francisco Bicycle Rentals and sorted out some bikes for the day. The man, also called Gavin, was very protective of his bikes, and there was a detailed diagram of how much each part would cost if we broke it. We didn’t wish to spend upwards of $600 to replace a bike, so we clung onto these bikes like our lives depended on it, taking shifts to look in shops while the other one guarded the precious bikes.

Cycling over the Golden Gate Bridge was great – it’s far longer than you’d imagine, and quite windy, but even though it was early February, our frantic pedalling meant that we kept warm, and worked up quite an appetite. After plenty of stops to look out over San Francisco Bay, we arrived in the little town of Sausalito, and stopped for lunch at Driver’s Market & Deli. One of us stayed outside guarding the bikes, obviously. After an afternoon exploring, and even some February ice creams, we caught the ferry back to San Francisco, passing Alcatraz Island and its formidable-looking prison. Handing back the bikes was a relief, although I still check my credit card statement most days, just in case.

We also did the tourist-must of a trolley car from downtown San Francisco up to Fisherman’s Wharf. We hopped off by the famous Lombard Street, a road which winds back and forth up a hill, taking sharp turns as it goes. A few other tourists were wandering around the street, unsure of what to do, and every residential doorway had signs declaring that “this is a private residence please do not linger”. We lingered for a few minutes, before hopping back in the trolley car to continue to the Wharf.

My dad visited San Francisco back in the 1970s, and had recently unearthed a few photos from his trip. We enjoyed going back to the same locations to see how they have changed – and oddly, they’re still very recognisable. The lobby of the Hyatt Regency looks very similar today, as does the view from the junction of Powell Street and California Street down to the coast. 

San Francisco restaurants are great, and a highlight was oysters at the Hog Island Oyster Co. in the Ferry Building. We ordered a mix, and the waiter came over and with his little finger, introduced us to each oyster. “This is a Chelsea Gem, this is a Redwood Curtain Kumamoto, this is a Summerstone from Skunk Island Wisconsin” and so on. We nodded along, forgot it all immediately, and ate them all. I preferred some to others, some were a bit firmer, some saltier, some larger, but couldn’t tell you which one was which. Having a non-refined oyster palate will most likely save me money in the long run so I’m not too fussed.

We also got fully tourist trapped by a place that claimed to be the birthplace of Irish coffee, the Buena Vista. Without questioning it, we bought two large glasses. It was very nice, to be fair. But perhaps not a place that San Franciscans ever actually visit.

As mentioned at the start of this post, one thing we were looking forward to trying was some authentic San Francisco sourdough, so we headed to the Tartine Manufactory, home some of the best sourdough in the world. We walked through the factory, lines of sourdough loaves proving in their little wooden baskets, and the air was warm with freshly baked bread. Then for some reason, I panicked and ordered a ham and cheese croissant. The croissant was delicious. But imagine flying all that way for sourdough and then completely forgetting to eat any. Never mind, it’s a good excuse to return.