NB: Please imagine the more self-pitying parts of this post liberally scattered with expletives. My Mam reads this so I'm censoring myself.

For a couple of days before docking at San Francisco we had been informed of the U.S. immigration procedure, which basically comprises filling in a green I94 form (the same as you do on an aeroplane). U.S. immigration will board the ship and check everyone's paperwork & passport. Time slots will be allocated to passengers depending on whether they are disembarking for good, on an organised tour etc etc.

Now for starters, the whole concept of the I94 form irritates, as it asks you to replicate exactly the information that you are required to supply online in the Electronic Travel Authority before travelling, which incidentally allocates you a reference code that you never, ever need to supply to anyone. So, after dutifully saying no to idiotic questions for a second time, (in BLOCK CAPITALS and black pen, or else you can just go and do it again thank you very much) we wait on deck to be called. It runs late, hardly surprising, but we are finally called down to the rooms to be greeted by a queue which snakes around the entire length of the 900 ft+ ship. It takes over an hour before we shuffle into a room normally occupied by bridge-players to see if our papers are in order.

And after all this - a charmless android armed to the teeth (honestly, guns, pepper spray, the works) stamped my form with hardly a glance. I was dumbfounded. 'What about all the questions?', I wanted to ask. Aren't you going to check if I've ticked 'Yes' to being involved in the Third Reich even though I wasn't born (when will they phase that question out I wonder - around 2030 is my guess)?

It achieved absolutely nothing, other than to tick the box of some anally-retentive Washington pen-pushers who seriously think that the next attack on U.S. soil could potentially come from a group of seafaring English tourists, many of whom need help getting dressed. Haven't they heard of profiling?

But now the best part. Noone is allowed off the ship until everyone has passed immigration - including all the crew - whether they are getting off the ship or not. Yep, even if you hauled yourself there at 6.45, you have to wait until every engineer, barman, kitchen porter and bingo caller has passed immigration. Lunacy.




It is around 10:45 when we receive the news that we can finally disembark, but even that is subject to another check of the forms that we have just queued forever to get stamped. The route to the gangway is mobbed and it's evident we have another wait. Everyone is making a good job of not frothing at the mouth, and we pass the time of day with people around us in the queue. There is, however, little more incongruous than discussing the range of available onboard teas with a middle-aged couple from Huddersfield while the white heat of inarticulate rage threatens to burn through your eyeballs and level everything in a twenty yard radius.

We disembark at around 11:45, already feeling like I need a lie down. San Francisco has scores of piers, and we are berthed at number thirty-five. The prefectly pleasant, but fairly touristy Fisherman's Wharf, comprising the usual array of shops, bars and restaurants, lies up beyond Pier 39 (where Alcatraz trips depart). I've been here before, and am keen to head into town. Anxious to make progress and shamelessly transferring my anger to anything and everything in my line of vision, I stride to the kerb and hail a cab. If there had been people in wheelchairs I would have delighted in knocking them over. No matter, we're finally off to Union Square, with a cab driver talking incessantly in a strong Russian accent that I can't understand. I feel like one of those maltreated dancing bears being prodded with a stick.

It's a great city, although in my current frame of mind, the moniker of 'everyone's favourite city' seems complacent to the point of arrogance and immediately removes it from my personal reckoning. Relaxed by U.S. standards, it's architecturally and racially diverse, famously liberal and quite simply a great town to knock around in. Its cloudy but it doesn't matter, we go shopping, have some sushi, see the sights (including the City Hall stairway where Sean Penn makes his mock-grand entrance in 'Milk'), take a tram, the usual stuff.  

We get back to the Pier area with time to spare, so take a quick look around Fisherman's Wharf. I need to pick up some postcards so I take a look at some on a stand outside a souvenir shop. My normally stoic partner is caught in conversation with the owner, who proceeds to demonstrate various accoutrements for his camera. Fifteen minutes and $500 later the camera has a lens big enough to see Saturn and I have a face like a smacked arse.

We reurn to the ship, spirits less than high. Reluctantly I head for the upper decks to get a decent view of the bridge as we depart. And then, as if by way of apology, the sun snuck through the clouds, turning the sky a neon crimson. The golden gate bridge lights flickered on and everything was suddenly ok again, even Alcatraz looked idyllic. After ten more minutes the sun had gone, and a further five later, so had we, bound for Honolulu via five days of the Pacific. It's around two thousand miles SW over seas deeper than I care to dwell on, and heavy seas are forecast. Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye...