California. So good they named it California, San Francisco. So good that nobody calls it Frisco.
I’m here. My battered old body is rather unreliable and wobbly but I got here. Well, you know, this is where the plane was coming so I couldn’t exactly hop out over the Rockies or anything.
Not that I wanted to. I wanted to meet G, the woman I told you about in a previous blog post. No, I didn’t use the initial G in that post but now I am using it. And she’s great: funny, kind hearted, thoughtful. She doesn’t even want to chop me up and make soup out of me, which is such a relief in this day and age.
She greeted me at the airport with a sign that said ‘Sir Limey Wanker’ (it’s a private joke) and we’ve now spent a couple of days just hanging out, making one or two small forays into the city but not for long as I’m not yet capable of standing up or moving about for too long. But I’ve seen enough to know this is a magical place, quite an atypical American city too with less strict adherence to the grid lines that characterise the few cities I’ve been in over here. And because there are so many hills and so many interestingly shaped buildings and homes peppered across those hills the overall effect is quite European if you don’t look at the road signs.
Do look at the road signs, though. They say things like ‘San Jose’ and other places named after Burt Bacharach songs.
Our apartment is amazing with a view across the city down towards the Bay with Oakland visible across the water if it’s not foggy or rainy. Today has been rainy but I’m British so it just made me feel more at home and didn’t stop us spending a short time at Haight Ashbury checking out some retro stores and fulfilling my instrument porn needs by staring at the rows of Gibson, Epiphone, Taylor and Martin guitars in the acoustic room. I only came in to buy an Allen key – because my Allen is locked.
I wonder where I can buy an eye key to stop my eyes getting so very tired so very quickly?