Travel Biography - Week 72.

Meeting Up with a Friend from the UK.

Not all of the five days I spent in San Francisco was I alone. There was a day when I got together with a friend who used to live near me in Bracknell, my home town, before moving across the Atlantic to San Mateo, a small Californian town around 20 miles south of San Francisco. He was friends with all my other church friends - mainly Keith, Gareth, Tim, and others. They were the same friends with whom I enjoyed a cycling trip across Holland, Belgium, and Germany in 1987, as described in Travel Biography: Week 40.

His name was Bill, and his move from the UK to California was connected with his occupation. This meeting reminded me of my other friend I stayed with at Walnut Creek in 1977, Valentine Orlando. After arriving in San Francisco, I made contact with him and a date was arranged for us to meet. 

One morning, he arrived at the hostel reception foyer and we met. After talking and finding out each other's welfare, I agreed to a car ride out from the city to call first at his home, where he lived with a female partner, and then onward along the Californian Pacific coastline.

Footbridge to Strawberry Hill, Golden Gate Park.

San Mateo looked to be a quiet residential area on the San Francisco Peninsula. San Mateo looked quite different from the bustling streets of the city. The town sits on the San Francisco Bay coastline, facing northeast into the bay. However, a 13-mile car drive southwest from San Mateo and one arrives at Half Moon Bay, on the Pacific coastline. This goes to show how huge the whole of this 60-mile-long bay is, even 20 miles south of San Francisco. From San Mateo, the bay extends further south until it ends at the city of San Jose. Hence, the whole bay, including Pablo Bay towards the north, is considered the largest coastal inlet in America. 

After socialising at his house, the two of us set out into the countryside whilst his girlfriend remained at home. Along the way, we halted at San Andreas Lake, a ribbon body of water which sits directly over the San Andreas fault line. Here is where the two tectonic plates rub against each other, causing earthquakes like the massive 9.6 magnitude one that destroyed San Francisco in 1906 - the Pacific Plate slowly moving northwest against the North American plate. This means the cities of Los Angeles and San Diego are moving very slowly northwards. 

After a while, we arrived at the Pacific coastline, and Bill drove further south until we arrived at a beach car park. After stepping out of the car, we had to walk along a footpath that passed through a thicket of bushes whose leaves left irritated the skin when touched. Bill knew about these bushes and warned me. With caution, we managed to navigate our way through safely.

The beach was sandy with some rocky stretches. There was no one else around, just the two of us as we strolled leisurely along the beach. Neither of us bathed in the sea. Despite the calmness and the sunny sky, the sea didn't look that inviting. Furthermore, and what I had considered a deterrent from any attempts to swim, were the decomposing bodies of dead seals lying here and there on the sand. One of them had its ribcage fully exposed to the air, indicating that it had lain there for a considerable time and was well advanced in decomposing.

By looking down at the corpse, my mind was brought back to Sea World in San Diego. There were seals there, all of them well-fed and looked after. How these seals died in their natural environment and then washed up on the beach, I would never know for sure. Instead, I could only theorise that they might have been infected by a seaborne virus. The very sight of several corpses lying washed up on the beach seems to support the virus theory.

Bill and I spent much of the day together on the Pacific coastline. It was so peaceful, so quiet and serene when compared to the bustle of the city, especially San Francisco, laden with tourists visiting so many of the attractions. Eventually, Bill drove me back to the city and to my hostel on Market Street, where we said farewell. The next time I heard his voice was over the phone in a restaurant a few miles from home, wishing me all the best in the future during my stag night in the autumn of 1999!

The rocky Pacific Coast

Rocky coast of North California.

Preparing for the Flight Home.

While Bill and I were strolling along the beach, deep in my heart I felt sad and my friend noticed it. When he asked what the matter was, I admitted my sadness at the thought of the need to fly back home. He understood, and he was sympathetic. This was the beginning of an emotional disorder known as post-holiday blues. Both backpackers and beach sunseekers can suffer from it. There was even an article about it in a travel magazine. One travel agent, Trailfinders, the agent I booked this holiday with, had just opened a department for counselling backpackers suffering from the blues and guiding them back to normal day-to-day living. To me, post-holiday blues means that I can't resume work for several days after the touchdown at London Heathrow Airport.

Hence, in 1995, 1997, and even after our honeymoon, I avoided the "Touchdown Sunday, back to work Monday" ethic. But that was the advantage of self-employment, to be my own boss, and leaving me to decide when to resume work without any risk of a reprimand or even dismissal. However, a hidden danger within this way of thinking was that not showing up for too long a time would encourage my clientele to lose patience and switch to another window cleaner.

