San Francisco and Central California

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike the Americans. Indeed, they are largely a rather warm and friendly, if somewhat eclectic, bunch. However I do have a problem with their utilisation and deployment of the linguistic structure and format of both the verbal and written version of the standard means of communicatory formulation vis-à-vis ensuring an understandability of the meaningfulness of said intentions actionable or otherwise…...

In theory, they speak and write in standard English, except they appear to have a penchant for a degree of contrivance that has resulted from sticking the words into a food blender, putting them back together in a slightly Bowie-esque random fashion (but without looking like Ziggy Stardust while doing it), and then both squeezing and stretching some of the words and phrases into almost a parody of themselves – god, I am almost doing it myself! Let me give you an example from an American company for whom I have the pleasure of doing some work in the UK, the following having been taken from an internal e-mail issued from the Head Office in the states:

“As we looked towards driving profitability for our business late last year and early this year, we crafted a plan that focused on finding ways to get our gross margin up and our SG&A expenses down. The plan we developed and the execution of that plan allowed us to accomplish both of these key objectives without having a resource action

In the Americas, we are well along in our plan to transform this region. The divestiture of the US deployment business was a real benefit. It allow us to divest of a business that, due to our size, we cannot make profitable

As we look towards the next phase of our transformation, we are starting to execute on our consulting and tools strategic plans. These are world-wide initiatives”

Answers on a postcard. Sorry, explanatory notes should be divested into a written formative for forwardment to the enquiring party.

This tendency to overcomplication and, dare I say a degree of bureaucracy, manifests itself before you have even arrived, in the form of the Visa Waiver Programme. Essentially, if you are from what the Americans have identified as nice little countries, then you don’t need a Visa to come in. However, you do need to fill in a strange green form for each member of your family, plus a white form for the whole family.

I wouldn’t mind, but you genuinely have to answer such questions as: Are you a drug dealer? OK, so there you are, one of society’s low life with little or no regard for human life, respect and integrity, probably a nervous tick and a hint of body odour, and suddenly you are faced with a question which if answered honestly will probably have you on the next plane to Guantanamo. Do they seriously think they are going to have a revelatory and redemptive moment, and declare to all that they are in fact someone who should be twinned with Hannibal Lecter, and immediately fired out of the planes cargo door? Somehow, I think not..

These declarations of wholesomeness are then handed over to a nice man in a military style suit, seated in a little kiosk, around which other nice men in military style suits, replete with guns, look on in an air of stern authority. They rather reminded me of the old school janitor that used to prowl the corridors of my primary school, trying to look hard and consummately organised, but actually looking a bit of a tit. And I am afraid I have to reveal that their efforts to manage and marshal the ever growing lines of incoming tourists were equally successful in creating chaos from confusion. Still, I am sure they meant well.

What I couldn’t quite figure out was the purpose of this green card, the stub of which was harshly stapled into an unsuspecting page of my otherwise rather neat and unblemished passport – only for the stub to be ripped out and thrown away when we went in the other direction 2 weeks later. I don’t mind being counted coming in, and counted going out, but this seemed to be done by the scanning of my passport, not to mention the thumb print and photograph which every entrant to the Free World has to endure. As for the white form, this seemed to be a declaration that in fact I had nothing to declare – in the UK, we do this by walking nonchalantly with a slightly guilty gait through the green channel, and if you do so with an air of overconfidence, you will most likely ensure a meeting between gloved hand and sphincter. In the US, you fill in a white card with all your personal details and sexual proclivities, hand it to a nice overweight lady, who looks at it slightly disdainfully, waves you through with a murmured grunt, and then promptly appears to put the piece of paper in a bin….

(Note: Yes, I know that you now do this online, rather than in hard copy form, but at the time of our travel, this was the norm. In addition, the ....odd questions remain).

No matter. We made an easy exit from the airport and walked up to one of the ubiquitous yellow taxis, piloted by what turned out to be what I am fairly certain was a swarthy man of Eastern European descent (the name of Vladimir on his licence and the fact that his conversation was extremely limited gave the game away a little), but who filled me with little confidence when his retort to my hotel address was a blowing of the lips, a shaking of the head, and a stabbed query of ‘Streeeeet?!’ Fortunately, the address seemed to instil some calm into the situation, but I could not help but think that his demeanour, dark glasses and brooding manner would not have gone amiss in a Martin Scorsese film. He did not, however, say ‘You talkin’ to me….?’

In fact, the wonderful variety of taxi drivers that we encountered during our stay turned out to be one of the enduring memories. There was the Brazilian, who shared my interest in Motor Racing; there were at least two other Eastern Europeans whose stoic but mildly threatening deportment always made me involuntarily search for the proximity of the door handle; there were a number of fairly jolly and helpful black Americans, one of which chuckled with a little too much glee when he realised that as a man outnumbered by three women, he was about to drop us in female shopping heaven, in Union Square; there was the white American who somehow contrived to take us across Van Ness Avenue three times, even though a straight line from downtown San Francisco to our hotel takes you across it once, unless you are inclined to drive your car like you are participating in a full size version of Pacman; and last, and possibly least, there was the extrovert white American whose delight at having English occupants, was rapidly followed by a destructive thesis on his fellow Americans, followed by an acerbic assessment of UK politics, and a handing out of conspiracy theory literature that just stopped short of declaring George Bush as the son of Satan.

Our journey to the hotel took us onto a heaving multi lane highway, against a backdrop of sparkling hills, a lazy azure sky and evidence of the famed fog that lurked menacingly in the middle distance. Once into the nondescript suburbs of low rise blocks and multifarious roadside enterprises, we then turned off the elevated road, and wound our way through more largely forgettable city fabric, until the architecture began to get more interesting and defined, and started to display the more regimented style and rhythm of the Victorian era buildings for which San Francisco is famed. As we started to climb towards our hotel in Pacific Heights, the arrow straight roads and constant angle hills and dips gave the impression of a suburb constructed of Lego. And it all looked just like it had on the television…

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So, you’re an independent traveller, and you have vowed to stay clear of the usual tourist haunts with all their tacky stores, fast food restaurants and people of such absurd obesity, its tempting to run up to them, push them over and see if they roll. Actually, in some parts of the States (and increasingly in the UK), that would be a brilliant game, but I can hear the howls of the derision even as I type, and given that they are all bigger than me (and indeed, look as if they have eaten the equivalent of me for breakfast), I am guessing that this would be an unwise move. Still, I can see Simon Cowell nodding inquisitively in my direction at the prospect....

But I am nothing if not hypocritical/curious/a liar (possibly all three on a good day), and frankly what are you doing coming to somewhere like San Francisco if you are not going to sample some of the things for which it is famous/infamous? Thus it was on our first full day that we sought a cab to drop us at Pier 39, on the waterfront, jutting out its commercialism proudly into San Francisco Bay, and doing so in genuine triumph, rather than defiance. You don’t have to be apologetic or shy about any business in the States. Pier 39 is a bit like Blackpool squeezed onto a gangplank, awash with amusements, rides, street performers, the obligatory aquarium, restaurants and more doughnut (sorry, donut) outlets per square inch than any other place in the Universe. Actually, its quite fun, particularly on a warm, sunny summer morning, even if my nostrils are inclined to twitch alarmingly at the waft of cooking oil early in the day, and that’s probably because the Americans do tend to set these things up better than most. Its purely an opinion, but I think its because they decide if they are going to do something, they might as well do it properly and (to rather embarrassingly coin an overused word from the book of management-spew) holistically. In other words, make sure the whole thing works and fits as one, not as a never ending mash of individual interpretations and half-hearted attempts. Its colourful, and generally clean, constructed in that quiet riot of boardwalk, clapboard and chintz, with a ‘frontier town’ twist that is so American. As result, it may not be everyone’s cup of tea (or skinny latte decaf with a splash of hazelnut, if you have just stepped off the plane from Harrow), but it does hang together, and even a jaundiced, irritating cynic like me can’t help but smile. And that is especially the case when you see the Sea Lions (or ‘Sea Lebrities’ as I have heard them cringingly referred to) lounging and clowning around on the West Marina, unashamedly playing to the crowds that lap up their cuteness.

