Bleary Eyed in San Fran

I arrived into SFO after a marathon journey via Auckland in New Zealand,  where I spent my time in the Airport talking to my friend Anthony, instead of going to the duty free shop and stocking up on Bundy Rum, as per my strict instructions.  Oh well, my first duty as tour arranger / director / guide stuffed up.  But I don't drink the stuff anyway, so John (Mum and Dad's friend travelling with them/us) is going without.  I don't think he minds that much.  Besides I pointed him in the direction away from Budweiser to more substantial American beer, and he was happy with that.

Back on topic - I was pretty happy with Air NZ - the service was pretty good, despite my seat-back TV being on the blink - literally - it was flashing like a deranged nightclub dancefloor lighting system.  Afraid of unlocking some unwanted personality trait, I got some tape off the attendant and stuck my safety card over it.  Which was bizarre, as it was the first time that I had ever (a) looked at an airline safety card and (b) actually found it useful.

Getting the feet on the ground.

It was only February last time I did a trans-pacific flight, and at the conclusion of that, I solemnly told myself that was the last one for a while.  And yet here I am, again in the USA, and again thinking it would be a great time for a nap at 11am in the morning.  Not sure why but the jet lag crossing the Pacific from west to east is brutal.

I was thrust into my role as tour guide very quickly, and within 45 minutes of checking into the hotel I was helping guide a gaggle of people from their tour onto the cable cars in San Francisco.  I hung onto the outside of the car - truly one of the most exhilirating public transport experiences still left in the world after London canned all the old Routemasters.  Clutching to the outside of a cable car is it clanks and grinds its way around the steep hills makes one feel as debonair as launching off the back of a Red Routemaster halfway along Oxford St, right in front of the pub you're about to do business with.  Sadly the naysayers in London decided the iconic double-deckers were unsafe and uneconomic and got rid of them all.  But here in the US, where you can reasonably expect to get sued in any decent day out, these rattling death traps still fly through red lights with an acrid burning stench of their wooden-block-on-steel brakes reaching their laughably low operating limit as they try and pull up on the steep hills.  For the record I nearly got cleaned up by an SUV door carelessly left open, but that's all part of the fun.  The tourists love it, the locals smile at the tourists enjoying themselves, and hey, it IS fun.  Lawyers, do-gooders and rule makers - leave them here for good.

And so I now am off to collect the RV and change the scenery from tall buildings, rattling trams and cable cars, and into the open road.  Besides, the battery warning light is flashing, my latte is finished and I've got ten minutes to check out of the hotel.  Time to go.