Nevertheless the train ride was interesting, particularly when compared to our other journeys. The train left on time, had plenty of space with wide seats and large ceilings. We actually sat on the higher deck, in coach, which meant we got some really good views of not much in particular, the odd farm or backwater town. The train driver got a little trigger happy with his horn (because we crossed so many roads), the deafening noise really irritated Gemma, and the two German passengers who insisted on shouting their conversation didn't help either. And the conductors had presumably been to the Russian school of etiquette, it was a shame Korea hadn't exported some carriage attendants instead.
It was around 9pm by the time we arrived downtown, so we went straight to the hostel to check in. When we arrived we were asked to sign a form (by the receptionists own admission the gist of which was "no refunds"), we should have refused but we'd been travelling all day and wanted to rest our weary bodies. Rather than re-invent the wheel I'm just going to copy and paste the review I have written for the hostel website, every word for sordid word:
"Unfortunately this place is a hovel. But you get a free beer. The room was incredibly dirty, stains of various shapes and sizes on the bed linen and walls, the toilet didn't work, the shower just a trickle, and nothing fixed despite 4 days of asking, but you get a free beer. Don't even look at the carpet on the stairs. The WiFi was the worst I've ever known in a hostel. This could have been a good hostel in a great city, but instead of hiring a cleaner, a painter and a plumber, they prefer to provide a free beer. Sleep on the street and cuddle a tramp, it'll be cleaner and more comfortable. Tell him where you might have been staying and maybe he'll give you a free beer."
I normally try to look for the positives in difficult situations when travelling, because at the end of the day it's only your mood you can control, and only your experience. So why not be positive. But seriously, this place was an utter dump. Places like this give hostelling a bad name and can really knock public perception far harder than 10 great hostels can raise it. Which is why we've tried to be outdoors as much a possible. Soapbox over.
Fortunately San Francisco is a great place to be outdoors. We arrived in a mini-heatwave, and barring one very cold ride over the Golden Gate Bridge in an open top bus, it's been hot and humid throughout. On our first day we visited Fisherman's Wharf and Pier 39, very touristy but still fun. We ate a fish-which, which was basically a breaded fish fillet in a bun, smothered in coleslaw. It was humongous, but not very good - it was slimy and covered in olive oil. If you're going to serve breaded fish to an Englishman you need to make it better than that.
We've been catching cable cars back and forth across the city. Normally they are six dollars per ride, but if you buy a muni pass you can ride them as much as you like, as well as some other modes of transport. But it's the cable cars the city is most famous for, and not without good reason. The views are spectacular, crossing the undulating hills you can spot sights like Alcatraz or the Golden Gate Bridge, and of course you can hang off the side. Nothing ignites the dieing embers of childhood in a 30 year old man like the chance to hang off a cable car as you climb Nob Hill or descend down the steep slopes to Union Square.
We took another open top bus (did I mention I was addicted) because the tours were sold out at the weekend. We drove through the hippy district of Haight-Asbury, formerly home to the pharmaceutically inspired musicians like Janis Joplin, then on through the Golden Gate Park. As we came out of the tunnel and roared towards the bridge, someone switched the wind on and we froze. We kept our eyes peeled in case the Hanjin Miami was in the area but sadly didn't spot our former floating home. We jumped off the bus on the other side of the bridge for a few photos, as did nearly everyone else. It's quite lucky I'm tall enough to reach over other people's shoulders with my camera.
Back on board the bus we headed into town, driving towards but not onto Lombard Street. Our guide told us that a few years back someone tried to take a tour bus down its steep, winding street but got stuck. Apparently they had to saw the bus in half and helicopter the two halves out. We also saw the bullets holes in a wall above an atm which were the result of a failed assassination attempt on a US president, but I can't remember which one as the guides nasal tones caused me to switch off (although Gemma assures me it was Ford).
On Saturday night we went to a Rodeo! Catching a BART out from Powell street to Balboa Park, then a bus to Daly City, we were dropped off outside the beautifully named Cow Palace. Outside there was a small protest of animal rights campaigners with placards, unsuccessfully trying to explain to huge men with cowboy hats and massive belt buckles that the cows had rights. I guess they had a point, but I'd never been to a rodeo and really wanted to see what went on.
Inside there was a small market selling many of the things you might expect to find at a Rodeo: clothing and hats; leather; huge fizzy drinks and hotdogs; paintings of horses; and jerky. And I have to say, it was the best jerky I've ever eaten, much juicier than the dry South African style I'm more familiar with. We picked up a program and took our seats by the ringside and the show began.
The stadium announcer had the thickest Texan accent I've ever heard, we're sure he was putting it on, it was comical. His banter with the Rodeo Clown was amusing in a "I can't believe how bad this is" kind of way (fans of WWF wrestling will know what I mean). He introduced the acts as they came on, and he must have been distracting the participants as he was asked to shut up by an organiser at one point.