However, during a very severe bout of post-holiday blues in 1997, rather than seek counselling at a London travel agency, after landing at Heathrow Airport on a Wednesday morning on a flight from Los Angeles, the silence in my apartment was overbearing! After ten weeks out of the UK, I was so used to the daily social bustle in the hostel, that I couldn't cope with the silence. The best decision I made was to phone a friend who lived a couple of miles away and announce that I had just arrived home and I felt emotionally strained. The wife invited me over. So, almost immediately, I cycled to Tim and Sharon's, and at their home, I gradually found my bearings as I shared my experience. On Monday, four days after landing, I was ready for work. 

During my final morning in San Francisco, I booked a minibus to collect me and take me to the airport. The minibus calls at the hostel every morning and I watched other backpackers carry their knapsacks as they boarded the bus. Now it was my turn. The Grand Central Hostel was the only hostel I had ever stayed in where such a service operated. For a fee, paid at the reception, getting to the airport was straightforward.

I made it to the airport for the 12:00 p.m. flight to London Heathrow. However, at check-in, I was told that there would be a six-hour delay before take-off. This was due to the plane suffering from a six-hour delay before it took off from London Heathrow to get here.

Rather than feeling frustrated over the delay out of San Francisco, Instead, I felt a degree of pity for those stuck at Heathrow for six hours when they should have been soaring high in the sky as they looked forward to the start of their holidays. However, having already checked in, I couldn't leave the airport departure lounge to return to the city. All I could do was mope around.

At last, that evening, we were called to the boarding gate. On board the plane, I got talking to a young man sitting next to me (I had a window seat) and we got talking. It was a Tuesday, and the plane was originally meant to land in London around 6:00 a.m. BST on a Wednesday. This gave the man sitting next to me enough time to get home, unpack, and go straight to work. But with the six-hour delay, he decided to take the rest of the day off. I thought, Heavens!

Thus, after arriving home to my empty apartment, post-holiday blues began to set in. It was less severe in 1995 than it was in 1997, therefore I was able to handle it adequately. Yet, in the long run, the whole trip was therapeutic after the disastrous three-month trip to Israel a year previously in 1994, when I was thrown out of Stella Carmel Christian Conference Centre, by the wish of just one hostile volunteer, Josephine. Any painful emotion I suffered during the months between 1994 and 1995 was eliminated by the 1995 trip to the USA, which so far, I rank as one of the best trips I had ever made and enjoyed.

If you wish to read again what occurred at Stella Carmel in 1994, it's Travel Biography - Week 54.

Countryside at San Andreas Lake.

Looking back, I could see how Providence worked everything out for my benefit, even if it involved a lot of emotional pain. If it wasn't for the cruelty thrown at me by Jo, and the dismissal from the Centre in 1994, this trip wouldn't have occurred. The Grand Canyon would have remained unvisited, unhiked. San Diego would remain unknown to me, and at Huckleberry Finn Hostel in St Louis, I wouldn't have met James. And what happens after that, which is still to come, will be, to me at least, mind-blowing!

Therefore, I'm not exaggerating when I say that the 1995 trip to the USA had healed my negative emotions the year earlier. Once again, I can look at the world with my eyes open and with a smile.

However, on the day I arrived home from Heathrow Airport, I was down with the post-holiday blues. It was a Wednesday and I didn't intend to resume work until the following Monday. So, that afternoon, a cycling trip to town was in order. I had some photographic film ready to be developed. For any younger readers of this site, in the nineties, all photography was with a camera loaded with a film roll or cassette. When all 36 snapshots were taken, the exposed film was taken to a pharmacy here in the UK, such as Boots Chemist. It took up to a week for the photos to come back, which I collected with the submission of a special receipt. Week 60 of this Biography has most of the 1995 Grand Canyon hike, all taken with a roll of film.

A fuller view of San Andreas Lake.

1995 was my third trip to the USA after 1977 and 1978 featuring San Francisco (Weeks 15 and 23 respectively.) At this point in writing, there will be two more trips to the USA still to come. But as for both the Grand Canyon and San Francisco, there have been no more visits to this day, mainly due to marriage. However, still to come include San Diego Santa Monica, and New York. Three places not yet visited include Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo, and Boston. 

Here begins the quiet year, the interlude between two major trips. But I didn't spend 1996 moping and doing nothing. In the summer of that year, I attempted a hike on the West Coast Path from Bournemouth to Exeter. But I have deemed it a failure, even after arriving at Exeter. The cause of the failure? Illness.

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Next Week: 1996 - a year of contrasts. A sense of failure. And also wild excitement!

Travel Biography - Week 71.