After a pleasant couple of hours wandering around Pier 39 and sampling a perfectly palatable coffee and doughnut, we struck out along the rest of the seafront, towards Fishermans Wharf. In fact, Fishermans Wharf is a San Francisco neighbourhood (and tourist attraction) that encompasses the northern waterfront area of San Francisco from Ghirardelli Square or Van Ness Avenue east to Pier 35. It remains a working area for fishermen, and as a port (notably for the plethora of cruises and ferries that operate), but like San Francisco itself, it has been heavily influenced by immigrants. The wharf began back in the Gold Rush days when Chinese immigrants in junks fished offshore and provided seafood of all varieties to feed the hordes of Gold Rushers. Italian fishermen came next, and they set up stands along the beach to sell crab, shrimp, oysters, and other delicacies. Its more commercial nature has its roots in what you might charitably call an ‘entrepreneur’, or what others might call a fraudulent hustler. Henry Meiggs originally was a lumber merchant, and the veteran of two failed businesses when he relocated to San Francisco in 1849. Like so many people before and after him, he saw an opportunity in property development and he promoted the possibility of piers along the north shore area, on the grounds that it was closer to the Golden Gate than the usual harbour, located just south of Broadway Street on the shore of what is today downtown San Francisco. He became ‘financially extended’ in his investment. According to the Meiggs website (yes, honestly, http://meigs.org/), ‘Meiggs’ spectacular career is not free from the stain of dishonesty and corruption. Having over-speculated in California real estate, he sold forged warrants and issued unauthorized stock in an effort to save himself and his friends. When his crime was about to be discovered he fled to Chile to avoid prosecution — perhaps even execution — by irate citizens determined to take "justice" into their hands.’ In other words, having wrought a degree of financial ruin on the fair citizens of San Francisco, he was chased out of town by an angry posse. I cant help thinking that this would have been a great way to deal with some of our banking friends in the UK a few years back....

Around the turn of the century, a chocolate factory (of all things) arrived, along with a major canning operation. Gentrification later took a hold, as both were turned into shopping centres, and the rest, as they say, is rather typical late 20th century history. Its a vibrant collection of restaurants, great views across the bay to the Golden Gate Bridge, museums, a haven if you are into all things nautical, and a little less intense than the concentrated madness of Pier 39 (although Pier 39 is essentially a part of Fishermans Wharf). At the western end is the aforementioned Ghirardelli Square shopping centre (with a shop that sells a fabulous collection of something that the Americans seem to have an unhealthy obsession with – Cup Cakes), and the Hyde Street Cable Car stop. Although the reasonably historic surroundings give it some semblance of context in this particular location, it is still rather curious to see a bygone era mode of transport juxtaposed with the modern downtown elements and architecture of San Francisco. Its not really surprising that a mode of transport was invented for this most precipitous of cities that eased the lives of its residents, and was apparently inspired by an Englishman (Andrew Hallidie) witnessing the inevitable and rather tragic consequence of a horse drawn streetcar, heavy load, wet conditions and a steep slope that didn’t end well (particularly for the horses). These days, although we did see the odd commuter (looking simultaneously annoyed, perplexed and permanently supercilious in a way that only seasoned commuters can), as Wikipedia puts it, ‘their small service area and premium fares for single rides make them more of a tourist attraction’. Still, that’s what we were, and we dutifully lined up at the wonderful Powell-Hyde Cable Turnaround (thats turntable in queens English), marking the point where the cable car reaches the end of the journey and has to be manhandled on a turntable to set off again, back from whence it came. Now I particularly wanted to ride the car back into central San Francisco, clung to the outside, wind blowing in my hair as I swept into the metropolis, feeling like Steve McQueen following up a lead, but probably looking like a dickhead waiting for a slap (needless to say no other member of the family seemed to share this rather puerile desire). However, this is where the British orderliness and queuing disease was a disadvantage, as us mere dutiful tourists were ushered into seats inside, while the last gasp stragglers were rewarded with a little adrenaline rush as they hung on the rails and hung their arses out along the ride up Hyde Street. We were, quite literally, put in our places as gullible, fare paying punters. No matter, it was still an entertaining ride into town, the drama of it all being emphasised by the Gripman, who clearly knows he is constantly playing to a crowd.

A few days later, we returned to Fishermans Wharf, having been sold on the idea of ‘Biking the Bridge’. There is no doubt that when the fog and mist depart from San Francisco Bay, the view across to Marin County and the Golden Gate Bridge that links it to the city is very evocative. It even prompted visions in me of Karl Malden (complete with grotesque nose), a ludicrously young Michael Douglas, car chases up and down those angular streets and a rubbish theme tune (‘Streets of San Francisco’, for those of you who are much younger than I – bastards!) that wasn’t a patch on ‘Ironside’. Thus it was that we thought we should immerse ourselves in the reality of this vision, hire some bikes and cycle across the Bridge and down to Sausalito on the other side (we would then be utter cowards, and take the ferry back). Now I confess, I do a bit of cycling, so this gave me no cause for concern, but Sharon was a little less than convinced, though the girls were pretty much up for anything (or at least, that’s what I have been inclined to tell myself. Oddly, it makes the worrying a little less, even if it does sometimes lead to you ignoring the early signs of stress in your offspring – not generally recommended, particularly if you don’t want things to eventually, and inevitably, degenerate into chaos and argument...). Still, off we went, and being the unsympathetic man that I am, I rather hared off at a slightly obscene pace, only to look back five minutes later to find that I was the only member of the Neale family in sight. The cold and stabbing stares that only women can produce when they finally caught up, are ones that any man ignores at his peril. If you value your life and future wellbeing, you will obey, and stop being a hunter-gatherer arse. Brought back into line, we proceeded together along the cycle path that runs close to the Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge looming closer into view, if a little shrouded by the sea mist. It was a very pleasant and largely uneventful cycle, until we had to turn to get up and over the Bridge, which included a small section on the main route 101 that crosses over onto the Bridge itself. The last time I saw traffic like that was somewhere around Junction 15 of the M25, although in fairness, it was moving, which is where the comparison with that paragon of British frustration and angst ends.

After a little perseverance and sweat (interspersed with dodging the crowds of picture takers that formed little slalom obstacles to dodge during our mini ascent – I am sure Lance Armstrong never had this problem), we made it onto the path that leads onto the Bridge. I had expected this to be a calm and uncluttered oasis of bikers all calmly and peacefully perambulating across the Bridge while simultaneously admiring the views. In fact, it was like a scene from the eastbound platform of the Circle Line at Kings Cross underground at 8.30am on a Monday morning, minus only the suits and someone trying to shove a hapless passenger into a space in the carriage that was only the size of an iPad (minus its case). It was awash with walkers and cyclists travelling in both directions, barely able to avoid each other, and seemingly always only seconds from a pedestrian pile-up of frightening consequences.
‘Shit!’ I said, meaning ‘Fucking Hell, Armageddon has arrived!’
We regrouped and slowly shoved our way through, walking alongside our bikes. At various intervals, we were able to remount and cycle a short distance, but this didn’t last very long, and was peppered with shrieks, expletives and the odd minor collision. All this meant that by the time we had crossed the Bridge and landed wearily in Marin County, we hadn’t admired anything except our ability to survive with only minor cuts and abrasions. We took a breather and all agreed that the picture on the front of the ‘Bike The Bridge’ brochure showing a couple dreamily riding across the bridge with not another person in sight, had either been superbly created with state of the art CGI, or they had gone to enormous expense by closing the Bridge to all traffic while they did the photoshoot. This prompted me to investigate the brochure further, where I found an amusing illustration and photo, with one of the bike hire staff standing by one of their bikes, with a speech bubble that said ‘THIS IS ALL INCLUDED’. The bike then had handy notated arrows, showing you exactly what was included: Helmet, Camera Bag, Map Holder – OK, that’s all fine, but it also included: Suspension, Brakes, Seat – I would hate to try the non-inclusive package....

