For all the retail therapy and nightlife options on offer on State St (and it really is buzzing of an evening, even during midweek) the main draw of Santa Barbara is the beach, 3 or so miles of superfine white sand, encircled by beautiful soaring palm trees, all of which is set against the stunning, perennially mist-shrouded Coast Range mountains, looming almost watchfully in the background.
Santa Barbara pier juts some few hundred metres out inside the ocean, affording another perspective on the landscape, including the multi-million dollar residences perched up and down the slopes behind the town proper, home to any number of stars and millionaires for whom Los Angeles is perhaps a little clichéd and over-busy. If I popped to the shops in a Ferrari or had more bank accounts than shoes then I would certainly opt for a home here than in the smog and the superficiality of LA (but more of than in my next post).
A great way to get along Santa Barbara substantial ocean-front is to cycle. I'm not that at home on the two-wheeled variety, but the prospect of hiring a four-wheeled, two-seated Surrey was too good to pass up. The outing opened up some lovely little pockets of greenery away from the busy front. In explanation, the look on my face in the fourth picture is a mixture of cockiness that I'm doing something so unfamiliar as pedalling a bike mixed with disbelief that I'm pedalling a bike without taking myself, or anyone else, out.
A real highlight was the 'Wheels and Waves' festivals one afternoon, a showcase of automobile classics dating from the 1920s to the present day along State St. Below are a few favourites, including an extremely pimping, felt-lined Cadillac and a gorgeous Ford Mustang.
A classy, quietly affluent seaside town, Santa Barbara's architecture hints at times past but the town is undeniably modern and young in character. Its picturesque State St has everything you could want by day as well as by night, and the overt yelp of wealth and glamour (which is Las Vegas' trademark) is conspicuously absent - in this sense it was our perfect antidote. Without question an excellent holiday destination: charming, fun, relaxing and invigorating all at once, Santa Barbara is undoubtedly an absolute gem on this most beautiful stretch of the Californian coastline.
By daylight, the city’s all-singing, all-dancing temples to vice change significantly. Some appear vaguely classy, elegantly structures. Others, stripped of their neon glitz, appear a little dated, tired, even grubby. The southern part of the strip (where all these photos were taken) is the newer section, most of which is second-generation Vegas. The odd pockets of outmoded, smaller-scale gaming hint at what lies a few miles north, past the Sahara and the Stratosphere, in the older and decidedly seedier Downtown (despite an attempt at reviving the area’s flagging fortunes in the shape of the electricity-guzzling Fremont Street Experience). This is where Vegas began, and to my mind there’s no doubt that its future lies to the south. The Trump Tower, suitably resplendent and gold, is situated on the edge of an enormous empty lot, soon to spark alive with construction and development. Slap-bang in the middle of the strip itself there are one or two huge new buildings already taking shape, their gargantuan steel skeletons already in place, hinting at the next stage in Vegas’ continual evolution.
Inside the hotels, casinos and their seemingly obligatory parade of high-end shops and boutiques, just as much attention to presentation is evident as on their outsides and, true to form, their attempts to out-do one another is all to the benefit of the camera-happy tourist (like yours truly).
Call me easily pleased but one of my highlights was the fountains outside the Bellagio. At regular intervals their aquatic waltz conducted itself in time to music, from old swing tunes to opera. See them in the day and at night for the full effect. And the best part – they won’t cost you a dime.
In contrast to its high-rolling, life savings-blowing image, Vegas is often touted as a blagger’s paradise by those supposedly ‘in the know’. In truth, in Vegas the term ‘free’ is highly conditionally, probably best expressed as being shorthand for ‘only if you’ve spent some serious coin first’. Sure you can get free drinks in most casinos – but only if you’re gambling, and this usually involves some significant outlay. In truth, the scantily-clad waitresses hold the cards (pardon the pun) as there aren’t nearly enough of them to come round and serve you more than a couple of beverages before you run out of money. Certain renowned party bars found in the likes of the Treasure Island casino offer punters free shots and the like, but you just try sitting at one of their tables and not ordering a thing until the freebies arrive.
Put simply, San Francisco feels like a big US city. It has all the stereotypical things your canny Brit-on-holiday might expect: skyscrapers, bustling streets full of taxi cabs and honking horns, fast food chains, big name boutiques and all the associated razzamatazz of American urban life. After visiting such endearing places as Portland and Seattle previously on my journey, I think all of this was a little lost on me to begin with – it was only after I discovered how charming the city can be did I begin to appreciate all the other paraphernalia in relief.
The city is famous for a number of things, none more so than Alcatraz. The former federal prison, home to such notorious ‘cons’ as Al Capone (all the other big names, as menacing, vicious, nasty pieces of work as they were, haven’t been portrayed in a Hollywood film by Robert de Niro and therefore remain less well known outside America) is now just as famous for its status as one of the city’s biggest tourist attractions. 