Bareback riding was the first event. These horses really jumped about and the riders did well to hang on for the whole 8 seconds. Once the buzzer went off to signal a rider had completed their time, they would attempt to leap onto the back of another horse being ridden by an assistant. Not all leaps were successful. The saddle Bronc riding was similar, only with saddles as the name would suggest. Both events were adrenaline packed spectacles. Hardly surprising given that the horses appeared to have a tightly tied rope around their nether-regions.
The steer wrestling was somewhat less exciting. Seeing a grown man jump off a horse and wrestle a calf to the ground felt a little unsporting, and we silently cheered on the junior cattle, to no avail. And the stock dog demonstration was laughable. The high octane commentator decried the event as amazing, wondrous and magical. But anyone who has ever seen a border collie herd forty sheep into a pen whilst the whistling farmer stood still would be less impressed by seeing a cowgirl on horseback do the same with 3 small cows, whilst riding around and virtually moving the cattle herself.
At least the team roping event was a bit better, as teams of 3 cowboys and cowgirls had to extract 3 similarly numbered cattle from a heard of 40, moving them into a pen without letting any others go across the halfway line. The early entrants looked like they'd only learnt to ride a horse that afternoon, I fancied I could do better on a pantomime steed, but they had saved the best until last, the final 5 teams managing to pen their cattle in around 30 seconds. Quite a feat.
Eventually we reached the last event, the bull riding. As you can probably imagine, these creatures were seriously annoyed at being prodded and pushed, and when the gates opened they really let fly. Only a very few riders managed to stay for the 8 seconds, the rest were flung unceremoniously to the ground. Fortunately two extremely brave men stayed in the ring and would attempt to distract the bulls from seeking revenge. Without these two action men, I'm pretty sure we'd have had an early Halloween treat!'
After the rodeo we flew across town to Union Square to catch the start of the Korean Grand Prix. We ran into the sports bar and the bouncer changed the channel just in time for the green light. The Grand Prix itself wasn't brilliant, but the Sports Bar was pretty interesting. Of course we have sports bars at home, but out here there are several different games and sports being played at the same time, so whilst we watched the racing other patrons watched one of three different college football games, the NASCAR, or ice hockey. All without soundtracks, as the pumping hip-hop music blared out of the speakers and assorted fans cheered a touchdown.
No visit to San Francisco is complete without a trip to Alcatraz island, so on our final day in town we wandered down to pier 33 for the boat. Despite it being a Monday morning outside of holiday season the queues were still pretty big, but it was a beautiful day. The bay looked amazing when seen from the water, and the little boat whizzed across the water to the island in about 15 minutes. As everyone disembarked a Park Ranger began a speech about avoiding dangerous objects (like steps, seriously!) so in the true spirit of Frank Morris we legged it up the hill whilst everyone else was warned to avoid poking themselves in the eye with their fingers.
We went straight up to the main penitentiary building, which looked exactly as I remembered it from 15 years ago. The paint peeling and the cement crumbling, it's a nostalgic place to visit. The audio tour was pretty good, and we wandered past the cells, canteen, library and control room whilst the voice of a former prison guard told you about the history of the prison, and it's more infamous inmates, like Al Capone, Robert "the Birdman" Stroud, and of course Frank Morris (who looked nothing like Clint Eastwood, incidentally).
Like the other tourists we posed for photos in the cells, before heading back down the hill to the now empty theatre, to watch a brief video about the islands other history. Originally a military fort before becoming a federal prison for the most desperate criminals, after the prison was closed it was occupied by Native Americans for 15 months, in an effort to draw attention to their fight for their native lands. For many Americans Alcatraz is not just a tourist spot to buy novelty clothes styled like prison issued rags, but has played an integral part of their history. Despite the decrepit state of the island, or perhaps because of it, I like Alcatraz. It has a "well-used" feel to it, a genuine article amongst all the more glitzy but less substantial attractions in California.
However the native Americans aren't the only people fighting for their rights. Just the other day we caught the tail end of a protest march heading through Union Square and Powell Street. In this case it was a peaceful march, led by people demanding the bankers pay to set American straight again. But without suggesting that they didn't have a point most of the people marching looked well fed, well clothed like they had somewhere to return to after the march. I really can't write about San Francisco without mentioning another group of people, the homeless.
I came to San Francisco a couple of times in the nineties, during my teens, so my memories of the city are sketchy. But I honestly cannot remember seeing so many people on the street. The other day we passed a mission church which provides a free meal to homeless people, the queue went around the block, all the way up the next block. There was hundreds of people, a truly shocking sight.
Our hostel borders the rich area of Union Square and the poorer Tenderloin neighbourhood. At night, people can be seen rummaging through the hostel bins, and in the morning there's not a scrap left in them, everything having been taken or discarded on the floor. You cannot leave the building without being asked for spare change or a smoke. What is even worse, I'd estimate over half of the people I've spoken to had serious mental health issues. There just doesn't seem to be any help available them, nowhere for them to go. The problem I first noticed in LA feels like an epidemic up here in San Francisco. And it is genuinely depressing.
I never thought I'd say this, but I'm looking forward to leaving this town which held some fond memories for me. I've managed to swap my trans-Siberian handbook for a book on poverty in America, but I will be reading it on the train tomorrow as we head south to San Luis Obispo.
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