TRAVEL: USA PART 4 - SAN FRANCISCO (UNION SQUARE AND MARINA DISTRICT)

12/03/04: Two consecutive nights of mild(ish) drinking have done wonders for my appetite, and it's going to take more than an Italian B.M.T.® to satisfy it. I spend about an hour alone in the common room, drinking coffee and stuffing my face with Sea Salt & Malt Vinegar Kettle Chips, waiting to see what the others feel like doing. N's on a downer, but it turns out that M and C are feeling similarly voracious. They’re also all keen on taking a trip to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SFMOMA).

The weather’s still holding its own as we descend into the bowels of San Francisco, through Belden Place and toward Market Street where all the high-street retailers and familiar fast-food outlets ply their trade. We hesitate before plumping for something we assume the locals might go for, and we are not disappointed. The place resembles a pre-war hotel lobby, with high ceilings and shabby oil paintings hanging off the walls. The clientele appear slightly downtrodden, the food suitably greasy. And then off to the SFMOMA.

I shan’t going into any great detail – the point of galleries and museums is to interact with them on a personal level – but the SFMOMA is worth the trip. The building itself is quite interesting, and the contents too. I was particularly impressed by Mark Rothko’s ‘No. 14’, a powerful canvas of blue and orange that sort of glows at you. Its impact surprised me, and when viewed from an angle it possesses the ability to disorient.

On our return to the hostel we discover the staff are laying on a spread. It’s basic fare – a sort of vegetarian spaghetti Bolognese – but probably the most nutritious thing I’ve eaten all week. What’s more it’s free. We then relocate to Vesuvio for the first drink of the day, followed by some random ‘Irish’ hostelry around the corner. We decide that we’ve probably exhausted the strip on Broadway and hail cab to take us to Haight-Ashbury, to touch base with Mad Phil in the hope that he might provide inspiration.

It’s alarmingly quiet back at Haight – it is Friday – but Mad Phil’s female companion reckons that Lower Haight is where it’s at. Another cab and... nothing. What was that woman talking about? We get chatting to an English bouncer, but he seems as nonplussed as we are. There’s always Delirium. We wave down another cab, and when we arrive the place is jumping. On Fridays a self-confessed Anglophile spins an eclectic mix of punk, garage and new wave. It is here that I discover the joys of Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers for the first time. Alongside that there’s a bit of DEVO, some Talking Heads, possibly Gang of Four, certainly The Cramps, some Sex Pistols too, and a load of other choice tunes befitting of the environment. We proceed to get just as smashed as we were on our previous visit.

13/03/04: Our last day in San Francisco – as a group, at least – and one of our number suggests walking up to the Golden Gate Bridge, that unmistakable icon which defines this imperious city. C’s out, we think on account of his hangover, although M suggests he might be in need of his own company after over a month with very little of it.

The North Beach area of San Francisco looks out towards Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge. The waterfront has a slightly faux old-world feel on the one hand, and is a bit tacky on the other. But the area is clean and the air is fresh, which, combined with a few slices of pizza, sets us up nicely for our long walk to The Bridge. It’s about five miles in all, and we take rest in San Francisco’s Palace of Fine Arts along the way.

On reaching the bridge we attempt to cross over it. I don’t like heights particularly, but I give it a go. Unfortunately I find myself consumed, quite literally, with a vertiginous sense of being off-balance and am forced to beat a hasty retreat. M and N make it almost halfway before also feeling slightly wobbly, and decide on turning back.

We fancy an air of sophistication tonight – no more impromptu trips to Delirium. The consensus is to eat Italian, and there are plenty of restaurants to choose from. Calamari, Veal, bottles of fine wine, hunks of crusty bread dipped into olive oil and balsamic vinegar – it really hits the spot. Satiated, we go for a couple of beers in Vesuvio, but we’ve had enough – for now – and we do the sensible thing and go home for an early night, our fingers crossed that we’ll be able to pick up that car without too much last-minute bother.