During the 1995 month-long trip across the USA, I spent four nights and five days in San Francisco. With the Greyhound Ameripass ticket about to expire, there were no more journeys on any of their Americruisers. Instead, I'll head to the airport to fly back to London. Meanwhile, lodging in the Grand Central Hostel on Market Street proved to have been a worthwhile stay.

Vaillancourt Fountain.

Although I stayed in a two-bedroom, like in San Diego, this time, I had the room after a French backpacker had vacated it soon after my arrival. One morning, I woke up and realised that it was Sunday. The hostel owner had a bicycle that anyone could hire. This would be an excellent way to explore the environment more thoroughly than on my previous two visits in the seventies.

After a chat with the owner, I left the hostel with the bike after submitting my passport to him. It came complete with a D-lock and its key to secure it when left unattended.

I was amazed at how deserted and traffic-free Market Street was on a Sunday morning! This street was one of the city's busiest thoroughfares during the working week. Hence, I was able to ride fast, whizzing along in a northeast direction until I arrived at Embarcadero Plaza, an open space fronting the Ferry Building. At the north end of the plaza was the Vaillancourt Fountain, an example of outdoor art leaving it to the visitor to decide whether this was the city's ugliest monument or not.

Vaillancourt Fountain

Another View of Vaillancourt Fountain.

Indeed, the structure was ugly but not offensive to its surroundings. Fortunately, when I arrived, the fountain was fully functioning with waterfalls cascading out of the square outlets. But without the water, as often was the case, so I read, then this mish-mash of large cement square piping, I might have considered an eyesore.

Yet, I liked it. The very ugliness of the structure drew out my admiration for it, and I believe San Francisco was fortunate to feature it.

Onward to the Golden Gate Bridge.

After a while at the Vaillancourt Fountain, I mounted the bike and carried on riding past several piers, still used industrially, until I finally arrived at the famed Pier 39. I know, this was far from the first visit, but one of the benefits of Travel is that boredom was seldom an issue. I could visit a location over and over again, feeling grateful that I was there. And I might as well make the most of it and soak in the experience. Although I wasn't fully aware at the time, this was to be my final visit to this fascinating city. And that despite that my travel career was far from over. If anything, the best was still to come.

From Fisherman's Wharf, not only there was a wide view of San Francisco Bay, but also a view of an island prison, Alcatraz. After closing in March 1963, the site reopened to the public around 1980, after the National Park Service purchased the site from the US military in 1972.

By the afternoon, I rode west to the Golden Gate Bridge. I recall the mid-1970s and particularly 1977, my first visit to the attraction. I was with my Italian friend from Turin, living in the nearby town of Walnut Creek, when we approached the bridge for the first time, only to see it wrapped in a thick fog. A day or so later, we saw the bridge in its full glory under the North Californian sunshine. To my amazement, the bridge was not painted gold, but a dull red. Yet, I wasn't that surprised.

And here I stood once again after 17 years (since 1978, my second visit) with a greater knowledge that the bridge was named after the strait that passes under it, linking the Bay with the Pacific Ocean. Near the south entrance was an exhibit, a short section of the 92.4 cm thick cable, consisting of 27,572 wires. In total, 80,000 miles, or 128,743 km of wire was used for both of the 2,351.7-metre-long suspension cables. Considering the equatorial circumference of the Earth at 24,901 miles, there would be enough wire length at the Golden Gate Bridge to circle the Earth at its equator just over 3.2 times!

The figure of that of Irving Morrow, the Architect.

Placard on the Bridge Exhibit

The Golden Gate Bridge Cable Segment

View from Marin County

After soaking in such engineering feats from the outdoor exhibit, I cycled the length of the bridge to reach Marin County on the other side of the strait. The main road carried on north whilst, somewhere past the bridge, a lane branched off to the observation point. From there, I enjoyed a magnificent view of the bridge with the skyline of the city far off, above the azure-blue waters of San Francisco Bay.

During the afternoon, I cycled along the bridge back onto the city peninsula. Then I turned right to look for the Golden Gate Park, and it didn't take long to find it. My original intention was to ride through the park to the Pacific coastline. I cycled west and arrived at the Japanese Gardens, where several pavilions of Oriental architecture were surrounded by trees I immediately recognised from the blue and white willow dinner plates my parents had during my boyhood. I never made it to the coastline, as the beauty of the park features kept me in the Strawberry Hill area, where a waterfall, Huntington Falls, formed part of a creek that began at a pond on the summit of the hill and emptied into Stow Lake, a ring-shaped body of water surrounding Strawberry Hill. The island was accessible by two little footbridges, one on each side of the lake. 

