If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair

Travelling would be a lot more fun if there wasn’t so much...travelling involved. I love visiting and exploring cities, but if you travel on a shoestring, getting from place to place takes soooo long and is exceptionally uncomfortable. Lucky for me I have immense capabilities to combat boredom, retreating into my head and daydreaming the day or night away. Another tool in my anti-boredom kit is starting conversations with random strangers. And thank goodness for that because if I had to name the most depressing place I’ve been to in the US, it’s the Greyhound bus station in LA. I’ve never seen such a large and motley array of low-lifes and tramps. There was a dismal cafeteria selling pre-packaged food and revolting brewed coffee (the coffee was something I would get used to over the next three weeks or so), but mainly it was tired people with vacant faces waiting for buses. They waited mainly on the floor as the geniuses who designed the bus station didn’t grasp the fact that a bus station is essentially a waiting room, and only put two or three benches in the place. I got to the station at half seven, and my bus to San Fran was at half eleven. I had chosen this bus as

a) it would allow me plenty of time to make the bus even if my plane was late for some reason and
b) I would theoretically be able to sleep on the (eight hour) bus ride, and therefore save myself the price of one night’s accommodation in one of the USA’s most expensive cities.

Which was great, but I still had four hours to kill in that dirty, stinky rat den. I managed to, thanks to some sneaky pushing, shoving, ducking and diving, secure some bench space right near the door to the bus bay, and found myself next to a rather large African-American lady by the name of Angela. Despite my tiredness we had a long and interesting conversation about travelling, growing up, her losing her father, crime in San Francisco (very high apparently) and whatever else came to mind. She was incredibly kind-hearted, warning me repeatedly to take a lot of care in San Fran and to ring her when I got there to make sure I was OK. “I’ll be right across the bay in Oakland”, she assured me.

After a seemingly interminable wait, the bus finally pulled in at the station and we piled on. By some miracle I managed to get two seats all to myself, and proceeded to lay down in a foetal position with my scarf as a pillow. From that position neither hell nor high water was going to move me. Eight hours later, we pulled into the second most depressing place in the USA, the Greyhound bus station in San Francisco, and at half six in the morning. Now. Where on Earth was my flipping hostel? I’d booked into the Green Tortoise on the recommendation of some backpackers I’d met in Peru, and thankfully, as usual, my Lonely Planet came to the rescue and provided me with a map of uptown SF with the bus station and my hostel marked. They looked pretty close together but considering the fact that since I’d left Boulder I’d added a suitcase on wheels to my backpack and daypack, I thought I’d better ask someone whether or not it was walking distance. Invariably they advised me to take a bus, or two to be precise, so I gave up my hopes of pedestrianism and waited under gloomy skies for the bus. I was later to find out that in North America anything further than a block and a half is considered too far to walk, and I could have easily made it on foot, luggage and all. But for now I was a victim of San Francisco’s public transport system, which is mercifully reliable, if expensive. The man standing at the bus stop next to me struck up a conversation, which was exactly what I had been trying to avoid given the warnings I had been given about the dangers of San Francisco by everyone I talked to. He turned out to be a well meaning soul, though the conversation was made somewhat difficult due to a physical deformity which meant his tongue was permanently sticking out of his mouth, muffling his speech as if his mouth was full of chicken burritos. Try speaking while you are sticking your tongue out of your mouth. Go on, I know it feels foolish! Now get someone else to do it and see if you can understand what they say. Now you have a better idea of how I was feeling, at 06:30 on a grim January morning, waiting for the bus in a unfamiliar city, with this warm-hearted but fuzzy-speeched gentleman offering to take me to my hostel, and at the same time warning me to be careful because there’s a lot of crime in the city (did he not see the irony?). In the end he did escort me (well followed me really) to the Green Tortoise, where I, with some relief, managed to disentangle myself from him.

I checked in, dumped my luggage (yay!), ate a delicious and free breakfast at the hostel, and opened my guidebook. Where to first? Well, my main interest in the city, when I first decided to go, before I had done any research into the place, was historical. San Francisco, in my mind, was the birthplace of the gay liberation movement (at least in the USA) and the home of the Beat generation of the 60s and 70s. Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road” was what inspired me to include North America on my world tour in the first place. Therefore my first destination was Castro Street, gay centre of San Francisco.

