HOTEL INTROSPECTIONS VI

08/17

SAN FRANCISCO

The Americans love sport. Whether they are the hunky over-confident jock or the gap-toothed Arkansas crone. No bar or eatery is complete without a bank of soundless TVs beaming-in college ball and baseball, which appears to be played 24-7. According to a Dutch guy we meet at the pool a few days later, a baseball match is premised on the intention to make the attendees buy food and drink. From car park to grandstand. And who are we cocky Europeans to judge? As far as he could tell and we could establish from ESPN, little actually occurs in the game; so surely a super-sized Mountain Dew is the logical next step?

Not entirely sure, even now, how I felt about San Francisco. It is a major privilege to have visited such an iconic place, but it was cold. You might as well have been in Swansea and to be honest that is not why I go on holiday. The song ‘I Lost my heart in San Francisco’ seems to epitomise this place; it is enigmatic and poorly written with the occasional hook or moment of clarity. The bum quota, possibly up on Angeles and Monica; and definitely smellier. One of them seemed to take a shine to our kids, so each day he would make some approach for sustenance. Asking a 13-year-old if they’d got a cigarette seemed ambitious.

Travelling is working. And our go to tool is Uber. Since utilising it for the first time in LA; here in Frisco we are elite users. But it is not without flaws and as we froze our arses/asses off at the Golden Gate Bridge, the driver (White Prius) ditched us.

The hotel is huge. Three separate towers, ascending in opulence and cost. For $200 we could have upgraded, but chose not to. That’s at least half a day’s budget out here. I can report the bed was much firmer.

Big respect to restaurants in both China and Japan Towns. Fantastic food, although in juxtaposition with London the service in the Japanese was surly, unlike the Chinese, which was friendly and efficient. It was on the street where we had to contend with a slightly less convivial Chinaman. A homeless crazy with some Hollywood karate moves bent out of shape by Angel Dust or something. He pursued us up the street, jabbering and walloping the metal shutters. And I was reminded that at any age we men are expected to protect the young and the female. My main concern about fighting him was how bad he was likely to smell. Fortunately as we left his block of influence he lost interest.

The next day we dodged human excrement and mobility scooter daredevils on our way to the Laundromat, where we were able to source breakfast. A bagel with peanut butter, tinged with hand sanitiser; the use of which has gone up exponentially since arriving in SF.

The youngest, being a theme park/horror attraction fiend, coerced me into taking him to the SF Dungeons. As we waited to enter the labyrinth of lameness an oldish gay guy launched a massive tirade against the Dungeons and its failure to communicate Frisco’s history satisfactorily. There was also a hint that maybe he had been passed over for one of the under-demanding acting jobs due to his not being British. Bloody foreigners, coming over here...In all his bluster and angst the one favour he could have done us, was to stand by the reception and tell us to keep our money. The place blew and was best summed-up, by a young guy who remarked to his girlfriend on departure, “well that sucked”. I managed to prevent myself from replying with the Beavis snigger.

To make up for his disappointment I acquiesced to a McDonald’s. Whilst we waited for his wretched Cheeseburger ‘meal’ I discussed beer and food prices with a Canadian. He recommended an Italian, which was ‘not too pricey’. Er, hello, I could barely read the menu due to how much my eyes were watering. I should have reminded myself, even public sector workers are well-paid in Canada, ay. Despite the cost that evening was a wholly positive experience. I went to City Lights and bought some books. I know one can be a little soft about these matters, but the place does have a vibe. It most definitely is not Waterstone’s.

No potentially once-in-a-lifetime visit could be complete without taking the boat to Alcatraz. It’s history is mildly diverting, but overall one is left with the feeling that the portentous myth is a lot more compelling than the reality. It just wasn’t that menacing and the tales not quite gripping enough. What’s in a name? Quite a lot TBH. And the fact Native Americans utilised it as a place of occupation and protest after it closed as a penitentiary was, for me, more powerful than the tales of Capone and brutal incarceration.

PS – Brit-centric observation. Block systems are all well and good but you don’t half spend a lot of time waiting to cross roads.