I write
the blog, Reg posts it while I shower and get ready, and we have
breakfast in the hostel. There's bread, not just bagels, and we
enjoy toast and butter and jam, and a really nice orange juice, plus
tea. We say that if we could combine the best features of all the
hostels we've stayed in, we would of course have the perfect hostel.
By the
time we get out it's late morning; we are making for the Golden Gate
Park, one of San Francisco's most celebrated open spaces. We catch
the bus, are are sitting opposite a man who is probably in his 40's.
He's engaged in conversation with us; his voice is slightly overloud,
and his movements over-exaggerated, and we can smell that he's been
drinking. He's interested in where we've come from, and in where
we're going today. He's in a genial mood, and keeps cracking jokes,
then doing hi-fives with Reg.
There's
something very vulnerable and sad about this man, who tells us that
he's on his way to a street fair in Haight Street. As it's not far
away from Golden Gate Park, we decide we'll go there later.
As we
get off the bus, I notice a cafe/bakery; the latte coffee is lovely
and hot, and Reg enjoys his green tea. Plus we are able to treat
ourselves to a chocolate eclair and an apple turnover – people who
know us will guess who had which delicacy!
We enjoy
our stroll through this beautiful park, where families are enjoying
spending time together in the Sunday sunshine, cycling, walking,
jogging, doing a type of zumba dance, or just relaxing on the
extensive grassy areas. A group of men (plus one woman) are playing
a type of rounders, which we learn is called kick-ball. Reg enjoys
watching this game, and asks (in Reg fashion) if he can have a go; he
kicks the ball to one of the players who congratulates Reg on his
“good kick”. Reg is
happy! He misses playing 5-a-side football, which he used to do a
few years ago.
“Perhaps
you should start up something for the over 60's,”
I muse. Reg does love his sport.
We
are halfway through the park when Reg realises he's lost his cap. On
our way to the street fair there's a supermarket-type store which has
caps for sale; however, it also sells straw trilbies, and Reg decides
to buy one of those instead. What with both of us in straw hats, we
look like the original old couple now.
This
is obviously a weekend for street fairs; like the one yesterday, this
one is busy and noisy, with a band playing at each end. There are
similar stalls to yesterday, and, as it's San Francisco, anything
goes; 3 near-naked men, each with just a ribbon around their
“manhood” , stand
in a shop doorway. A woman is swaying to the music, a large white
rabbit in her arms. There are several stalls drawing attention to
social and political issues, some asking people to sign petitions;
there's a stall giving information about, and requesting people to
support, a local “foodbank” initiative.
Reg
enjoys listening to the bands, and when they are about to change
over, he pops over to ask who they are, so that he can look them up
on Spotify. They happily agree to Reg's request that they pose for a
photo.
When
we've had our fill of the street fair, we catch another bus to
Fisherman's Wharf. All the guide books tell us it will be
ultra-touristy (and they are right – Reg compares it to Blackpool,
with it's tacky souvenir shops), but we don't feel we can leave San
Francisco without taking a look. It's late afternoon, and we decide
to do the British thing and have fish and chips (fresh snapper, in
this instance); it's actually reasonably priced and delicious.
As
we approach Pier 39, the famous tourist “high-spot” of
Fisherman's Wharf, we decide we're ready to go home. The street-car
( a small, narrow trolley bus) will take us fairly near to our
hostel. We are packed tighter than sardines into the street-car.
Reg apologises for bumping into a young woman; all of us who are
standing all holding on as best we can.
“Don't
worry,” says the young woman.
“It's always like this.”
“Isn't
there a safety limit for how many people can get on the bus?” I
ask her.
“No,
not at all,” she replies. “The
limit is just when no more people can fit on.”
I'm amazed at the patience and good
humoured nature of the driver.
“Please
don't stand on the step, the doors won't shut if you do, and the bus
can't go without its doors closed,” the
driver says patiently. Passengers move away from the step, packed
ever tighter into the middle of the bus.
“Thank
you,” adds the driver.
“Please watch your purses and wallets. Pickpockets do
travel on these buses. Now, for those of you getting of at Union
Square, you can get a connecting bus number so-and-so to
so-and-so...”
When
a young man tries to get on with a pushbike, the driver says calmly,
“You
can't bring bikes on this bus, I'm sorry.”
When
we finally get off the bus, I say to Reg,
“What
did you think of that driver? Wasn't he brilliant? I'm amazed at
his patience.”
We
walk through the stream of homeless people, strewn out on the
pavements on the way to our hostel. They are mostly, but not all,
African-American in this area. There is one young, white,
blond-haired girl, huddled on the “sidewalk”,
putting
on mascara.
Back at the hostel, I look up the
statistics for homelessness in San Francisco. Of course every large
city has it's homeless people, and in January 2013, in San Francisco,
there were over 2,600 people over 25, plus over 1,600 unaccompanied
children and young people under 25, living on the street – and
these figures don't include those living in temporary accommodation.
We've already noted that San Francisco
is a charming city, which embraces diversity but, like every large
city, it has its soft underbelly.
We've managed to do most, but not all,
of the things we wanted to do in San Francisco. Tomorrow we're up at
5.00 am to catch a train to Barstow, the nearest Amtrak train station
to Las Vegas. We should arrive in Barstow late afternoon; from there
we'll hire a car, as we have a 150 mile drive to America's famous
“gambling” city. America still has a long way to go before it
can say that it has a comprehensive rail network reaching every large
city in the USA.
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