In June 2003 I took a vacation that went like this:

• 10 days in Las Vegas
• 10 days in Pasadena / Los Angeles
• 10 days in San Francisco

This part of my website covers the San Francisco leg of the trip.

Coming up... clueless in concrete / piano pyrotechnics and paranormal powers / a foliage crab / what you can get for a dollar a minute / I become a fridge magnet / a smooth black polar bear / a good day to hide my accent / a hyperbolic slot / a Palace of paradise / 32 dollars per brick / a macabre doll / the Last Supper in 3D / the star of Alcatraz / the best tattoo I've seen / a silver tear / socks and tear gas / a culpable extravagance

June 30. Bewildering BART And No Fajitas.

A ride to the airport, a Jet Blue hop up the coast, and I was in San Francisco! From the Arrivals lounge I made my way to the BART terminal (Bay Area Rapid Transit), because everyone said this was the quickest way to reach my hotel.

The BART is a fine, fine metro rail service. It really is spiffing. The only drawback is that no first-timer has a clue how to use it. When you get there, you see endless blank vistas of neatly tiled concrete walls which, though sleek in a minimalist way, provide no clue what to do next. The BART overlords must know it's a problem because they employ several people whose sole function is to approach clueless, gawping newcomers like me, smile as to a frightened child, and explain how to use the system. That's all they do: waltz around platforms, alert to baffled expressions, calmly unveiling the Sacred Secrets of how to actually buy a ticket and go somewhere.

I got to Powell Street, to Union Square, to my hotel, to my room, and crashed for a while.

In the evening I met up with two great friends, Joshua Paxton and Tom Cutts. We headed off to the Mexican quarter for food (well, where else would I go?). We went into what seemed like the most promising place, only to discover that the menu did not include fajitas. I felt like someone had pulled the plug on my life support. "Huh, okay," I said, "I'll have whatever you've got that is most similar to fajitas". A dish of some sort did eventually turn up, but it wasn't close to fajitas. It wasn't even close to edible.

"Never mind," I said to Tom and Joshua, "at least it's quiet so we can talk, and they don't have any of that irritating mariachi music playing full blast." Two minutes later (I swear) they started playing mariachi music over the PA. It was, in fact, from the well-known album, Especially Tinny Pseudo-mariachi Music Guaranteed To Drive Customers Screaming From Your Establishment With Their Hands Over Their Ears. And they played it on a PA system that went all the way up to 11.

Joshua (left) is a professional jazz pianist, and the finest I've ever seen. His playing is brilliant. When he wants to, he can really turn on the pyrotechnics, serving up a bravura musical display of the dizzying heights to which shimmering, intuitive talent can aspire. I've seen Josh do this a couple of times, and it's jaw-dropping stuff. He's also a pretty darn good magician, which just goes to prove that some people are too talented.

Tom is a magician (like me), a guitarist (like me), a card-carrying enlightened hedonist (like me), and knows the Bay Area like the back of his hand. He is also a connoisseur of the grape, and responsible for much of my education concerning wine. During our meal, Tom discovered that one of the tines on his fork had become bent without him even trying. Just goes to show that his paranormal gifts know no bounds.

July 1. The Square, The Zip And The Wharf.

Thanks to wise counsel from caring friends, I had chosen a hotel close to Union Square and Market Street. This meant I was within walking distance of about 80% of the things tourists want to see when they first visit San Francisco.

Union Square is made of concrete, steps and sunshine. Interestingly, its name has nothing to do with any geographical, political or historical 'union'. It is in fact a corruption of the word 'onion'. In the latter part of the 19th century, onions (which cannot grow in California) were a much-prized import, and this area became associated with the buying and selling of these vegetables.

Around Union Square are several 'big name' stores selling expensive stuff to people with more money than cents. Under it is a car park, and over it are the fronds of palm trees wafting gently in the breeze. On warm, sunny days, office drones sit here, eat sandwiches, ignore each other and read books. On colder days they do the same, and try to pretend it's a warm, sunny day.

A stone's throw down from Union Square I successfully stumbled on to Market Street. Tourists tend to latch on to Market Street like a security blanket because it's easy to find and to navigate by. In simplified terms, all the other streets are laid out on a regular grid and Market Street cuts across them all diagonally, north-east to south-west, like a zip fastener.

Parts of Market Street are very pleasant. There are stores selling touristy essentials such as maps, food and weapons, and charming pavement cafés with people playing chess in the sunshine (below left). Other parts are less enchanting, and the unavoidable presence of professional beggars (below right) made me feel right back home in London. His sign said "Have AIDS, homeless + hungry, please help, god bless". While sympathetic, I wasn't persuaded that he made a good advert for divine beneficence. He also had a white flag (surrender?) and the receptacle of choice for the walking wounded everywhere: an empty McDonalds milk shake carton.

I followed Market Street down to another staple of the first-timer tourist trail, the Fisherman's Wharf. This is actually a functioning wharf with countless piers extending into the Bay.

Some of the piers have evolved into soul-less tourist traps offering the usual mix: junk food to die from, tatty Golden Gate souvenirs by the ton, and tickets for touristy excursions. Pier 39 is the biggest and most tasteless of these tourist slaps. It is, for the most part, relentlessly awful. It even has a 'Fish and Chips' place boasting 'Ye Olde English Fish & Chips'.

Nonetheless, to take a more charitable view, I suppose that while the sun shines, the tourists mingle and the Bay breeze dusts the skin with relief, Pier 39 can be a pleasant enough area for aimless ambling around. I've stashed a few more Fisherman's Wharf sights and scenes here.

Tom Cutts had strongly recommended two shows to see while I was in town, and the evening was devoted to the first of these: Beach Blanket Babylon. This is a truly fantastic, amazing and hugely enjoyable show, and he was right to recommend it. If you're ever in San Francisco, go!

> > > Continued in Part 2

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