San Francisco: The Hills Have Heights

It was a whirlwind of wonder arriving in San Francisco for a last-minute weekend getaway with Whitney and her sister Alex for a wedding. Even landing at SFO was a rush of unexpected exhilaration as the plane landed so close to the water I swear there was some splash on the window.

We opted for a shuttle, which ended up being the same price as a taxi—about $18 each to get to Japantown. Driving into the hilly city was a trip in and of itself, as we gawked out the windows soaking in our new surroundings. San Francisco has been on my “must see” list ever since I saw the opening credits to Full House in the 90s. The childhood dream of finding the Full House house would eventually come true, but we’ll talk about that later.

The towering Hotel Kabuki can be spotted a mile away—a useful landmark in the city built on hills. The serene lobby and Japanese décor set the scene for a festive stay at this boutique hotel. Thanks to a wedding rate we paid about $140 a night, but typical rates vary between $170 and $200. The rooms were spacious, the view spectacular, and the bizarro glass door situation in the bathroom only proved semi awkward. Not sure why “luxury” hotels insist on being different to the point of dysfunctional, but there you have it.

After setting down our bags, we set off for the streets of San Fran. The unfamiliar territory proved challenging—even with handy iPhones in all three of our hands, we still got lost. But we chalked it up as sightseeing thanks to the stunning architecture at every turn in Russian Hill. We finally stumbled upon the outskirts of Chinatown and decided to duck into the nearest Chinese restaurant that Urbanspoon gave a single dollar sign and an 85% rating. Ho’s Restaurant piqued our desperate palates and when the food was delivered, it was all immediately devoured. Succulent sesame chicken and entangled chow mein ended up being exactly what we were looking for. 
 

A few hills later we were finally in Chinatown, evidenced by the large green arch hovering over the main street. As the time was nearing dusk, lanterns on each corner were lighting up and the crowd was starting to swell. It's the largest Chinatown outside of Asia and we were just happy to be wandering the crowded streets with bubble tea in hand.

Later that night we met up with the bride-to-be for a bachelorette party held at Circa off Chestnut Street. While the bar had an air of pretension, the area itself seemed like the place to be: bars and restaurants with twentysomethings clambering to get into each. A few cucumber martinis later and we became those twentysomethings, stepping into hopping bars with ear deafening music. Very few people will get me to dance in public with less than a handful of drinks in my system, but the Steinmetz sisters happen to be in that select crew. 

Saturday morning we set out for Powell Street to join the massive line for the legendary cable car. But don’t worry about the wait—you’ll be entertained by the cuckoo-crazies out there sporting microphones and some block rockin’ beats. Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact. Around the corner you can buy a MUNI pass that will earn you access to cable cars, trolleys, and buses. This was the best system we could find for public transportation, but to be fair we never tried the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit).

Once the arriving cable car was spun around and the gates let up for us to load on, we made a run for it. Our eyes were on the prize of the clichéd exterior side seats and they were obtained quickly and without throwing punches. Not wanting to hang off the side of a moving vehicle and run the risk of sideswiping the mirrors of parked cars, I sat on the bench as Whitney and Alex grabbed the poles. Riding the hills of ‘frisco on the cable car might be considered touristy (so is saying ‘frisco), but the journey is entirely worth the price and the wait. Inching up those hills and flying down them without abandon was akin to a rollercoaster ride—a totally controlled, slow, and safe rollercoaster, but a ride no less. 

The trolley dropped us off near the pier and we were starting to see why people fall in love with San Francisco. It might not be the cool thing to do, but we were hitting the tourist spots pretty hard. As first timers, it’s necessary to get the lay of the land (and so it happens, the sea), so that started with the Fisherman’s Wharf. We’ll leave the hipster/off the beaten path activities for next time.  

Taking advantage of technology again, we used our iPhone GPS to locate an outdoor food stand named The Codmother. The play on words was enough to win us over, but the charming British woman behind the counter secured the notion that we made the right culinary choice. Piping hot beer-battered fish and chips were soon in front of us and the delicious feast was one of the best stateside fish and chip situations I’ve ever found myself in. Crisp, moist, and all kinds of flavorful…this dish was the real deal. If eating seaside fish from a trailer is wrong, I don’t want to be right. 

My only mission while in the land known for missions was to track down the legit Full House house. This is not to be confused with the view of the Painted Ladies, another iconic scene from the 90s sitcom and a major city landmark, but that’s where we started. We grabbed a bus to Alamo Square Park, where loads of people were lounging making good use of their Saturday afternoons. Photos were getting snapped up left and right of the magnificent view of downtown set in the background of gorgeous San Francisco style homes. We joined the crowd of amateur photographers and took a series of shots, all the while playing the Full House theme song. Yup, we’re those people. 

Any kid my age knows the lore and inexplicable attraction to this stupid 90s show, so I’d be remiss to not describe the glory of finding the Full House house. Skip this section if you have no idea what I’m talking about (i.e., you’re not a sentimental TV fanatic living out elementary school dreams). About a mile away from Alamo Square Park we found ourselves in a quaint neighborhood with picture perfect houses. At 1709 Broderick Street, we stood dead in our tracks: there it was...the only other house I grew up with, but never actually step foot in. While the door is no longer eye-catching red but instead painted black (there’s a Rolling Stones reference somewhere in there), it was clear this was the house. What really gave it away: the rope at the top of the stairs preventing people like us from walking right up to it, and the group of girls our age approaching the house from the other side of the street in a fit of giggles. Pictures were taken. Dreams achieved. Mission complete.

If you’re interested in an Alcatraz tour, check the schedule before you arrive in San Francisco and buy tickets online. We managed to snag seats on the first ferry ride over on Sunday, but evening tours sell out weeks in advance. Departing from Pier 33, the ferry takes 25 minutes to cross over. While it’s a storied site, Alcatraz doesn’t hold much appeal to me. It’s a creeptastic jail on an island made popular by Hollywood (although it did seem fitting to visit a few weeks before the not-hit show Alcatraz premiered).

The audio tour is 100% necessary, without which you’re literally just staring at empty cells. The backstories of the former cell residents are what make it all relatively interesting. We were lucky to be there on the same day a former prisoner was speaking—yes, apparently they still exist. Gaining insight to his experience made the trip worth it, but I wouldn’t recommend Alcatraz to most unless you have a torrid love affair with the criminal justice system.

Once we docked back at Pier 33, we made our way toward Boudin Bakery.  When you go to San Francisco, you get chowder in a sourdough bread bowl. Period. Boudin has been busting out these bread bowls for more than a century and the chowder they ladle into those suckers is so piping hot and delicious I still dream about it (this coming from the gal who detests seafood, but even I can’t deny that this was on point). It’s a tourist trap worth getting stuck in.

Our leisurely late lunch was interrupted by the realization we only had an hour before we had to catch a shuttle to the wedding—the original purpose of the whole trip. A trolley, taxi, and shuttle all played their parts in landing us at the wedding with mere moments to spare, but the sprint to the hotel and the wicked fast wardrobe change made for a heart-pounding 60 minutes. We spent our last night in SF dancing the night away, complete with the Hora, an ideal end to a weekend full of West Coast fun. 

Whit and I showing how to get dolled up and dash.

If you’re ever given the opportunity to spend a few days in San Francisco, take it...run with it...never look back. Anthony Bourdain’s new show The Layover featured SF a few days after my return, so I already have a new to do list for when I go back. And with this fantastic city, it’s certainly not if…but when.