And it was here that I came within a hair's breadth from disaster!

I leaned the bike on a tree without locking it. The bike had a D-lock, and the tree trunk was too wide for it. There was no one around. So I took a chance and left the mount unlocked and unattended whilst I checked out the waterfall, ascending the footpath that ran alongside.

However, after a few minutes, I felt a strong urge to return to the spot where I left my bicycle. As I approached, I saw a man standing right in front of it, gazing at it. When I suddenly appeared, he was startled.

Is this your bike? he asked. To which I answered, Yes, it is. And what are you up to?

You are very lucky! He exclaimed. I was about to ride off with it when you turned up. Lock it up next time!

The man walked off, leaving me alone with the bike, which was the property of the hostel and not truly mine.

I felt my skin crawl. If I had turned up just a second later, the bike would have been taken. And the hostel would have held me responsible. The proprietor was holding my passport as a guarantee of its safe return. Suppose the bike was taken. First of all, I'll be stuck in the middle of Golden Gate Park with no other way to get back to the hostel except to walk. Then I would have had to announce to the hostel proprietor that the bicycle I hired from him that morning was stolen. He would have then asked whether I used the lock provided. By answering "No", I would have been held responsible. He then would have held my passport, forcing me to miss my flight home unless the value of the bike was reimbursed, which, I guess, would have come out of the credit card I carried. The joys and good memories of a fascinating holiday would have been wrecked by one minor mistake!

I mounted the bike and began to ride back to the hostel. It was early evening but still plenty of daylight left. The street I was on was dead straight with as many as 17 blocks, that is, that number of traffic light sets. As each set changed to green around 80-100 metres ahead of me, I began to ride through the city fast, giving me a feeling of exuberance that offset the trembling fear I felt at being so close to losing the bike.

This goes to show how huge the peninsula really is. A fast ride on the bike and I was able to cover about two-thirds across, eastbound from the park to my hostel. When I wheeled the bike back to the ground floor reception and kept quiet about what could have happened, my passport was handed back to me with no fuss at all.

In the kitchen, which was on the top floor, among other songs, Elvis Presley's top tune, Suspicious Minds was playing from the cassette deck left there, probably belonging to one of the backpackers. This great song gave me a skip in my step as I prepared dinner.

Pavilions at Japanese Gardens.

Huntington Falls.

A Visit to Alcatraz.

One afternoon, I boarded a ferry from Fisherman's Wharf to Alcatraz. After arrival, I was free to roam the abandoned prison freely, although ranger-led tours were also available. However, I have always preferred independence - the freedom to roam without hindrance or time limits. The visit took in the names of America's most notorious convicts: George "Machine Gun" Kelly, Al "Scarface" Capone, Robert Stroud "Birdman of Alcatraz", Meyer "Mickey" Cohen, Alvin "Creepy" Karpis, and Arthur "Doc" Barker.

The American cell was different from those in the British prison. In the UK, each cell is a room offering a degree of privacy, and accessible by a heavy door (hence, the slammer) with a narrow eye slot through which the warden could check on the inmate without the need to open the door. In the States, the front of the cell facing into the corridor consists of floor-to-ceiling bars, thus offering no privacy whatsoever. Anyone could walk past the cell and look into it whilst the inmate was defecating. Furthermore, each cell facing the other across the corridor gives a full view of the inmate within. Perhaps it was from America where the phrase, behind bars, might have originated.

The central aisle, or corridor, had a clock at one end and it was nicknamed Times Square, and on each side were rows of cells. A parallel aisle was known as The Broadway. There were two floors, the upper floor contained cells used by the most violent prisoners. There was also an ammunition store to keep violence in check, an open shower room (no cubicles) the kitchen and dining room, and the exercise yard, the only part of the prison out in the open air. Outside, the cylindrical water tank still stands tall, and this also powered a generator that kept the lights on. There was also a prison chapel, a building on its own, and the Warden's house.

Approaching Alcatraz, known as "The Rock."

An inmate's cell, Alcatraz.

Open Shower room.

I must have spent a couple of hours at Alcatraz before the last ferry for the return sail to San Francisco departed. The visit opened my eyes to the reality of what American prison life was really like. Indeed, the small bedroom I occupied, with the maximum level of privacy, was like a palace by comparison.

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Next Week: I meet up with a longstanding friend who once lived near me in my hometown.

Travel Biography - Week 70.

Since I'm Fond of Mice, the Need for Travel was Essential.

Except where specified, all photos are my own, taken in 1995.