Having sufficiently rested, we then proceeded on the much quieter and easier downhill wind into Sausalito. The town grew rapidly as a centre for shipbuilding during World War II, but has reinvented itself in post-war years as something that looks to me like St. Ives, Cornwall, only with better weather, brighter coloured buildings, and with rather less Brummies knocking about. It is undoubtedly picturesque, and has a quirky concentration of some very fancy houseboats (which have a rather amusing and colourful genesis in abandoned ships and material from the War, and provoked some fierce battles between rich land owners and the boat dwellers), but to be frank I found it rather.....soulless. I don’t blame it for developing itself as a tourist attraction, but when the three main elements of a town are art galleries, cafes and estate agents, you have to be a little worried at the substance of the place. Like St. Ives, I can wander around the place for...ooh, about an hour at most, but wandering down the High Street its almost a Groundhog Day experience. I am sure people love it, as they unquestionably do St. Ives, but, as my Mother used to say, its a bit ‘all fur coat and no knickers’....

After a wander around and a light lunch (light in this context is a rather relative term. An American sandwich has not the merest hint of modesty, but proudly boasts the ability to keep you going for the rest of the month), we took our bikes onto the ferry for the journey back to Fishermans Wharf, gliding quietly by Alcatraz on the way. It’s a long time ago since this was used as any type of prison (1963), but it still has a rather foreboding and gloomy air, even on a clear, bright summers day. We never visited during our stay, and oddly, none of the family professed any particular interest in doing so. I think its reputation significantly precedes it. We disembarked, and trotted our bikes back to the bike hire shop, whereupon we were greeted with the usual slightly overenthusiastic welcome, and an enquiry if we had enjoyed our ride. Of course we had, and being typically stalwart British with a pathological fear of embarrassment, I raised no concerns about the life-threatening journey across the bridge. I did ponder asking if they did a non-inclusive package for the bike hire, which might require you to source some vital additional parts in order to actually ride the bike, but I couldn’t see them finding that funny, particularly if I had to explain it to them. Besides which, one of the staff looked like he had just eaten a small cyclist.

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San Francisco has quite a cosmopolitan history, founded originally by the Spanish, at one time part of Mexico, flooded by prospectors (and consequent entrepreneurs seeking to capitalize on this wealth) during the California Gold Rush, and this self-perpetuating success attracting a multitude of immigrants, notably Chinese, Italians and Asians. In the later 20th century, movement of the white population from the centre to the suburbs ushered in more immigration from Asia and Latin America. The dot-com boom of the 1990’s changed the social landscape further.

This is probably why for a Brit like me the city feels quite European, inclusive and.....educated. I am not a frequent US visitor, but my impression is that of a fairly insular country that may be lacks a bit of understanding of what is happening in the wider world. That may be true for certain sections of America, but from the moment I heard a middle aged lady taking a call at breakfast one morning, when she started talking fluent French, I knew this couldn’t be levelled at San Francisco. The veritable United Nations of taxi drivers that we encountered during our stay in San Francisco was also testament to the cliché ‘melting pot’ of cultures and creeds that resided and worked in this City. This social richness is also enshrined in its neighbourhoods, and which are not just dormitories, but with their own mixed-use centres, with shops, cafes and nightlife, serving both locals and tourists. This all seems to go hand in hand with a degree of ‘liberal activism’ that commentators link to the emergence of 1950’s and 60’s ‘flower power’ and the ‘beat’ generation. Personally, I think its just plain cool!

Our hotel is one of the few that I have ever ranked in a review that scored a stonking 5 stars (stand up, Hotel Drisco). No, it was not a 5 star hotel, nor did it have an indoor swimming pool, gold plated taps and impossibly handsome flunkies at every corner. What it did have was character (built 1903), service (always willing and helpful without being overbearing), spotlessly clean, a good breakfast spread and fabulous attention to detail. The Drisco’s cookies remain legendary to this day, and nothing was ever too much trouble. And lest you think this was in the throbbing heart of Union Square, it is located out of the centre in the very attractive Pacific Heights. OK, if you don’t like walking up and down hills, this location could be a problem, but then if you are a lazy arse, you had best stick yourself in an anodyne Best Western somewhere, and crumble crisps and coke over yourself while you fester in your room watching the unending stream of food programmes that clog up the American TV schedules. Go get a life!

Pacific Heights is characterised by painted Victorian homes, mansions and what some would call ‘chateaux’, although it doesn’t have that faux, ‘Disney’ feel that some sections of American towns and cities possess, and like all attractive places, it still has its curiosities that don’t quite seem to fit and the odd pile of incongruous shit (architecturally speaking that is). As its name suggests, its high, and there are great views of the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge at many points, together with an array of small and large parks. As you might have guessed, its affluent, but we didn’t find it either (1) rammed full of people who talk to you looking down their noses, to the extent that they actually are looking at you down their noses (Hampstead Garden Suburb comes to mind) (2) unfriendly (3) stupidly expensive. What we did find were some great little commercial enclaves and businesses. There was the local hairdressers, run by an effusive Spaniard that welcomed in my daughter to have her hair cut, and charged us far too little, and a quirky little bookshop that seemed to be a pleasing blend of Waterstones and a genuine independent. But probably our greatest discovery were the restaurants, not just in Pacific Heights, but pretty much wherever we went in San Francisco, and pretty much California generally, and these were a mirror of the diverse nature and culture of this vibrant city. But that is not to say that it was all sweetness and light, as with all light, there must be a little shade, colour and the odd annoying waiter...

There was the Chinese on California Street, a steep walk down from our hotel, where we had some of the best and freshest Chinese food I have ever tasted. My research had suggested the Kung Pao Chicken, and it did not disappoint, but everything we had was superb. The place was also very lively, including lots of children, and it could not be said to be a relaxing experience, rather emphasised by the no-nonsense service that was so sharp, you could have cut your Wan Ton with it. There was the ‘Asian/American Fusion’ restaurant on Sutter Street, just off Filimore Street, a lively local centre of shops (selling proper things – like medicines, food, shovels – yes, shovels) and cafes. Here, I had asked (by the medium of the Open Table website) if we could have a window seat. When we arrived, it was like we were regulars, and despite it being a very small restaurant with perhaps no more than 30 covers, we were granted our wish – I felt almost embarrassed. Not only this, but the hanger steak that I had was heavenly. The only downside was a lack of atmosphere, but then I am just pedantic. There was an almost orgasmic feast of Vietnamese cuisine at a restaurant in the old Ferry Building on the waterfront, and despite it being noisy and so borderline frantic, it felt like a nuclear drill was due at any moment, I personally felt that this just added to the drama of the food (Sharon did not agree, judging by the barely concealed scowl on her face).

But perhaps most...fascinating was the Italian on Kearny Street. I hadn’t picked up anything particularly untoward on the few recommendations on the Web, but when I asked the taxi driver to take us to the address, he stopped, looked at me quizzically, and said
‘You Sure?’
I glanced back at him in that sort of not-quite-sure-what-the-problem-is-but-I’m-going-to-stick-with-it looks, and rather rhetorically said
‘Yeah’, but with a little twist on the end that put half a question mark on my insistence.
He started to shift a bit uncomfortably as we got downtown, but after a few minutes he turned into Columbus Avenue, then a very sharp left, and very hastily pulled over to drop us off. I paid him the fair and the usual 10% tip and off he sped. It was then that I realised that he had dropped us in Soho, circa 1976. All I could see were Sex Shops and in-your-face (well, in any part of your anatomy that you care to choose, actually) ‘adult’ clothing stores, most of them quite unashamedly displaying a ‘XXX’ sign.
‘Ahh’ I said, in that manner that really means ‘Oh, shit!’
‘Nice’ said Sharon, in that female manner that really means’ You Dickhead, where the hell have you brought us!’
Panic started to ensue, as I looked fervently for a welcoming restaurant shopfront, but all I could see were mannequins wearing gimp masks and lurid displays of ‘aids’ that looked as if they might have been more at home in a powertool store. Then, my eye caught sight of a Pizza sign, and I could see a small queue of people chatting on a flight of stairs that led down into a basement. We hurried over, and I did my best to point both children’s eyes in the direction of food, rather than the peripheral attractions, and we joined the waiting line. It didn’t take us long to be ushered to a table, and it would be fair to say that there wasn’t a lot of space to be had. It was hot, noisy and absolutely buzzing. But best of all, the food was fabulous, including a Pizza with Mushrooms and Italian sausage to die for. Bellissimo!

