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.