On the way there I visited the church of the original Mission that was the origin of San Francisco. It was, unbelievably, deserted when I happened to visit, and I revelled in the solitude and reflected quietly on the life of the original San Franciscans. The adjoining basilica, built much later, was full of people (Sunday morning service) and much more opulent than the church. I must say that I liked the church better, but perhaps that was more to do with the ability to enjoy it in peace. Happily, the Mission had an adjoining cemetery, and, although small, I spent some time admiring it.

Onwards to Castro Street, and meanwhile the skies had cleared and the sun shone brilliantly onto the animated sidewalks I was making my way down. Castro is a lively neighbourhood, with small, quaint, brightly painted houses, couples walking their dogs, people chatting on the pavement, and ultra cute and trendy cafes – a far cry from the deserted Boulder streets. I even saw a VW Beetle with 70s “flower power” flowers painted all over it! I nearly fainted with excitement. Castro street itself is even more colourful and lively than the surrounding suburb, bedecked as it is in the rainbow flag symbolic of the gay pride movement, and full of people (being the main street on a sunny Sunday morning in the middle of winter – what can you expect?). I quickly found myself at the famous (infamous?) Castro theatre, which was unfortunately closed, and even more unfortunately screening Mary Poppins just days after I was due to leave SF! I found an “alternative lifestyles” bookshop and spent some time perusing that, and generally checked out the cool shops and cafes and vibe. If you Melbournians can imagine a cooler, gayer version of Brunswick, that’s something approximating Castro.

On to the Mission district, which, funnily enough, is not that close to the original Mission. To be honest it should be renamed the Mexican district, because I had more luck there with my Spanish than my English. What’s in the Mission district? Cheap Mexican food (mmm, tacos) so lunch was the first thing on my mind. Second up was a tour of some of the district’s many, many murals. There’s very little in this world that’s as unqualificatedly great as a mural. They’re fun for the artist to paint, they brighten up the neighbourhood, they’re easily accessible for anyone to enjoy (not locked up in some musty museum archive) and they can have lots of other uses like conveying an important message, mourning the loss of something or someone important, or celebrating something or someone. Unfortunately the tour guide preceded the mural tour with a very long and detailed lecture on the history of muralism, some famous muralists, and the process of mural painting. This was all very interesting, but it did mean that by the time we actually started the mural-spotting, most of the people who had signed up for the tour had to leave. We did see some amazing murals though, probably at least one hundred, and all within a few blocks of each other. If you were to do a comprehensive tour of the Mission district, or indeed of all of San Francisco, I’m sure you’d see hundreds and hundreds.

By this time it was getting colder and darker, and time to be heading home to the hostel, but I didn’t reckon on the unavoidable coolness of San Francisco. On my way home I was constantly distracted by incredibly cool and funky vintage clothes and furniture shops. Although I’d promised myself I wasn’t going to spend money on anything but sightseeing (yeah, right) I just couldn’t resist popping into one or two. And what luck that I did, as it brought on one of those “Eureka!” moments. Shopping at vintage stores is like panning for gold; you spend hours sifting through piles of dirt, stones and sand to find that little fleck. The other thing about vintage clothes is that they’re all one-offs – if the fleck doesn’t fit you can’t ask the saleslady for a different size. So when I found a gorgeous (and I mean gorgeous) brown patchworky skirt for USD$20, I flipped out and raced to the changing rooms with my heart in my mouth. The waist looked teeny-tiny, but clearly all the walking in Peru and running in Boulder had paid off, because it looked fabulous! I couldn’t get to the cash register fast enough and left the store with plenty of retail therapy endorphins flowing through my bloodstream.

