Travelling to San Francisco (Day 1)

View of L.A. from the plane

Twelve hours is such a long time to sit on a plane. As we walk into the plane (we being myself and my wife, Nicole) I notice the First Class seats with their luxurious leg room and padded arm rests. Making our way down to the Economy section is slightly amusing as I take note of the disappearing leg room - it diminishes slightly for Business Class and then disintegrates completely for Economy. 

Nicole has us sit with our carry-on bags between our legs but this isn't a great idea in the long run. By the time the plane touches down in Los Angeles for our connecting flight, Nicole's feet have undergone a kind of drastic swelling akin to something like an elephant. Her ankles are no longer visible, the skin is red and puffy. Her face is sad and pained. It looks impressive. 

We miss our flight to San Francisco due to the main flight from QANTAS being delayed but things work out fine and we get to San Francisco only an hour late. 

Monsters exhibit in one of the airports

The time spent on flying and briskly walking through airports is an adventure in itself. The security measures taken in American airports are truly something else... bag checks and X-ray scans are familiar enough, but there's something sombre and proudly stoic about the American flag on the blank white wall, every inch of it covered in the names of those who died in the 9/11 attacks. Additionally, we see (or, more accurately, try not to see) a woman in a head-to-toe black burqa reveal her face at the behest of border security in L.A.

Things go relatively well for us. Our bags are checked and Nic has to go through the full-body scanner, but we make it past L.A. and to S.F.. Once we get everything together after roughly 14 hours of travel, we find our way onto the San Francisco subway and emerge Downtown. I find it a little confronting when about a dozen homeless men talk to us at various points, commenting on our bags and - in one case - throwing a drink at me (he misses), all to the backdrop of a loud, kerbside brass band.

The 'Bourbon' Bar, less than 10 metres from our room.

Our final destination, Hotel Zelos, is a richly ornate contrast to the bustling jazzy street outside. Darkly-lit nouveau art deco corridors lead to the Hotel's bar, a restaurant called Dirty Habit. There's a wall inside stacked with about a hundred different kinds of bourbon. We don't drink any bourbon. The food is good though... pork cheeks in sauerkraut with cornichons, lamb belly in a steamed bun, spiced nuts, and crispy-skinned potato wedges. Can recommend. 

We've decided not to go out tonight. Such a long day requires a nice long sleep at the end of it!