San Francisco.

Unfair as it may be toward a city as great, as beautiful, as iconic as San Francisco, my first real feeling was frustration.

“Where is the bloody parking?!” we mused, the question increasing in volume and frequency as we drove around and around the same few blocks. Cars sat bumper to bumper up and down the sloping streets.

As we passed WholeFoods for the fourth time, I thought about all of the things I knew about San Francisco. Most comes from On the Road, and as I thought about how Sal and Dean never seemed to have a problem with parking, we settled for dumping the car half an hour away and just walking to our Air BnB.

As it always seems to be when we arrive somewhere new, it was dark, so exploring the city had to wait until the morning. We had vague plans: Alcatraz, Golden Gate. Hanging off the cable car like lunatics. You know the drill.

Alcatraz was first on the list. Having been to the haunting Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia, I guess you could say that we’d kinda gotten a taste for obsolete prisons. Which I do realise is a bit of a morbid penchant. But Alcatraz feels like a prerequisite for being able to say you’ve “seen” San Francisco, so we made our way down streets lined by pointy-roofed, pastel-coloured houses to the harbour and boarded the ferry.

 Before long, “the rock” became visible in the distance. It’s an eerie and quiet place, even when filled with milling tourists all plugged into the same audio guide. Rusting cells lay abandoned, the kitchen still boasts the same menu it did the day Alcatraz closed. We learnt about the infamous escape attempts and the daily life of those imprisoned here. There was even an ex-inmate who was, of all things, signing copies of his new book.

Next up? Hanging off the cable cars like loonies. The San Francisco streets zoomed by beneath our feet as I hung on with one hand, mounting the steep hills and whizzing down the slopes with my other arm flailing in the air.

The next day, we rented bikes. Feeling cocky and energetic after a long night’s sleep and a big coffee, we laughed at the idea that we might find the journey to, over and back from the bridge a slog. Not us, surely!

But, wow. Having not been a bike for a while I forgot how hills can make it feel a bit like your thighs are wobbly sausages. That are on fire. And don’t work.

That being said, cycling across the bridge was one of the most amazing things we did in America. We joined the wobbling caterpillar of brave bicycles as the path turned into a busy, thundering road, and craned our necks in awe as the giant, golden arches rose up above us and passed just as quickly.

The next day, we left San Francisco for Yosemite. We drove over the Bay Bridge as we exited, the brilliant bay glistening beneath us. Coming up; impromptu yoga, a family falling through a frozen lake, and the lady who tried to steal my food.