Joints and Bulldogs

I have been in San Francisco for a few days now, man this place is expensive. It is an amazing place though. My first full day here was an interesting one. I had woken up at 4am due to the jet lag, so I wasn't really too sure what to do with myself. In the end I plumped for the Forrest Gump approach - I just kept walking. I decided that I wanted to try and see if I could remember the ill fated day trip from my university days, so I headed down to Fisherman's Wharf where all of the sea lions hang out all day. It brought back very, very vague memories, but what really astounded me was how much had happened in my life in the ten or so years since I had last been here. I highly doubt that there is a decade in your life where you go through more change than between the ages of twenty and thirty. I certainly would not have believed that so much would happen during this time. At that age I assumed that I would be married with kids at this stage of my life - instead i'm trawling the planet in search of somewhere that I can purchase the aforementioned at a reasonable cost.

So, onwards I went. I could see the Golden Gate Bridge in the background so I headed in that direction. I found quite a long pier that had really good views of the bridge and Alcatraz so I followed that. This is where it all started getting a bit messy. I rolled a burn and these two black fella's approached me. Obviously I assumed that they were going to mug me, but it turns out that they were just interested in what I was smoking (people don't roll their own cigarettes here). After chatting with them for a few minutes one of them pulled out a joint, sparked it up and passed it to me. They were two 20 year old lads who go down to this pier every day to fish, crab and get stoned. To begin with I didn't really get anything off the joint so I kept chugging away. It was a real lung tickler, and upon enquiry as to what tobacco was in there I was informed that it was a blunt (for those unaware of what this means - it's pure weed). Ten minutes after smoking things started to get a bit weird. The one guy started talking about the size of the crabs that they caught, which he claimed were the size of a human head. The more he talked about it the more he began to resemble a crab. It was kind of weirding me out and I was feeling a little uneasy. I looked across the bay and realised that I had walked about 6 or 7 miles, and I was fast losing control of my legs. I decided at that moment that I needed to remove myself from the situation, so I told them that I wanted to go and get some breakfast (it was still only 9.30am at this point). To my utter disgust the one named Olly, aka crab face, stated that he was going to join me. Anyone who is familiar with the feeling when you have smoked a little bit too much will probably appreciate this feeling. All you want to do is be somewhere you know on your own. Instead I was 6 miles from my hostel stood toe to toe with some crab face in a city and country completely unfamiliar to myself. As we began to walk I just knew that I was not anywhere near capable of holding a conversation with this guy, so as we walked back around the bay I told him that I needed to make a phonecall, and we went our seperate ways.

For the next two hours I lay on my back on a sort of man made beach trying to pull myself together. The scenery was incredible, but quite frankly that was the last thing on my mind. All I could think about was how exactly I was going to get myself home. I lay and watched people walk by and one thing that struck me was the number of individuals who were basically me. Travellers, tourists, lonely souls wandering aimlessly not really knowing what it is that they were looking for, all fighting the will to consult the map that is nestled in their pocket. Some seemed completely happy and content whilst others appeared lost and mildly concerned. After that joint i think I fell into a new third category: fucking terrified. Thankfully the feeling began to pass, and after a few hours of terror I began to find my feet again. I spent the next few hours walking around the city amusing myself by taking photo's of funny signs. As I look these over again I realise that they are probably not quite as funny as I originally thought, but here is a little selection.

Ho Yays Ho Yays, Powell Place Powell Place

Bong, James Bong

Each step that brought me back closer to the hostel made me feel marginally better, until it got to the point that I had completely forgotten the fear and I decided to have a few beers. Te waitresses here are unbelievably flirty, which literally makes them about twenty times fitter. When I compared this to the bar staff you get in England i came to the conclusion that the difference between a flirtatious fitty and a sour faced wench is almost certainly a tipping system. Sitting in a bar with Americans is a very different experience to the UK. There is invariably a bunch of people on their own sat at the bar. In the UK these people would probably do everything in their power to avoid conversation with each other, but over here they all just begin talking with each other and the bar staff. My conclusion about this is relates to the fact that the bar in a UK pub is a complete fucking free for all. The only thing that people are interested in is getting served and not letting anyone who has joined the queue after them get served first. In America the bar staff take your order and bring your drink to you. The bar is completely clear pretty much. You can run up a tab and they will just remember what you have ordered. Most places have table service so you don't even need to go to the bar. Why the fuck do we not operate this system? It completely removes the hassle of going to the bar, and allows the lone drinkers to congregate in an area where they can socialise with each other. The bar staff are earning their tips and the whole experience is improved for everyone.

By 2pm I had gone from feeling anxious to feeling good, and just as I was beginning to peak I only went and saw four bulldogs within a period of thirty minutes. So I was still feeling pretty blasted, but the bulldogs had put me at ease again. So brave.

This whole city stinks of weed. Everywhere I go someone is offering it around. This morning I opened the curtain and there was a lad sat on our fire escape smoking. I joined him for a couple of quick tokes before heading out to a two big hills with the best views over the city, called twin peaks. To get there I had to go through the gay district, which was denoted by huge rainbow flags adorning the sidewalks. Needless to say once again I found myself getting caught up in the amusing signage:

When I got to the top of the twin peaks it really dawned upon me how big this city is. It is an incredible place and it is also incredibly expensive, which leads me onto yesterday, which was an utter ball ache from start to finish. I went to the reception of my hostel and asked to extend my stay by a few days. Unbeknown to me was that it is the SF half marathon this weekend, and literally every fucking place in the city is booked out. They told me that there was one bed left but it was $80 (2.5 x normal price). I said no way hosay, and spent the rest of the day trying to work out what the hell I was going to do. I looked into renting a car but even that came in at $150 for 2 days. The next option was trying to find somewhere to set up my tent, but this was also a very unattractive option. In the end I just got pissed and stoned and when I got up this morning in a haze the woman at reception told me that someone had cancelled and therefore I could stay. The important lesson here is that things always pan out if you just drink a beer and have a smoke.