Our second Italian meal during our week in San Francisco was a happy accident, and thankfully, didn’t require me to wear a dirty old Mac in order to fit with the locale. This followed a visit to somewhere I had wanted to go, having seen this structure in various films from my youth particularly Dirty Harry and Bullit, and something that is almost as recognisable as the Golden Gate Bridge – The Coit Tower. This rather phallic oddity, stands atop Telegraph Hill, within the City’s Pioneer Park, and it’s one of those attractions that visually, you can’t avoid, it rather draws you in. In any event, I love a good tower with a view. So on a clear sunny late afternoon, we took a taxi to the base (bless the taxi driver, despite me telling him he could drop us at the bottom of the access road, he insisted in taking us right up to the entrance, despite the minor mayhem of coaches and faintly dispraxic tourists that were wandering around like lost zombies, that he had to wend his way through), and were surprised to find few actual visitors inside. And bless Lillie Hitchcock Coit, who requested and funded its construction to ‘beautify the city of San Francisco’. Where would some of the worlds Cities be without mad old bats like Lillie. Her will (she died in 1929) read that she wished for one third of her fortune "to be expended in an appropriate manner for the purpose of adding to the beauty of the city which I have always loved." Two memorials were built in her name. One was Coit Tower, and the other was a sculpture depicting three firemen, one of them carrying a woman in his arms (she had a particular affinity and association with the Fire-fighters of the day – I bet she did).

And what a view she bequeathed on the city. The land sweeps away to downtown San Francisco, with the Transamerica Tower plumb centre, but views in all directions are fabulous. On a clear, sunny day, with a backdrop of clean, blue skies, its all rather uplifting and mesmeric. Frankly, I could have stayed there for hours and admired the vistas, and indeed some of the murals that grace the interior, but tummies were rumbling, thus we headed down the lift and out of the entrance. Thereafter, we pointed ourselves in the direction of Washington Square, courtesy of a vertiginous descent of some hefty steps down to Filbert Street, and a steep walk down to the Square, with the panoramic view of Russian Hill rising up behind (the ascent up to which can be made by way of those famous zig-zag lines of Lombard Street between Levenworth and Hyde Streets). It all rather emphasised what I liked about San Francisco, that despite its size, its scale and texture is so very human, visual and tangible. Its not overpowering and its one of the few cities that I have been to that is pretty much what I imagined it to be – and not being disappointed is a revelation in a world that dishes up that emotion umpteen times a day. You can walk around large parts of it with relative ease, and it will constantly fascinate and interest you, but we never felt lost, concerned (other than our minor unplanned incursion into its seedier underbelly) or, heaven forbid, bored. At the bottom of Filbert Street, we turned into Washington Square, another lively little hub of activity, shops and restaurants, and found an unassuming little Italian restaurant that seemed very pleased to see us, and dished up some honest, tasty pasta and a tidy bottle of Chianti. Job done!

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After the efforts of one Englishman to leave a legacy in the form of San Francisco’s cable cars, it seems there might be a bit of a theme emerging. Just a short walk from Union Square, you will find the curious, but peaceful and entertaining space that are the Yerba Buena Gardens. The Yerba Buena area was apparently named when an English family with the good old solid name of Richardson (William A., in this case) settled there, and noticing the abundance of wild mint that grew, the Spanish for ‘good herb’ was chosen. We must assume that Mr W.A. Richardson was a reasonably well educated and erudite man – clearly, if he was a Chav from Essex, a sign naming the place ‘Dunshaggin’ would have gone up, along with a broken down caravan, while a slathering pit-bull patrolled the perimeter. Having said all that, it seems that Yerba Buena was something of a shanty town for a period, although presumably without the plastic porticos, toothless thugs and borderline legal 4 x 4’s that might be in place at that most British of equivalents, the Traveller Site..

The gardens as they exist today are a very modern phenomenon, having opened in 1993. In such a relatively small space (just five and half acres), in the main ‘Esplanade’, they have created a rich haven of gardens, public art and water features, including the fairly in your face Martin Luther King Memorial. The Memorial itself is situated behind the most striking element, being a waterfall of some twenty feet in height, which itself hosts a smorgasbord of photos and poems from the great man himself. This is all part of a wider water feature along the south eastern edge of the gardens, and (like all tangible and sensory features), was clearly loved by all the children in the Gardens at that time – which seemed to be a fair proportion of all children in San Francisco. There are also butterfly gardens, an Indian Memorial, walkways, terraces, playground and probably a life size moving model of Ronald McDonald, if I had looked hard enough. Actually, the Gardens do house some interesting ‘Public Art’ (no, not obscene graffiti, as its more accurately called in Britain), which included the ‘Shaking Man’, ‘a life-size bronze statue of a business executive.... toting a brief case, the stature conveying a sense of motion as its hand is extended as if for a handshake.’. To be honest, it looked to me like he had decided that he had had enough as a desk-jockey after too many years, and was about to throw down his briefcase and break into a song and dance routine for all his assembled guests (yes, I know that at countless office Christmas parties, that really isn’t an unusual occurrence, but it would be an odd moment to immortalise in such a permanent and public forum, unless it was Ricky Gervais – which it wasn’t. At least, I don’t think it was...).

Around the Gardens, and extending south east via a walkway across Howard Street, the Gardens and entertainment theme continues, to include a skating rink, tenpin bowling centre and a range of art based venues. However, slightly away from the Gardens, but visually unmissable is the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Its unmissable in the same way that Lady GaGa is unmissable – you would have to be blind to not see it, and while part of you doesn’t want to, you just have to look (I do appreciate this invokes thoughts of morbidly being attracted to a car crash on the other side of the road, but then I do have to admit, that simile has crossed my mind sometimes when watching GaGa..). This also suggests that SFMOMA (as I am afraid I shall now call it) is ugly, but it’s not. It is dramatic, with its towering atrium and huge round skylight, but in this part of San Francisco, it doesn’t look out of place. What I couldn’t quite get over was that the stepped bulk of the building around the atrium made the atrium look like an emerging monsters eye, pushing its way up through Captain Kirks (or Jean Luc Picard’s if you are of a younger persuasion than me) chair on the bridge of the Enterprise. That would have made his eyes water...We headed here, as part of an agreed plan, and in the full knowledge that both daughters were gravitating heavily towards the arts. Actually for my eldest, it was plunging headlong, as she would be starting an Art and Design Foundation course on our return to Blighty. So in we went.

I have something of a love-hate relationship with Modern Art Museums. Some are more interested in their own architectural statement, and then stuff the place full of ‘exhibits’ that are either dull and derivative, or are so ‘out-there’, that they have left the arena, and are now on their way to a community farm project to paint the cows green and live in a hut made of caterpillar droppings and discarded chewing gum packets. Some try hard to provoke the ‘what is art?’ question within the visitor, but then only succeed in confusing them by assaulting their senses (I clearly recall a visit to Barcelona’s equivalent to SFMOMA, and being driven almost mad by a plethora of weird ‘sound’ installations. After a while, I just wanted to run screaming). While it cant be said the SFMOMA has huge amounts and collections on display at any one time, it does have that satisfying blend of accessibility, curiosity, wonder and entertainment. Along with some permanent collections of well known modern artists such as Matisse, Klee and Jackson Pollock, it also had two installations that amused and intrigued me. One was a humungous pile of blue, denim jeans. OK, so at the time of our visit, I had two teenage daughters, so frankly what’s new about a large pile of discarded jeans? If I wanted that, a peer in through either bedroom door would have done the trick. However, these were clean, neat and folded, and it wasn’t just a few of them. They occupied most of the centre of a room that must have been 10 metres square. I’m really not sure what this exhibit was saying, and I probably should have paid far more attention to the spiel that probably told me that it was a comment on some aspect of societies throw-away or uniform culture, but I am afraid I couldn’t help myself from sidling up to both daughters and suggesting that there was something that they might take away (and it wasn’t a new pair of jeans). Despite the fact that I was paying little attention to the deeper meaning of this wondrous heap of clean clothes, I just rather liked its simplicity and symmetry, and that it made use of an item that was itself of some use and value, as opposed to the rather tired ‘recycling’ displays that have become a bit hackneyed.

