A bridge too far?

Before I forget. There were two events on my list for the last blog that happened to slip my mind. The first came as we prepared to exit the baggage area of the airport. Already buoyed by passing unscathed through immigration we were easy picking for two young people in hospital scrubs who asked if we could help with research into what diseases were being brought into the U.S. In hindsight one may choose to take this as a fairly direct statement of how this clean cut duo viewed a tired looking couple who clearly had the appearance of two plague carrying patient zeroes. But we accepted the offer to be scrutinised and after some questions about where we had travelled to recently (which took an embarrassingly long time and his tablet based questionnaire could not cope with) we were handed two wooden sticks with a minimal amount of cotton bud on them with which to relive all those up the nose Covid tests of the past. To add insult to tear streamed injury and despite all the PPE the couple had on, we had to drop the test sticks into receptacles ourselves. Thank you and you can collect your bells outside. They might as well have said that to us.

The other event came about after a discussion with Mrs Verno about what she had watched on the plane. She had returned to an old favourite, Virgin River. I had recalled that the bar in the show had stocked a bourbon whose name had stuck in the mind of this sophisticated humorist. Knob bourbon. And what were the chances that as I glanced over Mrs Verno’s shoulder towards the hotel bar. It was that time of the day. Lo and behold. A big, bold bottle of Knob bourbon was staring right back at me. Mrs Verno was disgusted as she knew that this would only have me tittering about this for months to come. Well, I was hooked and as the night progressed I made a decision to have a bit of Knob. I plucked up the courage and asked the barman how much. He took a minute and checked the price and would you believe it. $16.90. No, I’ll leave it. So close.

So, back to today. We arose still somewhat discombobulated but nevertheless intact and looking forward to breakfast. We arrived down at 9am to be faced by a feckin’ queue. It seems that everyone gets fed and they all come down at 9am. We needed to be out by 10am so a bit of strategic eating was necessary. Mrs Verno and I were very good, at first with plates of fruit. Then it all went south with pancakes and syrup and a big fry respectively. Shameless but what can you do.

We headed off for Pier 33, Alcatraz Landing and a ferry trip to the Rock. There were masses of people waiting to go over. Lots of kids and one in particular, a wee red headed boy of about two admirably bawled his eyes out for the entire time we we were in a big long snaky queue that meant you were always within painful earshot. He only stopped for a few seconds but his parents inadvisably decided that this was the time to apply suncream to his fragile epidermis. Off he went again. I think the thought of doing time in Alcatraz to escape the noise probably crossed a few minds.

Alcatraz was great. The sun was out, the wind had died down and the screaming baby ginger was locked in solitary out of the way. The audio tour of the main cell block was excellent and well staged, with time to take in the austere surroundings with commentary from ex-inmates and ex-guards in equal measure. There was also ample reference to the Indian occupation of Alcatraz that took place after it ended as a prison. I did not know about this but it explains the graffiti around the place that has been preserved for nearly 60 years.

All too quickly, about three hours later, we boarded the ferry for a return trip. We had 48 hour Hop on Hop Off tickets to redeem and planned to use the first day to get a grand tour of the city and plan for stops the next day. Phew. It took close to three hours for the Big Bus to navigate the hilly streets that make up San Francisco. Having only seen the place on TV it was mind blowing to encounter all the familiar names in the flesh. Seeing the cable cars, the old style houses, the Piers and so on was a privilege. And then. The feckin’ bus crosses the Golden Gate Bridge. First thoughts. Baltic. The wind cut to the bone. Second thoughts. You can imagine. Magnificent.

Back to base then for a coffee. We had a Sunset Bus Tour at 6pm. This took a different route and a different bloody bridge. We came prepared and I had 4 layers on. Mrs Verno had five. The bridge this time was the older and longer Bay Bridge. It was stunning, stunning stunning. And so cold Mrs Verno led the charge downstairs to the warm when the bus stopped for a photo opportunity. Nearly the entire bus followed our leader downstairs. You would have been proud.

It was now nearly twelve hours since our boots were filled at breakfast. Cioppino’s beckoned and I opted for a Fisherman’s Platter. Essentially every type of seafood battered and deep fried. Just like home.

We are now at Mrs Verno’s new watering hole with the cocktail list being attacked with remarkable gusto. The bones need warming up. While we are at it the tipping culture here is now out of control. With the predominance of contactless now free will seems to have gone out the window. You get presented with three options, pay 18% 20% or 22%. There is no option for feck all. I have decided to pay in cash now and leave what I choose at the bar. A couple of bucks. Enough now.