Big Trouble in Little China

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My last journey on the hell on wheels that is Greyhound was pretty smooth all told - we even pulled into San Francisco early. I made my way to my hotel, an English style place which has Beefeaters outside and chilled out for a few hours before going for dinner at Sears, a supposedly famous restaurant.

The next day, I decided to undertake a walking tour recommended by my Lonely Planet, taking in Chinatown and North Beach, the former hangout of Kerouac, Ginsberg and the rest of the beat generation.

Starting in Chinatown, I realised I had made a mistake in doing the tour today - with it being Monday, all museums and galleries were closed. But not to worry, my first port of call was open, a music shop specialising in Asian instruments. So I bought a very oriental harmonica, in order to act out my Dylan fantasies when I got home - let's face it, I also have crazy hair and am a grumpy old man, so I'm half way there.

After stopping to sample some fortune cookies (which were invented in San Francisco), I ventured on to the City Lights bookstore, as frequented by the aforementioned beat poets some 50 years ago. After buying some suitable literature (The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test and something by Buckowski) I stopped for a rest in a cafe previously visited by Pavarotti and Bill Cosby, though presumably not at the same time.

Venturing further into North Beach I passed by the shrine to Francis of Assisi (from whom the city takes its name) and the church of Saints Peter and Paul, both of which were impressive if you're into your churches, which I'm not really. I was then reminded of the Inca trail as I hiked up yet another hill to the Coit Tower, a structure overlooking the city where there are some great views. Luckily I'd picked a clear day to do this, otherwise I think I may have flung myself off the top.

Got back to the hotel around 4 and sat around doing not a lot until it was dinner time when I went to John's Grill, which apparently is featured in the Maltese Falcon though I have neither read the book nor seen the film, so couldn't possibly comment.

On the way back to the hotel, I was reminded of how crazy the hobos here are, when a guy stopped me to talk about the ties on display in one of the shops before launching into an air guitar rendition of something I'd never heard, supposedly from the Woodstock album. Clearly he was there and indulged in a few too many tabs of acid that day. He didn't even notice when I'd sidled away and just carried on, lost in his own world.

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