San Francisco

No bacon again. Some wrinkly looking sausages. And hash browns. Which is what me and Alexei eat, through our tears. Andrew has his usual coffee breakfast with a side order of grumpiness.

“Look, there’s a destroyer moving.” Alexei says.

We’re eating on the balcony overlooking the harbour. “There can’t be many places where you can see two aircraft carriers.”

“There are more Italian flags here than in Mussolini’s Rome.” Alexei says.

“You’ve already said that, Lexie. More than once.”

“But it’s true.”

“Not literally.”

“Yes, it is.”

There’s no arguing with him, sometimes.

We check out and catch a cab to the airport. Our driver is a chatty Ethiopian. At first I think Eritrean, because it says Eritrean Taxi Company on this die of his cab. But he puts us right during the drive. Nice bloke, whatever his origin.

We have TSA pre so dodge the queue. “I often get it when I travel with United for some reason.”

Andrew isn’t very impressed with the security. We have to wait for ages for a tray for our pocket contents. Alexei has to go through the metal detector several times.

I do make a quick visit to a bar this time. One handily close to the gate. I get the kids to sit at the gate while I nip in for a quick double bourbon. It doesn’t take long. I daren’t take too long. Otherwise Alexei will start fretting. He’s a bit of a worrier when it comes to travelling.

The flight isn’t long. But you have to pay for the video entertainment.

“I don’t see anyone using the video.” Andrew remarks. “They’re stupid charging for it.”

I’ve a window seat and pass some of the flight taking snaps. And get two whiskies: Glenfarclas. Now there’s classy.

Judging by the comparative emptiness of the carousel, not many bags have been checked in. My bag is fifth out.

“Any smell of bourbon, dad?” Andrew asks.

“No, thankfully. Not of beer, either.”

We jump in a Joe, where this time our driver is a taciturn Sikh. The traffic is bad – often we’re only going 5 mph. OK, it is about evening rush hour. But we’re heading into town. The heavy traffic should be going the other way. After a junction, the road becomes much quieter. Looks like everyone was heading for Oakland.

Our hotel is in a Victorian building and is furnished accordingly. Which is nice change after the identikit modern hotels we’ve been in so far.

There’s a little corner shop just over the road. We nip there for some drinks. Pabst Blue Ribbon for the kids, bourbon for me. And some cola. I need that for the stuff I brought back from Mexico.

I’m not so sure about this alcohol stuff. Even watered down three to one with cola, it tastes pretty strong. And I seem to be having trouble reading.

“Do you think I should look up ‘no debe beberse’ on the internet, Andrew?”

“Yes, dad. You should have done that yesterday.”

“’Do not drink’ it means, evidently. No wonder I was having trouble with my eyes.”

We’re staying next to Japantown. So that’s where we decide to eat.

“Can you take a look on my laptop for a nice Japanese place to eat, Andrew. I’m having trouble focusing.”

“Yeah, right.”

Andrew fiddles on my laptop for a while.

“What about ramen? I’ve never had that.” He asks.

“OK by me.”

“Ne, too.”

We’re heading for Waraku. It’s part of a Japanese chain, according to Andrew. There are no tables free and we have to wait a bit. Pretty busy for a Tuesday. It must be decent.

We all order various types of ramen. Andrew has a beer. But I don’t. I just drink water. My eyes still don’t seem to be working properly. The food is pretty good. But Andrew still doesn’t manage to finish his. He has the appetite of a six-year old anorexic.

We tip back to my room for some pre-bedtime drinks. We’re don’t leave it too late, as we’re all a bit Donald Ducked.

Sleep soon sticks my blurry eyes shut.




Waraku
1638 Post St,
San Francisco,
CA 94115.
Tel: +1 415-292-3388
http://www.warakuus.com/