The bus drew to a halt and wearily I opened my eyes to catch my first glimpse of San Francisco: an uninspiring view of a crowded bus station. The two weeks I had spent hiking in Yosemite and Sequoia national parks were already distant memories. I wished I could get straight on a plane and back home. But instead I had eleven hours to kill: eleven hours in the city. I had to at least see the Golden Gate Bridge, I told myself.

It was 8am as I trekked through the financial district amidst a sea of designer suits and take-away coffees. The long hours I had to fill were an alien concept to the people marching by. I reached Union Square where a different kind of traveller ate breakfast in five star hotels. Moving quickly on, with my rucksack weighing heavily on my shoulders I followed the quaint tram up Powell Street.

Now the expensive designer suits were far away. Golden archways welcomed me into a colourful world of dragons, laughing buddhas and waving ornamental cats. Signs for dim sum, noodles and acupuncture filled every possible space.

Crossing a few streets I was transported round the world to Italy. The smell of perfectly brewed coffee flowed out of cafes and restaurants and the names of Jack Kerrouac and Allen Gainsburg lingered in the air.

Then the caffeine fuelled air was cleansed by a salty sea breeze and a peculiar, relentless noise led me round behind the tourist shops of Pier 39 where I was met by a colony of sea lions barking and jostling for their positions on the pier. I rested for a while amused at the unexpected encounter with nature so far from the national parks I had come to visit!

Walking again my tour of the world continued as my map located me in Russian Hill. Colourful Victorian houses balanced precariously on streets that plummeted at 25-degree angles towards the sea. My rucksack felt like it had doubled in weight as I climbed hill after hill: Had I really conquered Half Dome in Yosemite the day before?

A short while later I returned to Asia as I passed through Japantown. After that I trudged wearily along wide streets until, after a long demoralising hour of urban hiking, I was in a colourful world where my scruffy clothes and worn-out rucksack were no longer oddities. Second-hand music stores and vintage clothes shops claimed run-down buildings. At the crossroads of Haight and Ashbury Streets young, unwashed musicians squatted in doorways playing guitars and reliving the youth of their parents’ generation.

Another hours’ walking took me to the equally colourful, though significantly more affluent Castro district, where rainbow flags lined the streets and bookshops and theatres happily neighboured karaoke bars and sex shops.

As the sun began to set, and my legs began to quake I dragged myself through the Mission district where myriad languages filled my ears and a much-needed burrito filled my empty stomach. Soon I was passing the impressive City Hall and main library and then found myself once again in Union Square. But now as the night claimed the streets it was no longer a place to escape from but instead a place from which to reluctantly tear myself as I ran for the train to the airport.

Dashing through the departure lounge at my final boarding call I realised I hadn’t seen the Golden Gate Bridge but I knew that I would definitely return to San Francisco.

Story written by Mhairi Aitken

**This short Travel Story was submitted as part of the Holiday Travel Writing Competition. All short-listed entries such as this one are published in our online Travel Guide**