The furniture shops were even more awesome, and if I ever move to San Fran, I’ll be there every weekend maxing out my credit cards on globe-shaped armchairs and 70s diner jukeboxes. But there was no way I was dragging that stuff back to Dublin (not that it would fit in my microscopic apartment anyway) so with loud sighs I managed to not buy everything not nailed down. By this time it truly was getting dark, and although I’d met nothing but friendly, helpful, law-abiding citizens so far, I didn’t really want my first encounter with the seedy side of the city to be on my own after dark. I made it back to my hostel in one piece and under the cover of night, and what a difference this made to the street the Green Tortoise was on! At 08:00, when I left the hostel, I hadn’t paid much attention to the mainly shut, mainly grey buildings surrounding the hostel, but scurried on my way to the Mission. After dark, Broadway becomes the “Vegas” of San Francisco – flashing neon, naked girls, tuxedoed bouncers, and casinos, casinos, casinos. Not really my thing as I hate neon, I’m straight, and I’m ideologically opposed to gambling.

Back at the Green Tortoise I hung out a little in the common room, chatted with a few fellow backpackers, and finally surrendered to a hot, hot shower and bed. Never had a bed felt so incredibly comfortable as after a night asleep aboard a long-haul bus.

The next day was cold, wet and gloomy, perfect weather for what I had planned. The grim weather helped put me in the right frame of mind to visit the (now defunct) jail for the craziest, hardest, and most dangerous criminals in California. Alcatraz is the stuff of legend, and it was only a short ferry ride away.

Alcatraz has an award-winning audio tour of its premises, and for once in the history of sightseeing gimmicks it lived up to its promise and delivered a thoroughly enjoyable and very informative spiel on the old prison. It had audio commentary from previous inmates and guards, which gave precious insights into life at Alcatraz. Two stories in particular struck me, both from inmates. The first told of the frustration and surrealism of being caged in a tiny cell in a small complex on a little island, while the enormous, busy, and free San Francisco was clearly visible, so close yet so far, just across a few miles of water. The other talked of his rush of feelings on sight of a woman, probably 18 or 20 years old, simply walking up the path, after eight years of seeing only men. I think we can all understand and empathise with his feelings at that moment!

Following Alcatraz I ate an enormous and delicious bowl of pho (Vietnamese noodle soup) at one of the places recommended in my Lonely Planet, next to a tall dark and handsome stranger whom I lost no time in chatting to. I told him I was on my way to the SFMoMA (San Francisco Museum of Modern Art) and he told me about half a dozen other museums I had to visit, other good Asian restaurants about town, and the history of the chef hierarchy at Tu Lan, the restaurant we were eating at, at which he was a regular. After a pleasant but lamentably short conversation, we said our goodbyes and I made my way to the museum.

I knew I’d had value for money the second I walked into the museum. The building (particularly the foyer) is a kind of artwork in itself, a beautiful marriage of form and function with delicious angles, clean lines, contrasting textured surfaces, and well-chosen colours. I was in awe before I’d even set foot in the galleries. Plus the coatroom guy was very very cute, one of those vibrant, curly haired, Art student types with glasses. Creativity practically sweating out of every pore. Much as I would have liked to stay and admire him, I tore my eyes away and made for the art. I’m not going to try and describe the artworks to you – it would be extremely difficult and entirely pointless. Suffice to say I had a great time in the museum.

Back to the hostel where the night was similar to the previous one – although I did get talking to one of the girls in my room under some extraordinary circumstances – I walked into the room when she was on the phone to a doctor due to some back pain she was having, and the doctor told her she may possibly be pregnant, and to go out and buy a pregnancy test at the pharmacy right away. After asking me not to let anything slip to her sister (of course not) she dashed away to the chemist. The test turned out negative, thank god, but she did end up going to the hospital for a few hours and getting some painkillers, which cost her all up about USD$2,000. Thank God for insurance. I can’t imagine what a pregnancy scare would be like in the middle of your travels, thousands of kilometres away from your loving friends and family.