If I want to go to Disneyland to spend a day, I would need to live in the Los Angeles Area. The trip would still be plausible had I lived in San Diego, for it would take about ninety minutes to reach the park by car. From Santa Barbara, it should take around two hours. Lucky for me, had I lived in Santa Ana, a mainly residential area south of Los Angeles, Disneyland would have been a 15-minute drive away. 

However, for Walt Disney World, a park covering a much wider area in Orlando, Florida, a three-and-a-half-hour car journey from Miami would have made a day trip practically implausible. On the other hand, a trip to Disney World from Pensacola, also in Florida but close to the border with the State of Alabama, a six-hour drive to get there would have required at least two nights at a nearby hotel.

Yet, had I lived in Paris or nearby, a ridiculously named Eurodisney would have been very convenient. Rather, if I'm correct on this, the name of this French park has since changed to Disneyland Paris. As it is, from where I live, a Eurostar train from London to Paris would have been necessary, and like with the Florida version, at least two nights in a hotel would be required if I wanted to spend a whole day. Unfortunately, Eurostar had ceased direct services to Disneyland Paris a couple of years ago, thus necessitating a change of trains at the French city of Lille.

Quite an effort just to see a very large mouse!

When I was a boy attending Wedgewood Primary School in London around 1962, the class took care of a pet mouse kept in a cage. Each morning, we all took turns having this tame little white rodent rest on the palm of our hands under the supervision of the teacher. I handled it several times.

However, Walt Disney also kept mice - gigantic black mice, all of them named Mickey - who stood on two legs, giving the notion that mice were bipedal, like us. In fact, one little boy who visited Disneyland with his Mum was so intrigued by the giant rodent that at the end of the day, a newspaper reported, the mother took Disneyland to Court for deeply upsetting her young son.

Disney's Mickey Mouse. Stock photo.

What happened, unfortunately for Mickey, there was an incident in the park which required emergency action. For convenience, Mickey took off his headgear, only to reveal that Mickey was a man dressed in a mouse costume. The boy's shocking encounter with reality made him so upset that his Mum felt that suing the park in Court was appropriate.

Nowadays, I don't have to fly halfway around the world just to say hello to Mickey. Instead, I could just travel to Paris. But, to me personally, neither Paris, Orlando, nor Los Angeles could hold a candle to one particular coastal city I had just arrived at - San Francisco.

San Francisco's Cable Cars.

If there was a city with so many attractions confined in a comparatively small area, San Francisco has them. And the most intriguing, not just to me but to the majority of tourists, are the cable cars. No pretence here, they are a means of transport for commuters and tourists alike, thus making the city the most unique in the world. I believe it's those cable cars that inspired songs such as, I Left My Heart in San Francisco (1962) by Tony Bennett, San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair) (1967) by Scott Mckenzie, Let's Go To San Francisco (1967) by The Flowerpot Men, and many more.

There are three separate lines on which the cable cars run, each name from the street through where the municipal railway runs: The Powell Mason line, the Powell Hyde line, and the California Street line. Throughout my stay in the city, I enjoyed rides on all three routes. The Powell line turnaround terminal wasn't far from the Grand Hostel on Market Street, where I was staying.

One day, I was strolling along Mason Street when I arrived by chance at a building which is at the corner of Mason Street and Washington Street. Despite my previous visits to San Francisco (in 1977 and 1978) when I didn't notice or was unaware of the building, this was the first time I took note. Over the door was the logo, Cable Car Museum. I thought, why not? I'll go in and see what this is all about.

The most famous view of a cable car.

What I saw was more than just a display of exhibits. It was the powerhouse of the entire cable car system, and it was here that I learned about this amazing and unique transport system. From the public viewing gallery, I saw eight large rapidly rotating wheels, all the same size. There were four power wheels, driven by power motors. One was for the Mason Street line, another for the Hyde Street line, a third for the Powell Street line, and the fourth for the California Street line. Each of these four wheels drives a cable through the middle of the rail tracks embedded in the appropriate street of the city. Each cable is 1.25 inches thick, with the longest cable at 4,900 metres, powering the Hyde Street line, and the shortest at 2,800 metres powering the Mason Street line. The speed at which each cable travels non-stop through the city is 9.5 miles per hour. Hence, the rotational speed of each wheel is the same for all.

Inside the Cable Car Powerhouse.

Each car is equipped with a grip located under the vehicle. The operator pulls the lever and the grip clamps the cable, hence, the car moves at a steady 9.5 mph whether it goes uphill, downhill, or on level ground. When stopping at a station, the operator pushes the lever and the grip releases the cable and the brakes are applied. The braking prevents the car from accelerating if going downhill, or rolling backwards if going uphill. None of the cars had a motor of its own, much to my surprise, but all its movement was by gripping the cable.