The second installation that sticks in my memory was both clever and effective, although again I cant say that I took much notice of any deeper meaning that the artist might have been trying to convey. In several connected rooms were large wood and board frames, configured together at right angles, so that they looked like the inside of a large box or building, or at least a purpose built structure. Doesn’t sound terribly exciting, does it? However, they were organised and installed to look as if they had either crashed into the room or otherwise brutally pierced the building, and as you went from one room to another, they all connected like a monstrous jigsaw. You could be forgiven when you first entered (and you had forgotten where you were, which, admittedly, would be pretty stupid) for thinking that something rather catastrophic had happened, and that some unseen colossus had got in a strop and plunged this structure deep into the heart of the Museum (or perhaps he’d just been startled by the spooky giants eye emerging from the Enterprises resident armchair. Perhaps I’ve taken that a bit too far now). The effect was enhanced by the splintering of the structure and jagged holes in some of the ‘walls’ where the ‘trauma’ had occurred. Well, it made me smile, as indeed it made everyone smile.
‘Cool!’ was the unanimous verdict of the Neale Family.

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I am sure that I have barely scratched the surface of San Francisco, even less so in this rather unsatisfactory and hurried amble across some of the wonders and experiences encountered in just a seven day stay. We saw too few of the neighbourhoods and failed to explore what I am certain is an even bigger and richer diversity of cultures, styles and social texture across the whole city and its inhabitants. We failed to investigate some of its larger parks and recreational areas, not once, for example, visiting the Presidio on the northern tip of the peninsula, yet almost on the doorstep of our hotel. We failed even to do some of the standard tourist things, like Alcatraz. We have even failed to tell you about some of the other things that we did visit, such as the Palace of Fine Arts (a curious ‘Beaux Art’ style Rotunda and Collonade) and the nearby Exploratorium (San Francisco’s equivalent to the Science Museum in London, but with lots more, and dare I say rather more interesting, hands on exhibits). What we did do is profess an undying affection for the City, and I feel that even if I return several times, it will always be unfinished business, if only for the fact that I suspect it will never be enough. I have sat here for a few minutes and promised myself that I would not use the dreadfully overused ‘ambience’ and the barely less well-trodden ‘vibrancy’, but I (or rather my PC’s rather poor Thesaurus) has failed to come up with anything better. There is no doubt that the ‘typical atmosphere or mood of [the] place’ (I know, it’s pathetic, but it’s the best that dear old Microsoft can come up with) is welcoming and very diverse, and it is ‘full of liveliness or energy’ (cringeworthy this time, but better than the alternative of ‘seeming to quiver or pulsate with energy or activity’), but there is something more, something seductive and ...optimistic. This may have something to do with the generally good weather, and the apparent brightness and crispness of the light, or perhaps its maritime position gives it that air of constantly looking outwards, rather than being caught in introspection. Perhaps it’s that ineffable quality of a big city that feels much smaller and more intimate. To be honest, I just don’t know, but let me use this comparative. While its true that as I get older, I get grumpier and less patient, and find myself unable to ‘get-on’ with (i.e., like/respect/appreciate or even just plain understand) new people, just occasionally, I come across someone who is something of a revelation, and even look forward to their company again. What marks them out will usually be a combination of intelligence, pragmatism, a balanced sense of humour and good personal hygiene. San Francisco is like that, only probably more attractive. We must hook up on a date again soon.

For now, it was time to find our way back to the airport, pick up our hire car (hoped for a Dodge Charger, got a Toyota Camry), and wend our way south, unfortunately forsaking the delights of Carmel and Monterrey, heading for the Pacific Shore, midway between San Francisco and Los Angeles. The unknown wonders of Avila Beach and San Luis Obispo County awaited..

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I am not entirely sure why I had plumped for our second week stay at Avila Beach. I think it was a combination of being just far enough south from San Francisco, that we genuinely felt we had ‘travelled’ to another part of California, yet not so far that all the other parts of the Neale Family started getting grumpy, and variations on ‘Are we there yet?’ would start to manifest themselves. It also looked quite interesting and attractive from my web research, although one aspect had troubled me during the planning phase. Courtesy of that most august of corporate entities, an American oil company (Unocal), it was discovered that oil pipes laid by them under Avila Beach had been leaking from the 1950’s, right the way through to 1995. The resulting cleanup operation was so extensive, it inevitably entailed razing a large proportion of the town, while huge quantities of contaminated sand and soil had to be taken away and replaced with something a bit more wholesome.

All of this does mean that Avila Beach in its modern guise is that most curious of American products – a new town that wants to be old. It is also unashamedly built purely as a tourist resort, and while I can think of plenty of places that are infinitely worse (I must try not to offend the good people of Essex any more), it didn’t quite seem to gel. I understand the plethora of wood, clapboard, verandas and bright pastel colours (with a bit of Spanish thrown in), but you cant help feeling that you have just stumbled onto a Disney set. I had almost expected to be greeted by a giant Pluto trying to give me a high-five. I admit, my slight discomfort with this rather ‘faux’ town is a direct function of the equation know as Grumpage. If you take a heap of advancing middle-age, mix with some years of growing cynicism born of disappointment and despair (often fuelled by seeing dickheads being lauded, and genuine heroes ignored), and add a helping of broken promises pedalled by what are meant to be respected corporates (I could name hundreds), it tends to provoke a desire for honesty and reality. That is of course however a stupid and grotesquely outdated concept, and I should be roundly admonished for even thinking such thoughts. Certainly, I was clearly out of touch with the rest of the family who thought it was charming, even if they did quietly accept that in a contest between Avila Beach and, say, Mevagissey in Cornwall, our American friends would be getting a taxi home fairly early on.

Our home for the week in Avila were at the grandly named Avila Lighthouse Suites, which were designed in the same vain as the rest of the town, and looked as if they had been plucked off the set of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang meets Beverly Hills 90210. I could accept that, together with the gushing receptionist, but what I couldn’t take after a few nights was our lame excuse for a fold out double bed in the lounge area of the suite. While the children luxuriated in a fabulous two double bed room with TV and all mod cons, Sharon and I had to tolerate what seemed to be little more than a badly worn hammock, so unsupportive that not only was my arse scraping the ground when I turned, but whether you liked it or not, you had to sleep with your partner in a single melded, entwined mass in the middle. This became impossible after a while, and although the situation was marginally improved by introducing a new mattress that was at least thicker and more stable than the layer of jelly that was originally in place, we ultimately had to rotate the bed occupation like some nightmare version of musical beds. As you might imagine (and you have had enough clues already that I am well advanced up the Grumpy scale), this all meant I was not in the best of moods in the morning, and the mornings meant entering battle in the breakfast room. Inevitably, we didn’t get to breakfast terribly early and by the time we entered, it appeared most mornings as if their had been pitched battles between rival gangs, using the tables as shields, and hurling butter pats, jam sachets, croissants and half eaten waffles at each other. It must have ended in a draw, judging by the equal distribution of mess. Still, the waffle machine created endless hours of fun (and lots more mess) for the girls, as they constantly misjudged the amount of waffle mixture and the cooking time, but still ate anything that came out (probably because it was plastered in so much honey or Nutella, that it didn’t really matter).

