sitting on the dock of the bay

So we have returned from our six-day jaunt around the San Francisco Bay Area. First stop was Berkeley, where we stayed with Frances' friend Sam in her tiny student apartment. Berkeley is most famous for the university, which was one of the most radical in the country during the 60s. Things have calmed down a bit now. But although the campus is nice, their frat houses abound, they have a pretty fancy library and even their logo spray-painted onto the grass, I will always remember Berkeley for its cuisine. First up was pizza from Zachary's which not only had a deep, fluffy crust but also cheese two centimetres thick. It could probably be better classified as pie, and it was so big, it needed its own chair! Then, the salads from a place called Intermezzo. With bowls as big as my torso filled to bursting with fresh vegetables, lettuce, avocados, eggs and croutons, it was the perfect cure for our pizza hangover. The lesson - bigger is definitely better, at least when it comes to Berkeley food.

Next stop, San Francisco. San Francisco is a busy, eclectic, hilly city. It's a place where the queue to get into the Apple store for their latest gadget launch party snakes down the block and around the corner, with the bright young things in their hundreds waiting impatiently like it's the hottest club in town, and where homeless people push around shopping trolleys filled with their belongings around the empty, windy downtown area in sad irony, Like everywhere else we've been, everyone in hospitality and retail looks like they will either die or go off on a murderous rampage if they say "Have a Good Day!" one more time. It was in San Francisco that Nikki and I got hooked on the curiously satisfying, very American combination of sweet-and-salty, which is most fully realised with Reese's peanut butter and chocolate cups. You can buy them in two, four or six pack, fyi.

So much to do in San Francisco! We went to the baseball in AT and T stadium and watched the Arizona Diamondbacks thrash the home team the Giants, . Rode bikes through the stunning, rambling Golden Gate Park. Took the obligatory picture of the bridge, then rode back down one of San Francisco's hair-raising hills. Went thrift shopping in the Mission. Wandered around the Museum of Modern Art and flippantly (and unthinkingly) knocked a Matisse sculpture on the head to prove a point to Frances and got told off by the security guard (it's just art, jeez). Hung out around Haight and Ashby streets, the epicentre of the summer of love. Gawked at the erotic miniature statues and jars full of shark fins in Chinatown. Took a sleeping bag and snacks to Union Square to watch a free screening of Casablanca and cheered along with the locals whenever Bogart delivered his classic lines.

Going out in San Francisco was an experience that must be seen to be believed. The first night we consulted the Lonely Planet guide and found ourselves in a bar called Gold Dust. As always with lonely-planet guide recommended places, there were a lot of foreigners happy hour had just finished everyone was wasted. A band full of grandpas with long white beards played Dixieland. From that we stumbled onwards and upwards and somehow found ourselves/were permitted inside the Red Room at the Clift Hotel. We were painfully out of place - while their core clientele was rich, stylish male thirtysomethings, we were young, poor, wearing op-shop clothes, staying in a hostel and eating pasta out of a microwave. However, we were not to be intimidated. Instead, we walked straight to a free table with a "reserved" card on it and helped ourselves to a bottle of abandoned top-shelf champagne. We schmoozed in classic style and met a film producer, a geek, some blokes from Arizona, a CEO and a fast-talking wanker who was determined to get Frances' number.

On our last night in SF it was time for some dancing, so we went to find hip-hop on the notorious Sixth Street. We arrived in one piece, paid the cover charge and were permitted into a semi-empty club that was screening 8 Mile on the back wall. Making the best of a poor-to-average situation, we went to the bar for another round or two, then hit the dancefloor downstairs and basically brought sexy back. In the US, it appears that men, to make a gross generalisation, can dance! We stopped in to the 24 hour indian place on the way home, woke up feeling like death and decided to postpone our visit to the all-singing-all-dancing Methodist sunday service until we were in a more respectful, god-fearing state. We eventually caught the BART back to Berkeley, collected the Volvo and drove to San Jose, stopping in at the Ashby flea market and missing the turnoff three times.

Today we're going day-tripping to Big Sur and then to Monterrey to see the aquarium and the various John Steinbeck memorials. I better go crack the whip for Nikki and Frances to make sure we get there before sundown! Laterz.