As I stood, mesmerised by the rotation of the wheels, each giving off a constant whirring sound, there were frequent jolts on each of the four cables. That was when a car gripped the cable to start it moving. And that was the purpose of the other four wheels which moved either to the left or right. They absorbed the tension in the cables and ironed out any jolts.

The Balclutha and Fisherman's Wharf.

I had just arrived in San Francisco after an overnight journey from Los Angeles, and I had already checked in at the Grand Hostel on Market Street. After restocking the kitchen pigeonhole from a nearby superstore, I made my way to Hyde Pier. Here, the tall masts of the metal hull ship The Balclutha stood above the other vessels moored at the pier. Furthermore, it was open to the public. It was built in Glasgow in 1886 to serve as a cargo vessel, carrying merchandise around the world before becoming part of the San Francisco Historical Park in 1976. I was free to stroll around the ship without an escort (unlike at the USS Constitution moored in Boston, Massachusetts, where a tour guide was mandatory.) Surprisingly, there weren't many other people on board, only an occasional couple.

The masts of the Balclutha are behind me.

After strolling around and taking in the history of the ship, I sat on one of the seats on deck and fell asleep. This was due to the stress of overnight travel. Sometimes I see the next day without any tiredness. But there were also times when I could drop off to sleep after sitting on a bus throughout the night. At the Balclutha, this was one of those occasions.

View of the city from the Balclutha.

Sometime later, I strolled onto Fisherman's Wharf, a bustling centre where fishermen still bring in their catch. Market stalls selling seafood were seen here, although I didn't try any of them. Except for cod and chips (fried potato wedges), seafood was never a favourite. The whole area, in contrast to Hyde Pier, was very touristy, crowds of people swarmed the area, despite being Autumn. If it was like this at this time of the year, I have wondered what it would be like in the summer. The esplanade looked out into San Francisco Bay, where the azure blue water of the Pacific Ocean isolated the natural island on which the presently closed down Alcatraz Prison, also known as The Rock, could be seen a mile and a quarter away, with easy access by ferry. 

My last visit to San Francisco was in 1978, and over seventeen years, some modernisation seemed to have taken place to make the area more attractive to tourists. Back then, I boarded a ferry to Sausalito, a small harbour town on the east side of the Marin County peninsula, hence facing into the bay. The boat ploughed through the clear sea, passing Alcatraz Island, back then inaccessible to the public despite having already closed in 1963. From the ferry, I saw directly above a couple of seagulls soaring over the ocean.

Fisherman's Wharf was also the location of Pier 39, the city's most famous and popular pier. Bustling with shops and restaurants, it also boasted a merry-go-round. The spirit here was very jovial. However, what intrigued me most of all about the area was the abundance of sea lions. In the bay adjoining Pier 39, rows of abandoned boat landing boards were arranged in rows. Rather than all being removed, they became the ideal resting platforms for sea lions. Such wonders, as I saw them, of nature taking advantage of man-made environments.

Pier 39.

Sea lions on the decking.

The harmony between nature and man. The two peninsulas, the San Francisco Peninsula and Marin County Peninsula create a natural gateway for the Pacific Ocean to flow inland to form San Francisco Bay. All that, along with the most unique form of municipal railway transport system, really makes this city worth my time and money.

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Next Week: I hire a bicycle to ride the early morning deserted streets of the city.

Travel Biography - Week 69.

Review of all Three American Trips.

Note, that all photos posted here are my own, taken in 1995.

Of the entire 1995 backpacking trip across the United States, more than half of the holiday was spent in California, the Golden State. This includes six days in San Diego, followed by five days in Santa Monica and a further five days in San Francisco. The latter was the terminus of the whole trans-USA journey from New York before flying back to London.

This made 1995 very different from the two 1970s trips across the Atlantic, as the first one began and ended in Toronto, and the second a year later began and ended in New York City. Thus, these first two American trips were cross-country circuits, the first taking in much of Canada. With the 1995 trip starting in New York and finishing in San Francisco, this was a one-way route that allowed for longer stops and more nights spent in bed rather than sitting inside a bus.

View of the San Francisco skyline from Pier 39.

However, the main reason for the 1995 trip to the States, the third so far, was to re-hike the Grand Canyon after a failure to build a proper photo album during my first hike there in 1978. By contrast, the better-quality photos taken of the Colorado River and its immediate environment made the whole of the second hike worthwhile and fulfilling. Furthermore, the HI-AYH San Diego, consisting of a floor hired from the YMCA who owned the building, has created memories which had a deep and positive effect on my emotions which no other hostel experience could equal.

A Short but Questionable Hike?

