IT’S rush hour at the Golden Gate Bridge. As a tall, elegant vessel with a gleaming white mast bobs by, a motorised boat juts away, prompting ridges of clear, gentle waves to lap onto the beach, I stare in wonder at the rich ochre shade of San Francisco’s world-famous structure over the bay, trying to take it all in.

I get a cab from the bridge back to the city.

My driver is called Dr Sah O Haman. He asks me why I am here, before he tells me he wanted to be a sports journalist. I reply I know I am very fortunate to do something I love. I ask what he does. He says he is a music therapist. “They call me a shaman, a coach, a spiritual advisor too — but I am just a mirror trying to reflect the truth in people.” 

If ever I didn’t want a taxi ride to end, it was this one, but alas, before I can continue a conversation with a real-life shaman, Dr Haman drops me at the iconic Lombard Street.

Known as the “crookedest street in the world” for its eight sharp hairpin turns, the steep, one way descent is a sight to behold.

Seeing as I’ve just met a music shaman, I decide to stroll downhill to the North Beach music festival.

I savour the festival, not to mention having a brilliant time in the City Lights bookshop. I pop in for a quick pint next door at the Beat bar Vesuvius, where Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg used to drink, and where Bob Dylan shot photos in the alleyway outside for his Blonde on Blonde album, even if he didn’t use them. 

I meet Larry, who is a lively and engaging presence. He is a staunch liberal, who hates “that man” in the White House. 

Larry, whose job is to empower working-class kids through sport, says: “When did we forgo the power of education, the safety of healthcare, of pride in learning, to be swept away by selfishness and ignorance and greed? It is criminal what ‘that man’ has done, and continues to do.”

I enjoy drinking with Larry. He is intelligent, funny, and wise. I also think Kerouac himself would have approved of the conversations that the spirit of the Vesuvius bar has prompted. 
 

At the end of a memorable day and night I say goodbye to my new drinking companion whose passionate, deep social conscience has given me hope for the future of the United States.

The next morning is Sunday. It is also Father’s Day. 

I decide to head up Buena Vista Hill. The walk is certainly challenging. Even more so with a hangover. But you are rewarded with spectacular views of San Francisco when you get to the top. No wonder they call it Buena Vista. It is definitely worth the steep walk.

At the summit of San Francisco’s oldest park, I feel blessed on this Father’s Day, having received lovely messages from my kids and even though I’m 5,000 miles away here in the US, I take time to remember my own late Arsenal and football mad father. Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I bet you’re watching on.

I bounce back down Buena Vista Hill’s steps and paths. Around the corner is the Haight-Ashbury district. I am genuinely excited about exploring, as it is another place I’ve wanted to visit for a long time.

Amid all the bright colours and flamboyant shop fronts, I stroll past 1524A Haight Street. Which is the Jimi Hendrix-inspired Red House, featuring a mural of the music legend alongside two further icons in Janis Joplin and Jerry Garcia further up. 

I take a look at lampposts and doors plastered in stickers. It is good to note a preponderance of anti-Ice paraphernalia. 

I pull in for a pit stop at a very excellent coffee shop, which also appears to be a hub of the local community. I also scoff the biggest blueberry muffin I’ve ever seen.

To keep a promise I made on social media last month during the agonising night that eventually saw Arsenal joyously become Premier League champions once again after 22 long years, I pop into a tattoo parlour opposite my coffee shop. 

I meet all-round top bloke Tyler at Haight Street Tattoo, who inks another Arsenal tattoo on me (my wrist) to celebrate the Gunners finally lifting such longed-for silverware. Long-awaited success that prompted joyously diverse celebrations across north London during the back end of May, not to mention all around the world, including here in San Francisco.

Tattoo expert Tyler is a good-natured Californian, who tells me he moved to this city nearly two decades ago and never left, as he loves the vibe so much. He also tells me he is a West Ham fan for his sins.

With the Irons suffering a miserable relegation at the end of last season, I joke that I’d better not say too much, seeing as Tyler is in the middle of tattooing me. 

As the familiar whir of Tyler’s tattoo pen counties, we briefly speak about his county’s administration. “‘That man’ is a danger to democracy,” the talented Tyler shares. It is good to note at the front desk of his parlour, they have a bowl of free anti-Ice keyrings that they hand out to punters. I am given one and add it proudly to my set of keys. 

Inking finished, I say goodbye to the welcoming Tyler. I tell him I absolutely love my new Arsenal emblem emblazoned on my right wrist. 

I pop back into the amazing City Lights bookshop and buy another Kerouac book, Desolation Angels, which covers a key year before the publication of his seminal On the Road. I then head the five yards back to Vesuvius, as I show off my new Arsenal tattoo to all and sundry, as I savour my last night before flying 3,000 miles to America’s east coast. 

San Francisco. What a place.