Return to San Francisco

If I'm talking gibberish, it's because I've been up for over 20 hours. I am lying in a bed in a proper motel in Palo Alto - apparently pronounced pah-lo alto rather than pay-lo alto*.

I dragged myself out of bed in the middle of the night and left the apartment at 5.15am to catch a flight to sunny California. Our doorman offered to hail a cab for me, but I declined, as I was going to tube it to the airport. 'Woh. you can take the subway all the way to the airport? I didn't know that.' He said. Uh oh. I should have taken it as a sign.

An hour and 45 minutes later, I arrive, stressed and panicked that I might miss my flight. It was only supposed to take an hour. I had 40 minutes to traverse terminal 8 at JFK. Ready, get set, go!

It wasn't that eventful really. I did have to hot-foot it and didn't get to leisurely choose my breakfast. Hudson News - the US equivalent to WH Smiths - could only offer up some juice, yoghurt and a double boiled egg package. (I do the yoghurt a disservice, as it also had fruit and granola but that wouldn't have the same effect from a storytelling point of view.) The low of the journey was when I got a face full of egg juice, as I opened the plastic container, as the flight had made the pressure in the container go funny. Nice!

Being back in San Francisco has felt really odd. I was meeting three sets of people all around the HQ of my old charity. Roaming around streets that I had visited on two previous work trips was so strange. Nostalgic in both a good and bad way. Those work trips were intense and filled with wonderful and awful moments so the streets brought back all these intense feelings around every corner. The coffee shop on the corner where my colleague and I had that awkward conversation with our department head about our manager. Walking past a restaurant that we walked past whilst looking for hours for the restaurant we all wanted to eat in. I love the feel and vibe of San Francisco. It's so laid-back. But I had forgotten about the level of homelessness and evident mental illness of folks on the street. It's tough to see.

Another strange thing is coming back as a US resident. I am viewing San Francisco differently, which I find amusing. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm much better suited to New York. I'm far too impatient. Why, people, is there a pause once the little white (green) man appears to indicate you can cross the road? What's with the lack of jay-walking? I'm just not relaxed enough to live here.

The trip to Palo Alto further exacerbated this feeling. I missed the train I needed by minutes so asked a member of staff what I should do. 'Oh, if you take this train, it overtakes the one you need so you can pick it up at the first stop.' Nuh uh, it does not. So I sit around for 20 minutes and end up taking the local train to the same destination as the train I was on. I can get to my motel from it, but rather than a mile, I have to travel three, which isn't doable on foot. Sorry, work, I was fed up with waiting around so am going to be cabbing...

Bring back London black cabs with the Knowledge. I respect you so much now. Bring back grid system roads, New York. I will never complain again. I give the taxi driver the address and he can't find it on his Tom Tom, so I find the exact route on Google maps. Remember, it's three miles and there are two turns. Left then right. He just couldn't get his head round it and just wasn't happy to drive until his Tom Tom was telling him what to do AND he had left his meter running. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr. And what do I do? I still tip him. Decently. What a doofus.

* Tip for Brits: when in the US, look at a word, think about how you'd pronounce it in UK then disregard this completely. In fact, pronounce the opposite way you would do naturally.