Due to the rain, we decide just to drive through San Francisco and then swing back along the coast and pass by Half Moon Bay before heading back to our camp. Of course, neither of us has been here before, so we have no idea what to expect.
The city is spectacular. We enter through highway 80 heading west, and both of us are rubbernecking.
“This is amazing!” Ric says pointing out photo ops in all directions. I am busy snapping shots: Alcatraz, skyscrapers, hillside homes, the water, the bridge. “Google Fisherman’s Wharf. Let’s stop there for lunch.”
I looked on-line the night before and thought Fog Harbor could be a good place for seafood, so enter it into the GPS. By the time we cross the Bay Bridge, the rain has stopped and the sun is shining. We are not far from our destination, mileage wise, but the app suggests it will take a half hour to get there. No matter; there is a lot to see.
Fog Harbor is at Pier 39, right beside the Bay Aquarium and the Gold Line Ferry service. It is nestled amongst shops and many other restaurants. We find parking two blocks away which is advertised as $10/day, but when we pull in the attendant says it is $20 for trucks.
“Oh well,” says Ric. “We’re here now.”
The restaurant is on the second floor of the pier buildings, and as we enter I can tell this is a good choice. The hostess seats us right beside the window overlooking the marina – an excellent view of the bay. I can see the Golden Gate, Alcatraz, and piles of dark-coloured masses lying on the furthest docks.
“What on earth is that?” I ask our waitress.
Out comes the camera. No lack of poses here.
Unlike our lunch in L.A., this meal will cost over $100. Ric has the clam chowder and a seafood platter and I have the sole, nicely prepared without butter, atop a bed of fingerling potatoes and spinach, cherry tomatoes, and capers. Perfection.
After lunch we wander along the pier and get a closer look at the Sea Lions, whose antics are continually amusing, not to mention noisy. Not sure if it’s their lackadaisical attitudes that are contagious, or perhaps that I’ve overextended my energy allotment, but my body begins to wilt and just barely makes it back to the truck.
“Do you just want to go home?”
I am enamoured and want to see more. “Let’s keep going,” I suggest. I recline my seat and put the seat heater on. “I’ll sleep if I have to.”
As if that is even possible in this iconic city.