Christopher Rowe

Sacramento was sadly a disappointment, both times. If there was ever to be an example of the analogy ‘rotten at the core’, the Californian state capitol seemed to be it. The city looked broke and desperate. With parts of the city somewhat unchanged from twenty or thirty years ago, and other parts closed down entirely, it looked as if the tourist hot spots in California, San Francisco and Hollywood to name a few left its capitol for dead.

Even the Hooters of Sacramento didn’t live up to the high expectations built upon by its other franchises.

We hit the road heading for the Californian coast, soaking up the last of the heat as we headed closer for the cold, windy Pacific Ocean where Hurricane Delores was pushing her way up, off the coast of Los Angeles.

There was a lot less between Sacramento and San Francisco than I initially thought. Once again driving through empty fields, similar to our drive from Yosemite. The difference here however, the landscape was far hillier, a distinctive San Francisco trait you might say. Two hours later the top of a red metallic structure peeked at the horizon of the last barren hill, it was the Golden Gate Bridge. Although still a while off in the distance, the charisma of the gigantic structure took centre stage with the surrounding scenery blurring out of existence as we got closer. Quickly pulling off at Battery Spencer, a look out immediately before the bridge, Michelle and I got our first look at the towering orange structure and a little beyond that San Francisco city itself. Despite the hurricane looming, the skies were the bluest blue and San Francisco and the infamous bridge glistened in the summer sunlight.

As the afternoon approached we continued from the lookout into San Francisco. I think I felt more uncomfortable driving our seven seated Chevrolet through the streets of San Francisco than the narrow cliff roads in Yosemite. Here, I was sharing the roads not only with the traffic of other cars, but cable cars as well. The traffic in San Francisco was the busiest I had encountered on this trip so far, we first experienced the traffic a week earlier, leaving San Francisco for Yosemite and again experienced it here in the city centre. We followed the TomTom as it guided us up hills, down hills and in between cable cars, finally making it to our hotel.

Our hotel, the Beresford Arms was located in Union Square. With a variety of bus options around and cable cars traveling up Powell street (a few streets from the hotel) towards Fisherman Wharf we left the car in favour of public transport.

From the moment I first saw the peaks of the Golden Gate Bridge, I knew San Francisco was a special city, one I couldn’t wait to start exploring. Other than photographing the bridge, the only other thing I wanted to in San Francisco (also probably the most ordinary) was to walk along the footpath in San Francisco bay, with the salty Pacific breeze blowing past, and the bridge as a backdrop.
Michelle and I put on our walking shoes and set out to do just that, riding the cable car from Union Square to Fishermans Wharf, walking in the direction of the Golden Gate Bridge. The weather turned out to be the best San Francisco had seen in a while, with bright blue skies, high twenties, with a gentle breeze from the Pacific blowing in, the breeze just enough to keep you cool. Just as before when we first arrived, the bridge once again started to reveal itself peeking from the top of the last restaurant as we walked out of Fishermans Wharf.

Still far off in the distance, we continued to walk on its general direction. What I appreciated the most about San Francisco’s bay is that it didn’t try to be a tourist attraction like Fisherman Wharf or Union Square. It didn’t try to be anything. Sure the bay had the views of both the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz, but that was merely incidental. The bay area was for the locals first and foremost. Locals took to the bay with personal trainers using the gym equipment the city had installed in parks along the bays water front. Owners took their dogs to the nearby beach, playing fetch into the surf. The majority of tourists, just like Michelle and myself were either on foot or push bike heading for the bridge, the locals were just part of the scenery.

As we drew nearer to the bridge, walking same stretch of San Francisco, Kirk and Spock did in ‘The Voyage Home’ (Star Trek: IV), sea breeze blowing gently past, I realised this part of San Fran offered a tranquility similar to that experienced in Yosemite – quite a feat for a major suburban city. The sounds of the waves gently crashing, the seagulls flying around the fisherman on the pier. It was all very relaxing.

Two hours later, having walked some seven miles we had crossed over the bridge and found ourselves outside of Sausalito. With the footpath before us now gone, replaced with the highway we looked back from where we had come from. Fishermans Wharf was now a distant speck. Although the walk was enjoyable, having walked all the way from Fishermans Wharf, and to find no cafes on the other side to revitalise ourselves we quickly became buggered lacking the energy and enthusiasm to walk back across the bridge and took the easy option of a bus back to Fishermans Wharf.

Cioppino’s, an Italian restaurant in Fishermans Wharf offered the best clam chowder I had tasted in the Wharf. For a very reasonable $10, you received a very generous helping of chowder in a sourdough bowl, in the cooler evenings you couldn’t go past a hot bowl of chowder.

The following evening we left mainland San Fran and headed to Alcatraz for the infamous night tour of the former island prison. The night tour was spectacular, with limited numbers allowed on the island at night it left you feeling like you had the whole of Alcatraz to yourself. After arriving on the island park rangers (as Alcatraz is now a part of the national park network) split us into manageable groups and gave us a personalised tour of The Rock, including sharing stories of former inmate and guard experiences and demonstrating the cell doors and other areas of the prison facility.

To me, I felt Alcatraz was the perfect prison. In particular the mind games Alcatraz would play on its in mates; dangling freedom in front of them like a carrot, always just out of reach, a cruel reminder of the reality of their situation, the freedom they lost. On the right night, with the wind blowing in the right direction inmates could hear the laughter and joy from the mainland, the beeping of car horns, music from street side performers. Life was going by in the outside world all in the while the inmates sat, surrounded by concrete, confined to a 5 x 4 foot cell.

The gardens of Alcatraz offered the perfect view of the San Francisco bay but the wind in the evening was relentless, the chilling Pacific winds howled around the side of Alcatraz through the gardens making it difficult to stand still long enough to take a photo of the night cityscape to say nothing of being able to successfully set up a tripod for the camera. It was as if the spirit of Alcatraz continued to live on; it may not be a prison anymore, playing mind games on the in mates, but it was still capable of showing you something beautiful but pulling the carrot away just before you could capture it, the strong winds keeping me from taking the perfect photo. As frustrating as it was from a photographer’s perspective, it was still amazing to experience.