At this point, I must make myself clear when writing this Biography, so no misunderstanding occurs. What I'm about to express reflects how I thought and felt at that moment whilst walking along the street carrying a heavy rucksack as narrated in the following paragraphs. This was due to having experienced in my younger days and more than once, what it was like to be a target of street violence - to be suddenly surrounded by a group of hostile young men and punched to the ground. Whilst in a state of vulnerability, such memories revived fears when I went through a similar form of helplessness. Therefore, I narrate this part of my journey with an honest description of my thoughts and feelings. But I'm not insisting that Los Angeles, or even a small part of the city, is of any bad repute! In other words, Los Angeles is no worse than any other town or city around the world. Bad incidents can occur anywhere, regardless of location or situation.

*****

After spending four nights at AYH Santa Monica, on the fifth day after arriving there, I felt it was time to move on, as I had barely a week left before flying back to London. Since where I was staying was seventeen miles from the L.A. Greyhound Bus Station, I decided to phone in advance rather than just turn up at random only to find that there were no more departures that evening. Therefore, at a public phone box, I phoned the Greyhound Bus Customer Service for a list of departures to San Francisco. The call was quickly answered by a female at the other end of the line, who began to ask me personal questions such as, Hi, how are you feeling today? and Are you enjoying yourself where you are? (Try asking the business caller such questions here in the UK!)

However, instincts taught me to play the cards right, and instead of replying, None of that is any of your business! Instead, I answered her questions politely and with a tone of friendliness. I knew by then that I'd get the best of the service. She then gave me a list of departures, along with the address to find the station. On East 7th Street. An overnighter was ideal for arrival in San Francisco by breakfast time.

That evening, I vacated the dormitory bed and the hostel to begin the journey to San Francisco. From Santa Monica, I took the express bus into downtown Los Angeles, and I got off near Pershing Square, the most familiar area of the sprawling city.

I could stand around and wait for a bus, or dare I - walk to the bus terminal. East 7th Street was a block away from Pershing Square and therefore easy to find from where I was standing. That was what I loved about the symmetrical grid layout of a typical American city. A guy with a heavy rucksack hanging from his shoulders would reach his destination without much ado. The walk was a 40-minute, 1.5-mile trek through a commercial area of Los Angeles and as unattractive to tourists as it gets. Near the city centre, Hotel Madison stood out, and further along the straight road, I passed the Hotel Continental. Despite its executive-sounding name, the building looked rather seedy, similar to the one I stayed in New York for the first night after arrival. The questionable reputation of the hotel was further enhanced by a group of shady-looking characters lingering around the entrance. As I walked past them, one of them shouted, Are you heading for the Greyhound? 

I was already feeling apprehensive as I walked along, as I was at that point feeling vulnerable. My response to his question was to shake my head and silently stroll past without saying a word. I wasn't sure what I was expecting. I imagined a sudden blow to the head, then waking up and finding myself alone, in pain, and maybe even with the rucksack gone. Or would I be stabbed? Or would they form a circle around me? The latter I had already experienced more than once in my home town of Bracknell back in the seventies and eighties. English youth gangs seemed to be good at encircling a lone victim and proving their virility by flooring with a single punch. The last time that had happened was in 1985. Back then, I just got up and walked away. I was followed for a short distance before another punch was thrown and the group turned and retreated.

But why was I a target back then in the mid-eighties? As a self-employed window cleaner, I had already built up an active domestic business. A little earlier, a potential rival, the father, a relative, or even a friend of the ringleader, tried unsuccessfully to persuade my clientele to switch to his services. Not one of my customers responded. Quickly, I became a target in the community. Hence the flooring.

And here I was, ten years later, wondering if I would meet the same fate as I carried on walking. However, I refused to run. For at least two reasons. First, the heavy rucksack would impede any effort to run. Secondly, the sight of me attempting to take flight would have excited their instinct to chase and bring me down. Instead, I kept on walking, looking directly ahead, unhindered but still wondering whether or not I would arrive at the bus station intact.

The very fact that I was left alone to finish the trek unhindered shows that these guys may look threatening, but they weren't that bad at all. They were lingering at a hotel entrance. As far as they were aware, I could have been looking for accommodation, and seeing the hotel walked straight into the reception area. Would any of them harm me then? Very unlikely! Rather, they might have given me a guide to the city's attractions.

Grace Cathedral, San Francisco.

During the walk, I thought about the Jewess from San Diego who leaned on me for protection. We were on the bus, safe. During our journey to Santa Monica, we saw some shady characters lingering outside a building. Whether it was the hotel or somewhere else, I couldn't be sure. But the sight of these men made her cling closer to me. Therefore, how she managed to vacate the hostel and move on in the morning after just one night remains a mystery to me to this day.