One of the good things about the suites was its very own swimming pool, but given that the whole complex faced right onto the beach, we could hardly ignore the opportunity of some sand and sea. However, what you must remember about California is that the reality of its weather and climate, are almost certainly different to what you might expect. While the coastal areas have a Mediterranean type climate, the cool ‘California Current’ moderates this climate – and in particular makes the sea surprisingly cold. I say surprisingly, but actually shock was probably the overwhelming look on my face when I ventured into the sea, complete with chubby white body and European nonchalance. It rapidly became clear that this wasn’t going to happen, and I returned to my beach towel chastened by the experience. In fact, this bunch of hardy Brits decided pretty early on that swimming in the Pacific without the comfort of a wet suit was a foolhardy venture, so we satisfied ourselves with simply littering the beach with our pristine white torsos and assorted literature.

Just across the bay from Avila, was the larger town of Pismo Beach. Its famous (in relative terms) for two things. Firstly, its clams, and secondly its huge expanse of sand dunes. We sampled both during our stay, but the rest, I have to say, is all pretty unremarkable. We visited one evening looking for somewhere to eat, and thought we had inadvertently gone through some strange portal that had transported us to Southend. It seemed to be filled with beach shops, sweet shops, amusement arcades and some seedy looking bars and cafes. All it needed was a Vauxhall Corsa with blacked out windows and baffles on the exhaust, a candyfloss shop and a couple of teenage girls in stilettos and shorts skirts shouting ‘Fuckin ‘ell Sandra, what you doing wiv ‘im!’ and I could have saved the money for the flight back to England. We ended up driving out of town to a Diner on the main road just north of the town, and didn’t make a return trip. Well, actually, that’s not true, as my youngest daughter Cara and I did make a return trip, but more on that later.

In the middle of our stay, I thought it would be a splendid little adventure to drive into the mountains, and have look at the grander scale California scenery. The intention was to head for (and beyond) Lopez Lake, behind Pismo, and maybe find an attractive little spot to have a light picnic, while admiring the views. It was a glorious clear day with that bright, light azure sky that seems to typify California, and as we wound our way further into the countryside, it was certainly an attractive view of rolling hills and distant taller peaks, and while much of the overall vista was quite arid and parched in that washed-out green and sandy beige colour that seems so synonymous with large parts of America, there were large tracts of trees and pines, and the lower slopes were filled with orchards and vines. As we climbed, the road became narrower and less....maintained, while there also seemed to be very little traffic around. We also seemed to be getting curious looks from the few other vehicles that we did see, and it should have been something of a clue that all other vehicles were, without exception, four-by-four’s. Sure enough, after another fifteen minutes, where the road started to become more of a track, we came across a sign that clearly read ‘4x4’s only beyond this point’. It wasn’t as if we had been driving for hours, and were deep in uncharted wilderness (we had just passed a winery shop), but it was simply the culture of this part of America. Why bother to improve the local roads if you don’t have to, and if you have a hulking big 6 litre V8 truck that could have a fight with the local tectonic plates and not come off too badly, then clearly you don’t have to. We turned and skulked back to the coast, but not before another introduction to another of Americas idiosyncrasies had made its mark on me. We needed petrol (Okay, gasoline), and headed towards the town of Arroyo Grande, where I fully expected to find an abundance of places to fill up, and which I am pleased to say didn’t disappoint. It looked like any other petrol station that you might find in Britain, so I just pulled up to a pump, got out and pondered what I needed to do next. I was pondering, because helpfully, there was a sign on the pump that indicated that I needed to pay before I filled up. My brows furrowed, as my brain started to assimilate this information and (as they say in the States) ‘do the math’. I had no idea on the size of the tank of my, frankly disappointing, Toyota, no idea how much it was genuinely full or empty, and utterly clueless as to how much I needed. If the Americans in the station at the time thought I looked like a lost tourist, they weren’t saying so, and I thought the only thing to do was to throw myself on to the mercy of the man behind the counter inside. Like most Brits, I hate, pathologically hate, embarrassment. It embarrasses me to think how embarrassed I get at being embarrassed, and that makes me even more embarrassed. I put on my best deferential look and tone, and strode up to the portly looking man behind the counter. With a fantastic Frank Zappa moustache and a straw hat, he looked like a long since retired member of ZZ Top. I couldn’t make out whether he was going to chew me up and spit me out, or give me a pat on the head.
‘I’m terribly sorry, but I have to admit this is the first time I have had to put petrol in that car and I don’t know how much it takes’ I said in my best, modest English voice.
‘Oh, you’re British’ he said, sounding a bit like Burl Ives ‘so this will be a bit strange to you’. He ended with a little chuckle. I half expected the pat on the head. ‘what you got there, a Camry. Well, if you’re nearly empty, $30 dollars ought to do it’.
‘Sounds good to me’ I said, and handed over the money
‘Thank you kindly’ he said
‘Thank you very much for your help’ I said, straying from deferential to obsequious.
‘No problem’ he said, followed, almost unbelievably by ‘Have a nice day!’
I could have given him a great big hug...

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Four wheeled vehicular transport was something of a passing theme during our second week in California. There was the four wheeled equivalent of a pedalo that we hired from the hotel, seating four of us and which we took out on a short waymarked trail that, after no more than about 30 minutes, simply seemed to take us to the edge of the interstate highway. It was a pleasant enough little diversion, but it wasn’t the mini-adventure into the countryside around Avila Beach that I had expected. At times, the terrain was a little rough, and coupled with some tired legs, a little frustration and raised voices, we contrived to crash the damned thing! The result was a clearly bent pedal, which made riding back to the hotel a little more challenging, and although immediately after the incident, a tense silence had descended, by the time we arrived back, the slightly deranged mode of transport had become an object of some hilarity. It would however be fair to say that the receptionist at the suites (who, was now becoming adept/tired of dealing with me) was not particularly impressed when I informed her of the minor damage we had inflicted upon their bike, although she hid it very well. I was tempted to proffer the view that it was partial retribution for the damage done to my back by their feeble excuse for a bed, but I am not one to provoke violence.

On a rather grander scale all round were the hordes of 4x4’s everywhere. Now, as we witnessed in San Francisco, California is a cosmopolitan state and one that prides itself on its liberal and progressive views. In theory, this extends right up to the governance of the state, and that is influenced by a strong environmental movement. You might then have expected the general population to be young modern beautiful people, piling around in Toyota Prius’s and electric cars made out of sustainable wood, run on seaweed oil, spreading a constant message of peace and love. Okay, that’s a comically naive view, but I had expected at least a gentle waft of environmental correctness amongst the Californians, but clearly either I had been fed a load of bollocks by commentators or I was just in the wrong part of the State. Every morning, without fail, the road that runs directly behind the beach, slowly started to fill up with very large trucks and pickups, disgorging their very large occupants, who would then set up their equally large Barbeque stations, sometimes on the road, sometimes on the pavement, sometimes on the beach. Then, whatever time of day or night it was, the cooking would begin, and it would go on right throughout the day. This would, as you would expect, also involve consumption of beer and a reasonably loud soundtrack. It was like watching a slowly evolving convention of a race of people whose only motto was ‘Big, Bigger, Biggest!’ Some of these troops were enormous in virtually every aspect, not least of all their own size, and at the end of one days marvelling at the gathering of Obeseniks, I had to peer over the wall at the back of the beach to see if they had left a visible dent in the earth’s crust.

Most fun of all however was the half day back at Pismo Beach, or at least an area just to the south. I am a bit of a car nut, although my fiscal state prevents me from owning and running anything more exotic than an Audi (sadly, not an R8, though I have been fortunate enough to have had the use of one for a day some years ago. It could be summed up thus: Screams (wife), manic laughter (me), wistful stares (the rest of humanity). There are undoubtedly cars that go faster and handle better, but I reached my personal limits in the R8, so anything more would be pointless, and probably fatal). What then had caught my eye was that large parts of the dunes at Pismo had been dedicated as effectively a vehicular recreational area. It is, I am told, the last remaining coastal sand dune area in the States that is open to All Terrain/Off-Highway vehicles. Clearly, this part of California likes to literally and metaphorically, kick sand in the face of the environmental lobby. Now, I didn’t have an ATV, but I knew a place that did, and was all too willing to let me and Cara hire one, along with a bunch of other tourist idiots. We duly attended at the hire shop, and were transported down to the beach area. From there we were taken to the hire staging point, given a video briefing, a map of where we could and couldn’t go, and then strapped in. The vehicle was essentially a small number of hefty scaffolding poles welded together, a noisy engine stuffed somewhere behind our seats (which looked as if they had come from my old secondary school canteen, only with their legs sawn off), and a large gnarly wheel and tyre at each corner. The control was an on/off switch, an accelerator, a brake and a steering wheel. Oh, and a lot of noise from the snarling, churning lump of power sat behind us. The only other things were an open face helmet, some gloves and goggles. Other than that, you were on your own!