The next day was the San Francisco Botanical Gardens, which, although large looking on the map, this is misleading as it is not merely large but enormous. The lovely young gentleman who started talking to me on the bus looked at me funny when I told him I wanted to traverse the entire park, and later I found out why. He walked me through the first part and pointed me on my way, and I was off to find the new museum that had just been built. The building was fascinating and beautiful, and the adjoining grounds had some cool ultra-modern park benches. I did go inside the museum...well, into the lobby. I baulked at the entrance fee, and as I’d had my fill of modern art at SFMoMA, and I wasn’t interested in the other exhibitions they had (Egyptian art or something) I figured I’d just explore the gardens. I found an AIDS memorial, which is a very pertinent one to have in this city. I found out, not without some indignation, that AIDS was originally called GRID, Gay Related Immune Disease. I wondered aimlessly in the gardens for a while, checking out all the plants and going “hmmm, interesting” at all the Latin plant names like I had any idea what they meant. At this point I was freezing and sick of plants, so I ditched the educational part of the day and went walking along Haight Street.

The Haight is another “Beat Generation” mecca, and full of more vintage and new clothing stores. I tried on heaps of cool stuff, including one absolutely gorgeous 1920s fire engine red evening gown in perfect condition (about USD$250 if I remember correctly). It was too small, thank god, or I wouldn’t have held myself responsible for my actions. How many occasions have I had call to wear a dress like that in my life? I can count three, tops, in nearly 24 years. But oh, it was divine. Almost immediately on exiting the shop I passed a group of teenage lads sitting on the pavement seemingly minding their own business. As I walked by, they flashed me a sign saying “Smile if you masturbate”. Hard as I tried I couldn’t suppress my giggles and the boys all cheered and laughed delightedly (and thankfully good-humourdly). Later on I got chatting to a sales guy in one of the shops as I was trying on hats. I don’t think I ever found out his name, but lets call him Adrian because he looked like an Adrian to me. We talked at length about clothes, accessories, our wardrobes, where we shop, our style changes, our style disasters, whatever, while I perused the merchandise. If I lived in San Fran he would make a great best friend. Eventually I located a fabulous beige cord jacket with flower embroidery. I ummed and aahed for half an hour (partly because I was indecisive and partly because I wanted an excuse to keep talking to Adrian) before I decided I’d finish walking up and down Haight street and come back for the jacket if I didn’t find anything more fabulous. Which I didn’t, so after a few more hours of checking out the incredibly funky and awesome styles (why why why did I move to a stylistically bereft city like Dublin?) I walked dolefully back into the shop and bought the damn jacket. Out of the kindness of his heart Adrian gave me a 10% discount to ease the pain, and the endorphins were rushing again. On my way back I was offered drugs on the street (first time in my life! I thought I must give out an anti-drugs vibe or something, but apparently not so in San Fran).

Back to the hostel for some shut-eye to prepare for an open mic night they have on a Tuesday night. I thought I had slept through it all, but thankfully when I got down there the party was still going strong. I stood by myself like a loser for some long minutes before I finally located the Kiwi guy I had been chatting with the night before. We hadn’t been talking long before he introduced me to John, “The coolest guy in the Green Tortoise”. I must admit this introduction didn’t particularly intrigue me, as I put it down to the copious amounts of beer the Kiwi guy had been drinking. However, John lived up to his description and I soon found that we were something like kindred spirits. Somehow, some lucky how, I managed to find the most intellectual guy in the place and we were soon talking a million miles an hour about politics, architecture (he’s an architect) music (he’s a guitarist in a band in his hometown, London), travelling, books, whatever. Absorbed as we were in our conversation we began to realise that people were beginning to leave the common room, and loathe to let the night end there, we hooked ourselves onto a bunch of people heading out to a karaoke bar (karaoke – yay!!). More talking ensued, mixed with some singing and dancing, and other stuff...until finally the bar closed and we were all summarily kicked out. Back at the hostel more tranquil chatter, plans were made for the next day (Golden Gate Bridge!) and we said goodnight.

