Frisco

Somehow by the grace of [any given random unbelievable] deity, I was granted not one but two seats whilst crossing the pacific ocean. A little annoyed that the partition is fixed in place, I close my eyes and feebly attempt slumber. Screams to my left signal that once more - as has been the case every single time - the loudest, most spoiled and selfishly inconsiderate little bastard is in the adjacent isle.

Call it Sod's or Murphy's law, I'm a firm believer that the parents of children that act up on 'planes should be forced to compensate their immediately surrounding passengers. Either that or train the flight attendants in anethisia. Another all-nighter it is then, well like most things - practice enough and you get used to it.

Swinging around silicon valley on the approach and the view across the bay is impressive. Furthermore the city of "Frisco" is one of the nicest places you could ever hope to visit in these United States. No wonder it's the second most visited locale in the world then, though as with most places on this continent - if you haven't got any wheels, you won't be getting very far.

It's all in miles, so I'm multiplying by 1.6 to get it into a sensible unit of measurement. But it doesn't stop there; they use gallons for fuel (which are Queen's gallons, that we later decided to re-classify - hence the difference), making it a complete bugger to work out expenditure and efficiency. Nip in to a convenience store and expect drinks to be measured in ounces. Ask for directions (try it once for a laugh but don't bother again; "You gotta take 5th, then. Um, take the boulevard to the third and turn right at the stop sign. Um yeah, then take the one-fifty-two for a coupla miles and it's straight there just. Um, yeah just up the..." you'll have switched off to the white noise by now), and distances are all quoted in feet - weight in pounds. It's such a ludicrous way to go about quantising things, but stubbornness persists. It's the kind of obsinance that reminds me a little of some other country I visited.

So in to the rented behemoth we clamber - it almost requires a step ladder to reach the car door handle - and once in, a fit of laughter comes over me as I realise just how big the car is. For all intents and purposes, this 3.6 litre V6 Chevrolet Traverse is positively run-of-the-mill. And it's built as such; "All-American" (as they love to say), which in reality means it'll last about 6 months. If that. That other country I was speaking of builds stuff to a much higher standard. Starting her up, she purrs ready to be dragged about. Something about the grade of fuel, engine tuning or exhaust system makes all these soft bouncy vehicles sound different from their European counterparts; though I'm lost as to what it might be. As we head to the exit a sign says "maximum height 6'6". I'm clueless, what's that in metres? Will it fit underneath or take the roof off? To the petrol station and it's clear theyve paid attention to the refilling process.

Pull up to the pump and head straight for the cashier; you pay first. They'll respond with the amount you've given and the pump number that you have credit on, with something like; "Twenee sittin on five", so return and select your grade (87, 89 or 91; so even at best they're lower than our standard unleaded), and place nozel in the car. Now before I continue, when filling up just how many times have you got close to a tenner and slowed down as it approached to try and drop the exact amount in, only to go over by a few pennies? Often I'd say. Here that twenty will be exactly what you get. Pull handle and lock it in place; then simply watch as it fills up by exactly that amount. Perfect, I've paid and have fuel; so I can leave. No chance of skipping payment so no need for CCTV and license plate recognition.

Around the city are numerous attractions to keep you occupied. The red golden gate bridge is of course an icon, but further south, a more impressively engineered suspension bridge was an interesting mistake in driving to cross over; one way is above the other allowing more traffic flow. And there's lots of that here so it's clearly necessary. Head to pier 39 for some chowder or a boat trip to the nightmarish hellhole of Alcatraz, which whilst iconic is actually rather overrated. Cross over the golden red gate bridge and the top of the bay has some "scenic drives" (of which they are countless in the US), quaint coffee shops and damn fine eateries. And that's one thing they've got right - food. Whilst it's invariably too much every time, you can't fault the American passion for feeding their enormous appetites.



Shopping whores will love the "central downtown cen'er, um, of shaarps yeah" which is a lovely city to traverse by foot. The trams are a great way to get about and make for some interesting shots and if you happen by Chinatown, expect it to simply be populated by ABCs, rather than resemble anything from Asia.

On along "Historical" highway número uno and the drive is worthwhile. It's a few hundred K to Monterey, which Sinatra sang about and having visited, I've quite no idea why. The beaches are sublime, with enough surf to attract wetsuit-clad dudes aplenty. The climate verges on perfect in California; a dry heat year-round and occasional rain and cloudiness make it perfect for sport, of which running is a very popular pastime on the small island of Frisco. Traversing 10k along the length of the beach and back on the west coast makes for a great workout; as the regular patches of sand double the work you need to put in to keep up pace.


I'm a fan, it's a genuinely safe, relaxed and open-minded place. I hope (though I fear it may not be the case), that the rest of my experiences here are as good. On to Yosemite to see what Ansel Adams was twittering on about for all those years.