Lying just 1 1/4 miles from the city’s shore, ‘The Rock’ began life as a lighthouse in the mid-19th century, before becoming a fort designed to protect the bay from all manner of thievery during the Gold Rush. Later it became a military jail, full to the brim with sissies and deserters no doubt, before finally become a federal prison in 1934, as a response to the rise in organised crime in its major cities as a result of The Great Depression and Prohibition. It was perceived as both a solution to the need to house the extremely dangerous and well-connected criminals of the time and as a foreboding, visible deterrent. And foreboding it is too. Despite more than 40 years of closure (not to mention a short-lived occupation by a group of Native American Indians in the 1970s) the compound, as much as the island itself, can still send a chill down your spine. 
The prospect of spending your term shut away in your tiny cell, feeling both entirely removed from society and at the same time knowing that it only lies about a 20 minute ferry ride away seems unimaginable. The view of the city from the island is just spectacular, and perhaps this was its most rehabilitating feature: such an inescapable reminder, delivered daily, of exactly what it was that you were missing. 
The cell building, like the compound as a whole, is actually remarkably small (you know what they say about things looking bigger on television) but that doesn’t lessen the impact of the place. 
And if you’re the sort of the person who thinks a ‘self-guided audio tour’ sounds like the perfect cure for insomnia, think again – Alcatraz’s offering is just brilliant, and you’ll see (or rather hear) why it’s won so many awards. Its gripping narrative of some memorable escape attempts and descriptions of life inside the prison, told by former inmates and officers, is simply unmissable.
An iconic structure recognised the world over, the Golden Gate Bridge is right up near the top of most people’s ‘to see’ lists. Its a little way out of the city centre however, so can’t just be strolled to but, satisfyingly, it’s well worth the excursion. 
The sheer scale of the thing, its unusual colouring (said to have been chosen to complement the natural surroundings, eventually favoured over the originally planned ‘military grey’) and its elegant shape are all reasons to get excited about a bridge, and it really is something special. 
I felt I had gotten a handle on what the city was all about as we approached the bridge – to the south side is a large park called The Presidio, at the northern edge of which there is an area dedicated to barbequing and socialising. And lo, despite the overcast weather and threat of rain (both ever-present in San Francisco) there were hundreds of locals out enjoying their weekend, cooking for their friends and family, all set against the backdrop of the Golden Gate Bridge. This, for me, is what San Francisco really seemed to be – a colourful, vibrant city, rich with famous sites and scenery, and home to a relaxed, friendly population who appreciate the their home as much as the tourists who flock there year after year.
The views from the bridge are wide-ranging and spectacular in every direction – such a pity that the day we chose to see it, the weather had decided to close in. 
As we walked back over the bridge, something remarkable happened – the fog thickened and virtually the entire bridge disappeared within a matter of minutes.
The ‘Summer of Love’ and the Hippy movement, enshrined in folklore and popular culture ever since, began in San Francisco, centred about the Haight-Ashbury neighbourhood to the west of the city centre, just next door to Golden Gate Park.
Four decades on, the strip along Haight Street itself is alive with unique shops and boutiques, cafes, bars and all manner of little oddities and curios. It put me in mind of Camden in North London (which I blogged about back on the 10th February, after a fire destroyed some of its historic heart) in terms of the singularity of the area and its residents. Anyone who enjoys spending time there should see Haight-Ashbury for themselves, buzzing with arts, culture, fashion and some pretty solid food and drink to boot. The area’s artistic heritage is evident in the architecture, some beautiful outdoor murals, even in the way locals have painted their own homes.
From art that’s painted on the side of your house to art that hangs on white walls in a cavernous gallery, the DeYoung Museum is currently home to the Gilbert And George retrospective (which I managed to miss out on seeing when it was back home in London). 
I understand their frequent and self-reflexive inclusion of their own (not always clothed) images in their work, together with their penchant for scatologically- and sexually-inflected content, may put off many people. For those of you who enjoy what they do, it was a treat, even if photography inside was prohibited. The rest of the museum is a little hit and miss, but then again contemporary art is such a contentious thing at the best of times - there’s no way a single museum can satisfy everyone’s taste. 
At least everyone might agree on the merit of the views from the observation tower at the museum’s eastern edge.
Even better were the views from the top of the Coit Tower on Telegraph Hill. Built to resemble a fire hose by the legacy of a mad old bat who appointed herself unofficial mascot of the city’s fire department (after being saved from a burning building as a young child), the tower's peak is one of the highest publicly-accessible points in the city. 
On the way down the hill, the best route is to follow either the Filbert Steps, a super-steep descent, through which you are afforded a glimpse into some secluded private gardens, temporarily taking you away from the hum of the city and into a little urban oasis rich with rare plants, exotic flowers, sculpture gardens, hidden cottages and even the odd squawking parrot. Another hidden gem in a city quite literally full of them.
One for tourists and tip-seeking taxi drivers alike – the world’s ‘crookedest’ (not actually a word) street: Lombard, between Leavenworth and Hyde. Its 8 switchbacks reduce the risk of vehicles and pedestrians falling foul of its extremely steep gradient. Yes that’s right, a city of twenty-three hills San Francisco is occasionally very steep – so steep that it has street signs advising motorists to park at right angles to the street.
Finally, a personal highlight: sea lions basking in the sun at Pier 39, a Disneyland-esque array of souvenir shops and eateries. My favourite is the big fella in the last picture. I don’t know why, he just looked to me like he was enjoying the attention as much as the sunshine. 