Yet the question remains: What made me decide to walk the 1.5 miles through the unattractive commercialised street of Los Angeles in the first place when I could have easily boarded a bus? I think it was a desire for a challenge, something of a dare, a hidden want for a taste of American life away from the tourist spots. I was aware of the risks but somehow, a strong, deep-rooted instinct drove me to walk the street, or else, I would have some regrets later, believing, even falsely, that I was Chicken.

Arriving in San Francisco.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the Greyhound Bus terminal come into view. It seemed that I had walked for hours over many miles. But I only walked 1.5 miles in about 40 minutes. On the positive side, if I remember correctly, during the walk, I passed an insignificant-looking car park. However, in my old favourite detective cop drama, Starsky & Hutch in the 1970s TV series, this car park appeared in several episodes with Starsky parking his famous car there whilst the pair were on an investigation.

After arriving at the bus terminal and reserving a seat, I had to wait a few hours before the bus to San Francisco was ready to depart. It was a bit like the wait I had to endure at Flagstaff for transport to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, a couple of weeks earlier. The difference was, whilst at Flagstaff, it was the early hours of the morning and I was the only traveller there other than the staff. Here, in Los Angeles, many people were waiting to begin their journeys, hence the waiting area was a hub of activity as outside it was getting dark.

When I eventually boarded the Greyhound Americruiser - for the last leg of the journey across the USA - I felt safe and smug, leaving East 7th Street behind as the bus joined the freeway which would link us to San Francisco.

At daybreak, the bus finally pulled into San Francisco Bus terminal, and here, I washed and shaved and settled down for breakfast at the station restaurant. Afterwards, I reached Market Street. I walked along looking for accommodation. Shortly, the Grand Hostel came into view. I entered the ground floor reception area and I was offered a bed, which I accepted for the next four nights, giving me five full days in San Francisco. Once again, it was an off-the-street walk-in to the reception without the need to pre-book, as was the case with the need to pre-book at Santa Monica.

I took the elevator to one of the upper floors, and I arrived not at a dormitory but at a bedroom that was very similar to the one at AYH San Diego. Here too, the small room had two beds, one on each side. One bed was in use, while the other bed, the one assigned to me at the reception, had the occupant's rucksack resting on it. I moved the rucksack to another position, and then I went to find a local superstore to stock up.

When I returned to our room, a surly Frenchman had returned and leaned his rucksack on his bed while he threw my luggage across my bed while I was out. I was also annoyed. There was a china mug packed away in my rucksack. This was, and still is, a treasure, the only reminder of San Diego until all the photos were developed. We hardly spoke, although my willingness to put all matters aside and attempt to start a casual conversation brought out a few words in the French language that revealed his nationality.

There was no friendship of any level between us, quite a contrast to the Aussie I met in San Diego. I went back out, and when I returned sometime later, the room was vacated and I never saw the Frenchman again. Instead, I had the room to myself for the rest of my stay there.

Fisherman's Wharf, San Francisco.

To me, San Francisco is a far livelier and more touristy city than Los Angeles. The population was also quite diverse between the two cities, especially in 1977 and 1978. In Los Angeles, the people who paced the sidewalks at Broadway were mostly of Spanish origin, suggesting an influx of Mexicans pouring into Southern California in search of a better, more prosperous life. In San Francisco, the population was more of a white British complexion, perhaps out of preference for a cooler, less subtropical climate. Whether I'm theoretically right or wrong on this matter, I was still astounded by the difference in skin colour in the seventies. By 1995, it looked to me that the demarkation had become less obvious.

The southern of the two peninsulas, the San Francisco Peninsula, partially encloses San Francisco Bay along with the adjoining Pablo Bay to form a large lagoon covering a recess in the North Californian coastline which is also partially enclosed by the northern peninsula, Marin County. Hence, the two peninsulas allow a narrow passage to the Pacific Ocean. It's the narrow strait that is called the Golden Gate. The famous bridge that crosses the strait was named after it.

Whilst at the hostel, I was wondering whether the building that accommodated me was triangular rather than a normal four-sided block. The upper floor had a kitchen and dining room that seemed to be triangular. This was soon confirmed later when I got a map of the city. The private-owned hostel, which was not affiliated with HI-AYH, was located at Market Street, a diagonal straight road on the map, separating the main city from the southern district, known as South of Market, laid out on a 45-degree angle of difference from the North-South compass points. Yet, its location in the city couldn't be better, with easy access to most attractions.

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Next Week: I begin to explore San Francisco.