We were instructed to follow an access road along the beach, that was fenced off from the surrounding area, and after about 300 metres, it then opened out into a thousand acres of mechanised playground. There are about 3,500 acres in the recreation area, but some 2000 acres are set aside as either a buffer of wildlife preserve. The extent of the dunes and the prevailing winds that blow in from the Pacific create some substantial waves and crests, up to some 70m in height. On the west/windward side, the slopes are quite gentle, but the corollary to this is that the east slopes can be fearsomely steep.

As I chugged into this surreal scene of beach anarchy and mayhem, I expected Tina Turner (in her Aunty Entity role from Mad Max) to suddenly come flying over one of the dunes, and send a crossbow bolt fizzing in my direction. There were off-road vehicles of every shape, size and configuration racing around the place like an out of control stock car race, but with no track, no marshalls and seemingly no particular regard for human life. Some of the purpose built beasts made our little buggy look like it had just fallen off a Hot Wheels track. Perhaps most worryingly of all were the plethora of small kids tearing around the place and ‘shooting bowls’ on their quad bikes, buzzing around the place like a swarm of killer babies, oblivious to the fact that an early grave seemed just a teetering precipice away. So, I did the only thing I could in the circumstances – gave it some welly! To Cara’s dismay, I started to build up some speed and assume the guise of a hooligan. Now these things are speed limited, but when you are in an oversized go kart, arse a few inches from the ground, and a cacophony of noise just inches from your head, riding over and across sand dunes with hundreds of other maniacs, 15 miles an hour feels like 150. Admittedly, I was a bit tentative at first, but just like the teenage driver who thinks he has become a blend of Ayrton Senna and Jeremy Clarkson, just 2 hours after he has passed his test, I started to push it a little bit far. Mostly, these were near misses with other members of this troop of insanity, but there was also the odd moment of utter instability when we went over the peak of a dune a bit too quickly and not exactly in control, resulting in a three or two wheeled landing. Strangely, this didn’t seem to instil a sense of propriety, but rather a degree of increased recklessness. It did provoke an ever quieter Cara, who was now hanging on to her seat, and looking a bit uncomfortable (and this is a girl who craves the most extreme thrill rides at theme parks, that I have to politely decline).

What did stop me was what Cara still describes as a near death experience, but which I like to think of as a piece of supreme knife edge driving. OK, truth is, she is probably more accurate in her assessment than I, but what’s the problem, nobody died? I was getting the hang of speeding up the gentle windward slopes at full pelt, and then veering back down again, and this hadn’t caused any problems of note. Problem was, that you couldn’t see what was lurking over the edge of the peak, and while I had got within a reasonable distance of what in some cases had turned out to be a rather precarious and steep drop the other side, we hadn’t got anywhere near to the edge itself. However, this time in a blur of foot-to-the-floor, a couple of loud ‘Yahoo’s’, and twirling of the wheel to induce a little bit of sliding, I suddenly found myself heading straight for a blind peak. I suddenly had visions of the final scene from Thelma and Louise, only I don’t have Geena Davis’s legs, and we weren’t being chased by the Police. Neither would it have been a comedy leap into mid air, circa Dukes of Hazzard, more a scene from the M25 on a foggy Monday morning. Just as all of this was occurring to me, I took my foot of the loud pedal and wrenched the steering to the right. The vehicle thankfully stopped pretty quickly, but in a scene that was now straight out of a Roadrunner cartoon, with the left front hanging in mid air, and Cara and I peering rather nervously over the edge. We very briefly contemplated what might have been, after which I asked her if she was alright.
‘Yeah, I’m fine’ she said, very matter of factly. Either she was cooler than a cucumber with shades, lounging by the pool in St Tropez, with Brad Pitt at her side, or her ability to put on a brave face should see here winning a BAFTA within a few years.
Since her getting out would have her emulating Wylie Coyote and disappearing into the abyss to our left, I told her to say put, while I undid my harness, clambered out and managed to manhandle the front of the beast back onto terra firma. Needless to say, my driving after that episode was a touch more sanguine, and after a bit of pootling about the dunes and getting lost (its not difficult in a thousand acres of landscape that looks the same, wherever you are), we made our way back to the staging area. The cost of hiring the buggy included a free T-shirt, from a selection that was all the same, other than the size. I still have it, and although it is nothing more than an advertising hoarding for our hire company, I still think it wildly misleading; it doesn’t have a picture of a ruined and trashed buggy upside down with its occupants in various pieces strewn across the landscape, while a 4 year old looks on chuckling, as he pulls wheelies on his quad. Still I enjoyed it....

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Sea, sand and slightly curious seaside resorts are all very well, but its always good to see and experience the working, indigenous heart of an area. Given that we are in San Luis Obispo County, that meant the town of – San Luis Obispo (if you are a local, it is either San Luis or you can annoy me intently by uttering the modern curse of language by using its acronym, SLO. Why? Do people from London call it L, or from Birmingham call it B? True, I have been known to call the odd place in Britain a Shithole, but this is not an acronym, it is merely a well observed description). San Luis is one of California’s oldest communities and reputedly ‘ the happiest city in America’. Dan Buettner is a National Geographic writer (and a bit of a lifestyle guru it would seem) and in a book that sets out to explore and explain the ‘science’ of happiness, he thought San Luis was the canines testicles. This is apparently as a result of such things as Citizen empowerment and sense of community, Anti-smoking policies, minimal signage around town and lots of parks and green spaces, favouring pedestrians over cars and having a town square, being involved in the arts or supporting the arts and being able to work at home or work for yourself. Of course, it could just be that these people have the great fortune to live in a nice place, with a nice climate and with good employment opportunities, and that these happy circumstances become self-perpetuating. I have to be careful where I tread here, as Mr Buettner is something of an evangelist, promoting the ‘Blue Zones’, exhorting lifestyle characteristics that explain longevity and happiness (various books available in all good outlets). When I did a little research on this and found at the foot on of one page a twitter feed that said ‘Tomatoes have helped to prevent cancer, cataracts, heart disease and many other diseases. Eat a tomato today!’, it did start to fire up my well honed bullshit and cynicism detectors. On said page, I declined to take the Happiness Test (particularly as it wanted my e-mail address, presumably to be followed later by my credit card details and inside leg measurement). Should Mr Buettner’s lawyer read this, I have of course been struck by a bout of unhappiness, which has made me uncharacteristically stray from the path of true happiness, and I shall immediately redeem myself and head for a Blue Zone, and no doubt part with some money in the process. God Bless!

San Luis is in fact a very nice town, neatly situated about 10 miles east of the Pacific, and in a gentle bowl of rolling California countryside, overlooked by a couple of modest ‘peaks’. Driving into the centre (sorry, downtown), was a very tranquil and unhurried affair, and you begun to get a feel for somewhere that was laidback and chilled, not to mention prosperous. It must be said, that whenever I have driven in America, there is never any drama or sense of tension, and that might be partly down to the speed limits, the overall mentality or maybe they just have a damn sight more space. God knows what Americans think of the loud, aggressive, impatience, rudeness and arrogance that we get on Britain’s roads every day. It was a perplexing relief on San Luis’s roads, even when I missed the turn into a car park and had to do an embarrassing U-turn, there was no honking, no expletives, no graphic gesticulation. It was almost a little soporific, maybe in a slightly more creepy context, a bit.....Stepford. That’s probably a little cruel, but for a dour, miserable Brit like me, it was all a little strange.

