The Napa Valley Wine Train was the best meal of the trip.

Those endowed with more sophisticated palates wouldn’t, perhaps, have opted for a “bloody spicy Bloody Mary” as an aperitif. But sod those with more sophisticated palates.

Napa was the bomb. Our hotel was pristine, and boasted only one incredibly drunk young American girl. In each corner.

In the morning the folks at the Miner vineyard gave us a complimentary tasting and tour of their cellars. For the first time in a very long time, I drank a $90 bottle of red. It was, frankly, wasted on me, but I appreciated the gesture.

What impresses me most about the Californian wine industry is the brutal lack of pomp and churlishness. If you’ve ever been to a tasting in France, then you’ll know what I’m talking about.

Here in Napa, if you say you’re getting “blackberry, hibiscus and charcoal, with undertones of gasoline and a caramel finish,” you’ll get a “whatever, but do you like it” in reply.

Wine is there for the enjoyment. We enjoyed it.

We drove to San Francisco. Long way. The Chrysler 300 served us well. We didn’t fight once about the music*.

The Hotel Diva was our host in downtown San Francisco. Just off Union Square, opposite a theater (spelling intentional) and perfectly located for doing just about anything you’d want to do over three nights.

The bums and the panhandlers were out in force:  a charming and eccentric (and downright fucking crazy) bunch, who, irrespective of their asking you each two steps if you could spare a dollar, didn’t snarl when you said no.

Lauren dragged us up three blocks (and about 600 feet further above sea-level) to grab a “slice of pie” (this is Jersey for “pizza”). She chose a popular place. So popular we were ignored for fifteen minutes while we waited for a table.

So we left, and had Guinness and oysters at Foleys, then hit up Biscuits and Blues for some of the more impressive people-watching of the trip. Everybody in there could have stepped straight out of Tales of the City. (The musical version of which was playing right opposite our hotel.)

Rodney, the concierge at the Hotel Diva was everything you’d want and expect in a San Francisco concierge:  slightly camp, incredibly well-dressed, garrulous and with an eye for a bargain.

He said of the Tenderloin district. “Mmm, you’ll probably want to avoid that area, there’s really nothing there for you.”

First thing next morning, I’m pounding the streets of the Tenderloin, looking for a haircut. I found Public Barber Salon. (That’s Public with an “L”.)

“Will you cut my hair?”

“Yes. Would you like a beer?”

Ah, yes, I liked these folk at Public very much. My hair was cut by the sylph-like Diane, who was as good a source of stuff to get up to in SF as Rodney. I regret not being able to take up her suggestion of Bourbon and Branch – a Prohibition-style speakeasy.

After the usual hemming and hawing over how much to tip, and leaving, once again, with the sensation that I’d somehow sullied our brilliant relationship by being stingy, I jumped on one of those godawful sightseeing buses.

It was bloody good. But very windy.

(Incidentally, when I told Rodney how much I’d paid for the haircut, he mock-fainted and told me he never pays more than eight dollars.)

Six hours later, and I’m nursing a beer at Lefty O’Doul’s, where Dan, who might be the most knowledgeable and playboy-like sexaganarian barman in the city gave me the low-down on the history of the pub, about which I took copious notes, which I lost.

Amy then suggested improv comedy, which I imagine always sounds like a good idea at the time. It was worth the $7.50 a head, but only just.

Sunday was a proud day. I had my first corn-dog. I’ll happily wait another thirty years before the next, but it’s done. Hannah from Stop Being Crap showed us around. Saw the sea-lions at Fisherman’s Wharf, drank some sangria and ate calamari and chips (which was the first non-fries description of fried potatoes I’ve seen in three weeks.)

Drinks at The Daily Grill in the evening.

Monday morning went to see the boys at DailyBooth. VERY smart bunch.

So smart, I set myself up an account. If you can’t get enough of me, then now you really can.

*we may have actually fought about the music.