Early the next morning the two of us headed out by bus towards the Bridge, and then began the longish and what would have been incredibly pleasant walk along the bay, but in the currently misty and damp climate was quite depressing. We made the most of each other’s company along the route, and after we made it to the bridge and took one or two snaps of the vague bridge-like shape hidden in the mist, we looked out for some kind of outlet for hot, caffeinated beverages. Lamentably, the Golden Gate Bridge must be the only tourist attraction in the world that doesn’t have an associated gift shop/cafe selling trashy souvenirs and overpriced muffins, so we began the long and wet trek back to civilisation. If we thought it was wet on the way there, we were forced to re-evaluate our degree of wetness on the way back as we became positively drenched from head to toe. After some time we managed to locate a Starbucks and I am ashamed to admit that I threw my principles to the wind and entered the establishment without a second thought. At that point I probably would have gone into a casino had it promised me hot coffee. After we had sat down with our liquid heaters, I noticed a trail of dirty, wet foot and jeanprints leading from the door, to the counter, to our table, and finally, to my sodden runners and jeans. “Did I do that?” I asked, shyly. John smiled and teased in his adorably haughty London accent, “I’ll buy your coffee, but by God I’ll make your floor wet!”.

We’d both decided at that point that enough was enough and headed back to the hostel where all the sensible people were hanging out in the warm and dry. We chucked our clothes in the dryer and messed around on the internet, I had a look through his architecture books, he played me mp3s of his band (actually pretty good), we had cups of hot tea and enjoyed being warm and dry. Later, dinner, and after that, we headed out to a bar to check out a blues band we’d found out about earlier. The band was pretty cool, I felt transported to Memphis and the Mississippi Delta which was great because unfortunately I wasn’t going to make it to New Orleans this time around, and I really wanted to. But at least I got a small injection of N’orleans in San Fran. We left pretty early as John was on a flight to Chicago early the next morning and on a train earlier than that. We swapped emails and all the usual, but it seemed futile as we live in different cities and men don’t write (two or three line emails from men are an achievement), but I guess next time I’m in London I’ll look him up, maybe he’ll even be playing somewhere...?

The next day, my last in San Francisco, was kind of quiet and uneventful. Now John-less, I decided to check out Chinatown which is reputably quite large and given that it was Chinese New Year at the time, I figured would be abuzz with activity. Not so much unfortunately, but I did buy some cheap postcards and I ate at Sam Wo’s (apparently an old Jack Kerouac hangout). That night I packed my stuff and started to make my way to the Greyhound station again. By that time it was getting dark and I wasn’t in love with the idea of walking alone, when I heard a voice call from the door of the hostel. “Hey! Hey! Are you going to the Greyhound station?” “Why yes I am” I replied, and it turned out that this lady was too, and also on her way to LA (my flight to NYC left from LA so back there to catch it). It turns out she was Canadian, which bothered me not a bit until we began to talk further. There’s a small exchange in a “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” episode that I really like (this has a point, trust me), and it’s where Riley and his friends are discussing Buffy, and Riley says “Don’t you think there’s something a little...off about her?” and Graham replies munching on a sandwich, “Maybe she’s Canadian”. I just put this down to innocent teasing of Canadians by their bigger, richer neighbours, but after talking to this lady I began to wonder whether there wasn’t something to it after all. She was a nutcase, a loony and a half. And one of the problems with mental cases is that when they find an attentive audience, they never shut up. I was thus facing the prospect of a four hour wait and an eight hour bus ride listening to her incessant, disconnected ramble. I was racking my brains trying to figure out how I was going to get away and concocted a series of hare-brained schemes – I called Julia back in Melbourne, she wasn’t home. I went to get something to eat. I went to make enquiries at the ticket desk and mercifully got pulled into another situation – there was a guy at the ticket desk trying to buy a ticket for his brother in some other city, and the ticket ladies were trying to make him understand the concept of a password, so that they could identify his brother at the other end. The problem here was that the customer spoke only Spanish, and the desk ladies were the only two people in SF who didn’t speak any. I was standing there trying to decide whether or not I could be of any help when one of the ladies asked me if I could speak any Spanish and that was the end of that. So I translated and it all got sorted. Then back to the loony lady where I used my last resort (pretending to sleep) to get her to leave me alone.

The bus finally came and unbelievably I again managed to worm two seats to myself (I don’t know how, I’m sure it’s a piece of incredible, never-to-be-repeated luck), so I proceeded to squish myself up into the foetal position again and snatch some shut eye (if not actual rest) on my way to the giant freeway that is Los Angeles.