The town is undoubtedly very human, with mostly low rise whitewashed buildings, and shallow pitched roofs of terracotta pantiles, while some of the central buildings were built in the Spanish Colonial style. Streets were full of trees along the pavements (I had to resist putting sidewalk in there), and there were neat planters outside many shops, together with rubbish bins that were not spewing McDonalds cartons and crushed cans of Special Brew. The prosperity of the town became immediately clear almost as soon as we exited the car park, and to the vocal delight of the rest of the family, all being women who like their shopping – a branch of that most American shop with almost mythical appeal, Abercrombie & Fitch. I confess, I don’t quite get this, as it merely sells clothes that you could pick up for a fraction of the price at your local Primark, only everything (and I do mean, everything) is adorned with the brand name or logo. And that appears to be precisely the point – you are not so much as buying clothes, but making a statement to your peers and ostensibly displaying a degree of exclusivity and opulence. Frankly, particularly given my advancing years, I would feel a bit of a prat in an Abercrombie T-shirt. It would be a bit like getting a Dolce and Gabbana toothbrush – it does no better job than the one from Boots for a quid, and anyone who saw it would think, quite rightly, ‘what a tosser!’ This seems not to apply to the young, and not at all to women, as they excitedly picked up the massively overpriced goods and cooed to each other in synchronised admiration. Activists would call these people ‘Consumer Whores’, but its more than my life is worth to even suggest that to members of my own family. Sometimes, it does seem that life and I are on different tracks...

We wandered along and around San Luis’s streets, but as this is a town of just 45,000 in population, its central area was unlikely to be large, so this didn’t take too long (or at least, it wouldn’t have done if the women of our troop hadn’t stopped in every imaginable clothes and shoe shop to admire and occasionally purchase). However, this gave me time to admire the charm of San Luis, and it had this in abundance. The centre is dominated by (that is to say it is the stand out feature, not that it architecturally towers, which it certainly does not – its far too classy for that) the old San Luis Mission. Founded in 1772 (and restored back to its original Spanish style in 1933) it is a gentle, understated Spanish style fully functioning Catholic church, that is clearly integral to the town and community built around it. Interestingly, the complex includes a public garden (Mission Plaza), which acts as a central public park for all the town’s residents and visitors, and is immaculately maintained, with lawns, beds, benches and a fountain. There is even a small stream that runs through this part of town that gently meanders its way through the park. On a warm July morning, with the sun flickering between the leaves of the trees and a clear blue sky, it was the most delightful of places, and even in a town of such modest size, quite unexpected.

It would be easy in a town like this (which now has a no-smoking ban which applies just about everywhere, including public downtown areas, and has a ban on drive-through restaurants) to think of it as being faux twee, and that it was all about style and cleanliness over soul and function. If that were the case, I guarantee you would feel a disgruntled undercurrent, and that you would barely have to scratch the surface to find its true colours and miserable underbelly. Either that, or you would find yourself being highly disturbed and not a little frightened at the constant over-the-top smiles and fawning, evoking my comment about Stepford. But neither seemed to be the case, and maybe I have done a disservice to those who suggest this is a little bit of accessible Shangri-La. Its not all sweetness and light, as particularly witnessed by a meal we had in one of San Luis’s recommended restaurants, where the food was fine, but the service so overpowering and manic, that it totally spoilt the occasion. I have never before had my plate taken away as my fork was being placed on my plate, and my starter instantly replaced with my main, and the waiter being so frequently close and attentive, that I almost asked him if he would like to take a seat at our table. But such events were very much the exception, and even the ice cream that was priced as if the ingredients included gold dust, did not detract from this most agreeable of destinations.

Neither is this a town that is quiet because all its residents are in St Peter’s Waiting Room. Most of the people I saw were young, and there were many young families in evidence, few of these being tourists. Its a town that has activity on its mind, judging by the number of sports and outdoor shops, and its exhortations to get the blood pumping round your body through cycling, running, surfing, climbing, hiking and (judging by our restaurant experience) competitive speed-waitering. In all but the latter case (unless its moved to become a strange outdoor pursuit), this part of California certainly has the climate, countryside and terrain just readymade for those who want to pursue a lifestyle that offers a bit more on the healthy side than manically twiddling your thumbs on a Playstation. Talking of which, if you want to stretch your mind as opposed to waistline (sorry, terrible cliché), San Luis also seems to offer a decent art and culture scene, with several theatres and even its own film festival. For a town of 45,000 inhabitants, its ratio of attractions and things to do is pretty astounding.

We all liked San Luis, indeed it was hard not to, and maybe it is, in its own unique way, an epicentre of contentment and community. However, a word of warning - In this media rich world that we live in, that likes to take a story, embellish, publicise and often utterly distort it, San Luis has become almost a celebrity town. No less than Oprah Winfrey and her network decided that a place designated as being the happiest was too good an opportunity to pass up, and explore San Luis’s ‘overall emotional health’. While I wouldn’t want to draw comparisons, in Britain we have the grotesquely over-publicised enigma that is Katie Price. Now, not for a minute could I possibly compare Katie Price to San Luis (San Luis mountains and charms are entirely real and natural – Katie Price has no charms), but in the former case, she has become a parody of herself, and I personally have to resist the urge to vomit. San Luis, keep it real. You have been warned!

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California is huge – its ranked third in terms of area, and first in terms of population in the States. California's geography is about as diverse as you can get, ranging from the Pacific Coast in the west, to the Sierra Nevada mountains in the east, from the Redwood forests of the northwest, to the Mojave Desert areas in the southeast. Great Britain is also diverse, but at an area of just shy of 90,000 square miles comprising the countries of England, Scotland and Wales, it is rather puny compared to just California as a state of almost 164,000 square miles. California is a bit like Britain stretched and on some serious steroids, where everything is quite a bit more. And because quite a bit more means a lot further, we really didn’t do the state justice. We never went anywhere near the Redwood National Park in the north, Yosemite in the east, San Diego and Los Angeles in the south, and even the coastal areas of Carmel, Monterrey and the Big Sur along the west. We really haven’t done the state justice, and indeed that would have been a big ask in just two weeks. We certainly got a sense of the splendid city of San Francisco, but Avila Beach and its environs felt a bit like taking a turning into Acacia Avenue – all quite pleasant and agreeable, but no real sense of place or character, no edge, no drama, although the landscape had a certain romantic quality, with its wide beach and sea vistas, its gentle green peaks, and its sweeping parched pale green and almond colour fields (at this point, I must take the opportunity to do something that I have been waiting years to do, and that is tell Mrs Young that she was talking out of her arse – and I knew it, even at the age of 12. Mrs Young was an English teacher in the early years of my Secondary school, who looked so repressed, it was just a little frightening. She wore clothes so plain, that she could have been a walking advert for Magnolia paint, and with her hair tied so tight, I was always worried it would suddenly uncoil and whip me round the face. This was finished with, you guessed it, black horn-rimmed glasses. She was about as unsuited to teaching the emotion, flair and passion of creative writing and the English language as Frankie Boyle would be to a class on discretion, sympathy and diplomacy. I cant remember what I was writing about, but I described a landscape as romantic. When my piece came back, she had crossed this out with her red pen and put ‘WRONG! A landscape cannot be romantic!’ Yes it can, you stupid woman! A landscape, or indeed any scene, can be sufficiently evocative and redolent, that the emotions it stirs can be romantic without any specific reference to ‘love’. Romantic landscape painters of the 19th century like Turner, drew heavily on contemplation and symbolism to enforce this view. In that way, a simple dramatic sunset over a deserted beach can be romantic. Mrs Young, if you didn’t decide soon after leaving Richard Hale School that you were more suited to being a Traffic Warden, then I shudder to think how many other poor kids you thoroughly tried to misdirect).

With the possible exception of the very pleasant town of San Luis Obispo, we came back not as educated, knowledgeable or satisfied as we should have been in matters of the wider California. Like so many things American, it’s way too big to consume in just one rather unsatisfying bite. You just have to keep going back for more...