Maybe it was a mix of the Sixties music played by my parents, or my teenage obsession with TV show The O.C., but for one reason or another I had always wanted to visit California and see San Francisco.
I finally flew there three years ago, as I left behind my movie-style summer in Manhattan. It was colder than I had anticipated, but everything I had expected.
With friends in tow, I walked the length of the Golden Gate Bridge in the fog. We climbed Telegraph Hill and Coit Tower for a 360 degree view of the city, saw sea lions by Pier 39 and scoured the streets of Chinatown to find a fortune cookie factory. The cookies were worth the wandering: we stocked up on bags of them for our road trip down the California coast.
There was soup in sourdough bread bowls at Boudin Bakery by Fisherman’s Wharf, and a jaunt to Ghirardelli for dessert. Of course, we went for a ride on one of the city’s famous cable cars – the one that broke down on an especially steep SF street.
It was a meeting with a new city, and a reunion with old friends: the perfect plot for a suitcase story.