SCHOLARSHIP DAY 101: Arrival in San Francisco

The school group that greeted me yesterday morning, who seemed to have been whizzed back to the 1800s (well, their clothing anyway) must have catapulted through time again, for when I arrived to breakfast this morning, there was no sign of any of them. In exchange, what was a spacious kitchen, was now packed with a scouts group, in their formal uniform and they seemed to be engaged in what seemed like cooking on an industrial scale. Everyone was active in various assigned tasks, whisking this, pouring that, and the scout leader, a mature yet stern looking man (well, these leaders always are) was just standing there, overseeing the action. Later, having packed my bags and descending a long flight of stairs, I eventually saw their final result: they were making bacon rolls. I thought this an anticlimax to what looked like the preparation of many dishes, all of haute cuisine standard. (By the way, I thought I would offer you a view of the main hallway upstairs, for no particular reason other than to demonstrate once more the grandeur and scale of the converted mansion.)

I emerged from the Sacramento Hostel today with a very short itinerary; all I had to do was to board a Greyhound coach, and let myself be whisked away through a multitude of various landscapes, to San Francisco, where my only other task was to locate the AAE Amsterdam Hostel and check in. It wasn't a tall order, but I sit typing now feeling frazzled and bone-weary; this feeling is only further enhanced by a pesky cold germ I must have picked up a few days ago.

I may have been awake somewhat early today, but I left Sacramento still under a thick blanket of early morning fog. It embraced the whole city, withdrawing any colour from the landscape, making the walk towards the Greyhound station a featureless and therefore pretty tiresome one. Eventually, I reached a zone of clarity; the coach station seemed just as inactive as the world outside it though. I took time to savour the fact that I was the only one scheduled to go to San Francisco today, purchased a Sprite and started reading my San Francisco guide book. Incidentally, the Sprite cost $3.22, and whilst this price should entitle me to receive it on a silver tray, the first thing I picked up on is the odd addition of 22 cents. Why not $3.25? Better still, why not $3.00? I pondered over this but my thoughts were led astray by a mature gentleman, worse for wears, clasping a broken cassette tape, who thought the observation "Yunno Harry Potter...think you look just like him.." was a convenient and friendly conversation starter. I looked up, and couldn't think of a more interesting reply, other than "Oh, right." Not taking any notice of my lack of interest, he proceeded on: "I watched tha' third film, and tha' strange guy on tha bus, yunnno at tha' start, he says 'Pot o' Warter' and...and you sound just like him...it really cracks me up..." I made a slight grin, and a forced chuckle as if to conclude the topic, and returned to my reading. He mumbled and stuttered over more irrelevant aspects of the fiction novel, and the various connections between myself and it, but I couldn't recall them because I wasn't listening. Soon, a security official approached and asked him if he had bought a ticket, and after a negative reply, this strange being rose to his feet and stumbled off.

Within minutes, I was boarding the coach and we were off to San Francisco. The driver announced all the relevant stops we would be making, which in turn made one poor gentleman behind me frantically rush down the aisle claiming he was on the wrong bus, and after disposing of him on the outskirts of Sacramento, we left the city and entered into a valley panorama. We passed pastoral farming, specifically cattle, and whizzed along the open highway, flying past a large afforestation programme. Environmental Stewardship Schemes, (agricultural geographers and the likewise will know what I mean) were in place alongside the road; a ditch had been dug and various species of grasses were growing in them.

The open planes developed after a while, and soon the Greyhound Coach found itself weaving in and out the winding roads, of this much more topographically interesting landscape. Rolling hillsides of flourishing grass, grazed delightfully by several cows, made this almost feel like Devon; it truly was Blake's "green and pleasant land" all over again. I smiled at the prospect of being simultaneously thousands of miles away from home, and also on my own doorstep; we continued our westerly journey.

If you ever get the opportunity to travel by the Greyhound from place to place, like myself, you'll hopefully find it a refreshing and enlightening form of transport, mainly because it doesn't take a direct route. We were only 36 miles away from San Francisco, and yet another 90 minutes of driving was scheduled. Our first stop was in a small settlement called Suison City; pleasing to the eye, but from my window seemed to secure its economy simply from car park ticket machines and a wide range of hotels. As we ventured on, the Greyhound made yet more stops in these long forgotten districts; names that hardly make it even on the back pages of the tourist guides. We crossed rivers and funnelled our way through sub-terranean tunnels, always emerging out into a completely new and invigorating vista. At long last, after four successful journeys, I decided to disregard any negative reports about the Greyhound and looked upon this mode of transport as nothing but an affordable way of accessing yet more of this wonderful country.

Shortly after departing the penultimate stop on this relatively small trip west, and Oakland certainly warrants some tourism, we were steadfastly making our way over San Francisco Bay. In between the girders of the bridge, the bay twinkled, sailing boats bobbled up and down and I couldn't imagine how such a picturesque area was sitting on top of one of the most active geological faults of the planet. For the sake of eagerly awaiting geologists reading this, San Andreas is a transform fault, displacing the continent horizontally, causing much destruction. This is obvious, I know, but you don't (or at least I didn't) get any feeling of apprehension whilst cruising over it this afternoon; the cheerful scene of the fishermen at work, and sea birds happily buoyant on the current is enough to calm even the most frightened of tourists.

San Francisco means so many different things to so many different people. To some, and quite rightly so, it's earthquake city, and orderly relaxed living brushes dangerously close to one of geological chaos. To others, it's where Tony Bennett left his heart, which I'm told is regularly played (maybe to the extreme) in the Venetian Room of the city's famous Fairmont Hotel. To another group, it means the home of the Golden Gate Bridge, and memories of the climax scene in A View to a Kill are sparked whenever they fly over it. For me, San Francisco is a monumental highlight on this trip. It's got this greatly satisfying yet typical American way of containing so much diversity in such a compact space; my only fear is that there's maybe too much to see in my week's visit. We'll have to wait and see. As we entered and descended from the bridge into the urban hive, I somehow knew that this week would be one of the best so far.

The hostel (peculiarly named Amsterdam Hostel, and ran by Indian staff) wouldn't process 'check-ins' until 3:00pm, so having arrived into the city at 12:30pm, I had somewhat of an issue. I couldn't start exploring downtown with such a burdensome mass on my back, and I couldn't afford to disrupt hostel protocol by checking in early because it would instantly insert me into the book of 'awkward guests' that I'm sure every establishment like this has. So I found myself a park, perched myself on an agreeable sun drenched seat, and relished a couple of hours reading. The park was a perfect choice; the homeless thought so too, taking up much of the ground space with their cardboard. Enjoying the unexpected tranquillity in such a vibrant city, as well, were a dozen or so pigeons, who occasionally took to the air, circled the park as if to search for the best spot, and realising they had it, made an abrupt descent.

You'll notice I'm being particularly careful not to talk too much about San Francisco, mainly because I'm going to start my explorations tomorrow. If everything goes as planned, I will have investigated most of downtown by this time tomorrow, and if there's time to spare, I might as well start a search for that missing heart, that Tony Bennett so carelessly lost all those years ago.